SHOES

by Kevin Mangold

The asphalt slapped with each step, leaving behind foot-shaped signatures of sweat and blood that bubbled in the heat, confirming that Lawrence Farmer had been this way. If you followed the trail back to its start, you’d find yourself at the Malton Community Hospital main entrance. His latest stint in the E.R., for exhaustion and dehydration as always, had lasted only two days this time. That was how much time the hospital determined was required to mend Lawrence. They administered a dextrose and saline solution intravenously, provided meals and electrolytes, and wrapped his injured feet. They used cotton pads, gauze, and athletic tape, but all of this was long gone now that Lawrence had been discharged and had walked thirteen miles.

Also long gone were the size 11 Adidas running shoes that Lawrence was wearing prior to his emergency room visit. The shoes were way too big for Lawrence and, as the EMT lifted him from the sidewalk onto the gurney, they’d fallen off his feet. Mercifully, he didn’t mourn the loss of the shoes for the same reason that they had become lost to begin with. Despite providing protection to his soles, walking in them was a chore. The shuffle required to keep the sneakers from falling off with each step manifested in sore hips, stiff knees, and the aforementioned life-threatening bout of dehydration.

But, after his many years of living on the street, Lawrence had become accustomed to this cycle. Because a solid pair of shoes was necessary to do his work, he’d learned where to find them, how to select them, and how to keep them.

While collecting aluminum cans, he had become aware that there were often shoes discarded along the neighborhood streets, set out in pairs, for whoever might need them. And he really needed them. Generally, he needed them because he rarely had money to eat, let alone to buy a new pair of shoes. And he needed them specifically, because the man walked over twenty miles a day, to sort through recycle bins and trash cans to find what would later be turned into cash at the not-so-nearby recycling center.

There were shoes, tied together by the laces, tossed over power lines throughout the city, but Lawrence knew better than to mess with these, even if he could reach them. Shoes hanging in intersections were known to mark gang territory, while others signaled the location of a drug house, neither of which Lawrence wanted any part of. More likely, they were meant to commemorate the death (or life) of a loved one or to celebrate a major life moment. Whatever the reason, Lawrence preferred that these shoes not be disturbed.

Shoes discarded to be taken were a different story entirely, however. These shoes were left in the space between the sidewalk and the street, or the hellstrip as Lawrence had come to know it. That these shoes were afforded a second chance was not lost on Lawrence. Shoes were allowed to be inappropriate or just plain wrong for the occasion and yet, their value would still be seen in other environments. Not so with humans, he thought. A sandal might not be right for a job interview, but their appraisal would not suffer, as they were still right for a sandy beach day. Shoes with second chances were intentionally chosen and placed on display in a way to invite them to be taken. They were laid out, just so, never overly worn or damaged. These shoes had life left. And to Lawrence, the life in his shoes directly corresponded to the life in his life. A well-fitted shoe affords one to go where they please. And it’s not just a matter of overcoming distance or terrain, but location as well. Stores, laundromats, and every other public space require shoes to enter and Lawrence liked to flash his shoes to the security guards, as if they were a badge.

Lawrence always looked at it as a gift to find a nice pair of shoes left by someone who could still see value in their old kicks, but weren’t into them anymore. But, he believed, it was the intervention of the Universe that brought him a pair better than the ones he was currently wearing. To Lawrence, it was always a matter of trading up. There was a hierarchy that determined which pair had more value than another.

First, of course, there was the condition of the shoe, in which holes and surviving sole were considered. Each shoe was inspected for cleanliness, stains, remaining rubber, arch support, smell, and lace condition. Naturally, the newer the footwear, the higher it ranked, but there was much more to it than that. Shoe type played a great role in determining its value in that a newer tennis shoe fell below an older work boot. And an older pair of dress shoes outranked work boots, no matter the condition. Dress shoes opened doors and provided introductions, conversations. But Lawrence mostly valued dress shoes over all others because he believed that, while not all dress shoes were magic, all magic shoes were dress shoes. To be more exact, he had come to believe that the Oxford style of dress shoe held a celestial power. Lawrence had no thought of Oxford University, where the style had first become popular in the 1800s. He only knew that his daddy wore a pair of Oxfords, back before times changed. The family had saved until they could afford to buy them, Lawrence remembered. The boots that daddy had been wearing to work each day had begun to fall apart on the inside, and worst of all, they had high heels, like all boots did. But, these shoes were different. They were sleek, low to the ground, and best of all, they had a closed lacing system that meant that when they were tied tightly, nothing could slip in through the laces.

Nothing compared to the Oxford, according to the former Mr. Farmer, and so consequently it was the favorite shoe of the living Mr. Farmer as well. Not the Derby, the Loafer, or even the Wing Tip. No, specifically, a pair of brown Oxford shoes in good condition was the Holy Grail to Lawrence, and he always kept an eye out for the pair that he knew would inevitably be found. Lawrence realized that, until now, he’d always survived, despite the hard times. He recognized that he always got what he needed, and believed that what was required and desired was always on its way to him. It was really up to him to recognize it and catch it when it arrived.

Beyond finding and selecting the right pair of shoes, there was the matter of keeping them. Lawrence had long since learned to add to the equation, in evaluating their value, that a shoe that was too nice brought the risk of theft. For that, he’d taken to hiding them in an empty potato chip bag as he slept, just to be safe.

But today, Lawrence had no Oxfords, loafers, runners, or even flip-flops. His feet were bare, again, as they sometimes were in the cycle. Lawrence had been in this position before and he’d been through worse. As always, he knew that somewhere on his route, as he hunted for cans in bins and collected bags that others had left out for him, he would find another pair of shoes sitting on display that would serve their purpose.

The purpose of a pair of shoes does not cease when their original owner discards them. If they have life left, they seek to fulfill it. The Universe wants everything to reach its potential good, Lawrence believed. He’d come to count on it and was grateful for their arrival prior to their arrival.

As much as can be possible when lacking sleep and nutrition, Lawrence was sharp, aware. His head swam in memories of those who had wronged him and arguments in self defense of wrongs done to others.

He didn’t have the opportunity to discuss these topics with friends or co-workers, around a water cooler, or anywhere else, for that matter. Not anymore.

But, the many hours of walking, digging, picking, and pushing carts afforded Lawrence time to exhaust not only the flaws and virtues of each offering, but the reasons that someone would make a contribution of this kind. He’d reached the conclusion that these shoes had grown to become important possessions to the donors and that, rather than abandoning them, they wanted to see their shoes help another person. And it pleased Lawrence to know that the people leaving the shoes behind had considered him in their plan.

What occupied the thoughts of Lawrence Farmer most, since his liberation from the confines of the E.R., was getting back to his usual sleeping spot before sunset. This time of year brought all the worst elements together to result in rainy, cold nights that were dark by 4:30PM. The pain in his feet, his pounding headache, sore muscles, and rumbling stomach were quieted by an undying resolve to be home. He’d walked over thirteen miles many times before and he’d do so again today, without complaint, because he knew what awaited him. Sliding into the comfort of his shelter, Lawrence felt grateful to be home; to have a home. Lawrence had had less, but this home was no more than an arrangement of acquired items covered by a blue tarp. Shopping carts and broken dressers were organized to form rooms. He enjoyed the luxury of a couch, found discarded near the fairgrounds, which he placed in the area that served as his living room and bedroom. He had water, blankets, privacy, and even a soft place to lie his head, but what he didn’t have at this moment, that he very sorely needed, was a pair of sturdy walking shoes.

As he drifted off to sleep, Lawrence said his “gratefuls.” He was grateful for his home, his health and his experiences. He was grateful, and he said so, for the suitable pair of shoes that were on their way to him now. It wasn’t that he expected to find the perfect pair of shoes, or the ever-elusive magic pair of shoes, but rather that they would be satisfactory. Because he needed them. And what Lawrence needed, he had come to know, always made its way to him.

As always, Lawrence did find a new pair of shoes, but not before he walked in bare feet from the park to the top of town. He found the best giveaways in this part of Malton, specifically on Oak Street. While Lawrence had lived with less than he had now, he’d also lived with more. Having never resided on revered Oak Street, he did live on nearby Pine Street when he was very young. He was pleased by the memory of a time when he shared a home with his mother. Thoughts of his back yard and a bedroom of his own made Lawrence smile. It was explained that his father was away working to provide a better life for them. He traveled from city to city with a carnival as the caretaker of a giant horse. That part did not make him smile.

For as long as he could remember, Lawrence missed his father. The memory included being jealous of the horse that he took such good care of. While the story was never fully explained to him, he’d deciphered through whispers and loud breakdowns, upon his father’s return home, that, while working in Jonesboro, Arkansas, he witnessed a young boy jump to his death from a Ferris wheel. He’d many times overheard his mother saying that his father was not the same, but he didn’t know his father’s presence enough to know what was same or different. What he remembered was that he liked his father better the new way and that caused a rift between he and his mother. As a boy, he only recognized all of the attention that his father was now giving him. He had no understanding of the consequences of his staying home all day, rather than working. He enjoyed staying home from school with his father, watching movies, playing catch, and swimming in the river. To Lawrence, it was a life of freedom. But he knew nothing of the paralyzing fear that his father lived with that he would lose his only son. It was this despair that led to his father, and ultimately his mother and himself, losing everything. And when people like Lawrence lose everything, he’d come to know, it’s gone forever. Second chances were not provided as they were to a used pair of shoes.

Once at the top of town, Lawrence didn’t find the shoes right away. He’d walked, in the light of the sun that was still climbing, through eight blocks of houses with front and back yards. Among the offerings left on the hellstrip, he found a dresser too big to carry, a box of clothes hangers, and an electric lamp, all of no value to him. What he did find valuable, that others did not, were the fallen balloons that he often discovered while collecting cans. He recognized that certain neighborhoods had more balloons than others, and wondered if they also had more birthdays. He remembered having birthdays once, but had no memory of when they were taken away. To Lawrence, the balloons and the shoes were similar in that they exhibited a surplus; a willingness to discard what was once valuable, and could still be valuable to others.

But fallen balloons and discarded shoes were more different than they were the same, Lawrence thought. The life of a balloon was short and dramatic, while longevity and dependability were what shoes were judged upon. Shoes were intended to be taken, while balloons were a part of last night’s celebration, with no intention left. Lawrence would never take what he couldn’t use and he had no use for this fallen balloon, same as those who had watched it float away. But, seeing the balloon was enough for Lawrence. When lucky enough to come across one, he took the time to enjoy watching it bob from side to side with waning helium, and took note at how they often appeared to stand at attention when watched more so than when ignored. In his long life, Lawrence had learned to make comparisons, connections, and compromises, and what he believed he was witnessing was the last gasp in the life of the balloon. Every surgeon knows about the “rally” or the temporary bout of strength and mental clarity that a dying patient will invariably experience just before death. It’s at this time that the family of the patient is advised to come pay their last respects and also the time that the balloon makes its last stretch, its final sway in the wind before falling to the unforgiving cement. Like the discarded shoes, Lawrence could identify with the fallen balloons and would often find himself questioning whether his life resembled that of a balloon or a shoe.

He took a mental picture of the balloon, as always, and continued on his way with a sadness, but also a happiness at the opportunity to have met. Over the years, he’d gathered hundreds of mental images of discarded shoes and fallen balloons, adding them to his family of memories, forever arranging and sorting them to match his mood. But today, his mission was to find a pair of shoes that fit, not to expand his image recollection.

The magic was apparent from half a block away. Lawrence laughed to himself at how these shoes appeared to glow against the green of the grass they were lying on. Heat radiated from their surface in visible waves. They were the famed Ruby Slippers, tossed out by a studio unaware of their value. They were the glass slippers that saved Cinderella from her wicked step-sisters by being the perfect fit. But really, they were the unicorn of recycled footwear: Brown, lace-up Captoe Oxford 950 Queens with punched toe cap. Lawrence recognized the familiar decorative detail of circles punched in a fountain pattern in the tip of the shoe. The older Mr. Farmer had explained, when Lawrence was a kid, that this shoe was carefully manufactured by expert craftsmen, and the detail was what made the shoe special. This was not a boot, but a formal shoe. It was a symbol of achievement. A new start. It was unlike anything his father had ever owned and Lawrence could remember sharing his excitement when they brought the shoes home.

He didn’t quicken his pace or react in a way that would give away his interest in the shoes, but his heart raced and his eyes widened silently. Lawrence had learned not to disclose his enthusiasm for things because it made others want them all the more and thus more difficult to attain. He looked around and found the neighborhood to be mostly deserted, save for the occasional passing car or leaf blowing yard worker.

As he approached, his shadow cast the shoes in a new light. In the shade, he could see that the shoes were, indeed, special. When lying in the sun, they reflected light, but what Lawrence noticed, was that when shaded, they produced a glow of their own. To Lawrence’s eye, there were sharp slivers of light radiating from the shoes, like a 4th of July sparkler. He’d seen these sparks before, sometimes at a public drinking fountain, or a fast food register, and chalked it up to malnutrition or sleep deprivation. Lawrence knew nothing of Dr. Donald Hebb, considered the father of neuropsychology, or his research. Hebb discovered that when people were deprived of sensory input, they didn’t think clearly and became susceptible to persuasion. But Lawrence had enough self awareness to know when his thoughts were becoming cloudy or his body was weakening, and he still had enough sense to know when a thing he was seeing was real or illusion. Since the death of his father, Lawrence had spent much time conversing with and analyzing himself and had come to master hallucinations. He employed a technique of inspecting the edges in which, Lawrence believed, the perimeter of things that were real were crisp, while visions had an edge that resembled a painting. The problem was that, in this case, the edges were crisp.

The shoes were lying beside an opened, empty box. Seemingly, someone else had stumbled upon them and overlooked their value. Lawrence ruled out that the owner left the shoes this way, by the condition they were in. It wouldn’t make sense to take such great care of them just to toss them away so recklessly. No, it must be that someone else had found them and missed their radiance. Even a poor fit wouldn’t explain leaving them. He was excited to have these shoes in his possession prior to any thought of their fit.

But they fit perfectly and Lawrence expected nothing less of magic shoes. The shoebox tucked away in his can sack and the cloppers comfortably on his feet, Lawrence started his way back home. He’d planned to can fish for the day and take his catch to the recycler on Bass Hill Road, but he’d already reeled in a whopper that he couldn’t risk slipping away.

The shoes were heaven to his arches, his heels, and his toes, especially the big ones. His feet were cracked and swollen and in dire need of a good pampering. With each step, Lawrence could feel the heat radiating from his soles to his soul. He made his way to the bus stop just in time to climb aboard, plopping himself down into the seat behind the driver. This was Lawrence’s favorite seat, and he always chose it, when possible. He liked to see what was happening ahead, and to observe those who boarded. But today, it was he who was being observed.

At the back of the bus sat Emma, who had her eye on a man in need of a warm meal. Emma made a habit of rescuing people and animals in distress and as luck would have it, had a diner job and an understanding boss who tolerated an occasional visitor for a free meal. After watching Lawrence for several stops, Emma approached. She balanced her way down the aisle of the moving bus, and sat beside him with a smile. She knew this could make him uncomfortable, but judged the risk worth the reward.

The invitation, which Lawrence concluded the shoes had bestowed upon him, was quickly accepted and the two waited out the remaining stops in silence.

“Okay, this is it,” Emma announced, as the bus pulled in front of the diner. Lawrence followed Emma as she stepped down onto the sidewalk and into the diner patio. She pulled out a chair for Lawrence in the outdoor seating area by the door, and disappeared inside. Soon after, she returned with Travis, the owner of the diner, and a menu. Travis had been Emma’s boss for a decade, and over the years the two had become close. Travis accommodated Emma, from time off to take care of her son, to allowing her to feed the hungry on occasions like this. He was a savior in the eyes of Emma and a genuine apparition to Lawrence, who saw sparks in the place of any distinguishing characteristics. Emma offered Lawrence anything that he wanted off the menu, so he ordered his favorite: New England clam chowder and crackers. He’d expected traditional Saltines, but instead the crackers were round, resembling oysters, and Lawrence had a new favorite. A salad was thrown in extra, along with a tall glass of tea to wash it all down. Lawrence thanked Emma, Travis, and in his head, the Oxfords that made it all possible.

Emma had things to do and said so before she set out to do them, but Travis remained, captivated by the shoes on Lawrence’s feet. He’d taken notice of them immediately. He did more than take notice, he had recognized them, but dismissed the idea that these could be the very shoes that he’d been searching for. He knew that the Oxford was once the most popular shoe in the country and the odds of these being the same shoes were colossal. But these were magic shoes, as Lawrence would tell you, and this fortuitous occurrence was the exact sort of thing that was to be expected.

Travis slid down into the seat across from Lawrence. “Can I ask you a question,” he asked carefully. Lawrence slurped in the affirmative. “Where’d you get your shoes?”

The question came with a blast, a rumble, then a trailing squeal that Lawrence couldn’t shake. He looked up from the soup to face the streaming lines of silver light that obscured the man’s appearance. It wasn’t until the sparks diminished and Lawrence forced focus that he realized that he was being spoken to. “… get them? Did someone give these to you?” Travis asked emphatically. Lawrence had a strong vocabulary and no fear of expressing himself, but in this moment, he was at a loss for words. It most often happened when he hadn’t eaten a good meal, and he was hopeful this one would clear things up. “I don’t know how it happened, but those are my father’s shoes,” Travis continued. “I thought I’d never see them again. Where did you get them?” He repeated.

“What, my shoes?” Lawrence managed.

Travis realized he was becoming aggressive and through a deep breath, steadied himself. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m Travis.” He waited more than enough time for Lawrence to reply with his name, then continued. “I know those are your shoes, but they look exactly like my dad’s.”

What followed was life changing for both men. Since his father’s passing, only weeks before meeting Lawrence, Travis had lived in grief. His was a loving, available, devoted father, the kind every boy wishes for. He was strong and healthy until he wasn’t. It all came so suddenly and before Travis knew it, all he had was his memories. Three and a half months prior to his death, his father had been diagnosed with a glioblastoma, a word Travis wished he’d never heard. A rare, aggressive brain cancer was the one trick of nature Travis hadn’t expected. His father was old, but still active. He hiked, swam in the ocean, and had even recently begun dating again since his wife’s death. With the death of his mother, Travis believed he understood loss and had come to balance the pain he was feeling with the love he experienced. The thought was not lost on him that he may have been spared heartache had his parents not been so wonderful.

To Travis, it felt like yesterday his mother passed away. A failing heart took her, but not with the speed at which it happened with his father. They had time to plan, say their good-byes, make arrangements, to put her to rest. His dad was distraught at the loss of his wife, but had the comfort of his son, a luxury not afforded to Travis now. He watched his father take his first dizzy fall and they both laughed it off. While he was concerned about the worsening headaches and the first seizure, he believed that his father’s new medication would solve the problem and expected everything to return to normal soon. But that was before the MRI detected the brain cancer. His condition only went downhill, and soon he was rambling, repeating himself, and losing his clarity of expression. Travis lived with their last conversation in which his father apologized for dying. He’d also lived with all of his father’s belongings since he’d moved into his house in the final days. With the exception of his favorite business suit and dress shoes, that he was buried in, his wardrobe was intact. Travis knew he would one day have to part with it, along with the house, but also knew himself well enough to know that he would need time.

But time had run out when Lawrence walked in wearing his father’s favorite shoes; the shoes he was buried in. He’d asked the question of Lawrence several times and prior to receiving any reply, had run through his mind every possibility. He’d considered that the mortician had removed the shoes and donated them to a church or other charity, ultimately making their way to Lawrence. He’d envisioned grave robbers opening his father’s casket, making off with the loot. He’d even contemplated that he was hallucinating and Lawrence was actually wearing an old pair of tennis shoes that matched his clothes. It didn’t make sense to Travis that he was wearing shiny Oxfords while his clothes were covered in what appeared to be years of dirt. And of course, he’d considered that these were not the same shoes at all, but rather a very similar pair.

Eventually, Lawrence had gotten around to explaining how he’d come upon the shoes and where he’d found them. Travis was sure they were his father’s, despite having no proof that they were. The conversation, over chowder and crackers, made each participant feel important and filled a need in both. Lawrence made Travis feel as though he was sitting at the table with his father and he was happy to fill the role. After a lifetime dreaming of being a father, he could easily be convinced that the magic in the Oxfords had made it happen. The meal stretched on for the rest of their lives.

In the beginning, Lawrence had to concentrate to see sharp edges around Travis, but, in time, he had become crystal clear. Over the years, the sparks in his vision had almost entirely gone away, to which Lawrence attributed healthy meals and a soft bed to sleep in. Travis offered Lawrence his father’s bedroom and even gave him the wardrobe that filled the closets. As a result, Lawrence began to smell, sound, and behave so much like Travis’ father that Travis began to feel unsure. The two ate meals together, attended sporting events, and shared holidays. Lawrence celebrated his birthday on that of Travis’ father rather than his own. Travis had taken to calling Lawrence dad and sometimes forgot that he wasn’t. His friends and co-workers questioned whether Travis really believed Lawrence was his father or if he was just being generous and decided that it didn’t matter. They hadn’t seen Travis happy since his father’s death and had no interest in interfering with his bliss, no matter how real or imagined it was.

The same was true for Lawrence who had begun to feel like a father. Specifically, he had begun to feel like Travis’ father. For the first time, his words were influential and his advice was heard. On this day, with the magic shoes on his feet, Lawrence brushed his teeth, looked Travis’ father in the mirror, and lived the fantasy that his own father had dreamed for him.

THE END