These are my shoes. Today, perhaps after the fact of writing a Shakespeare paper into the dawn of the early morning, to the point that the chemical balance in my brain had fallen out of equilibrium, I got eerily close to deciding to wash my sneakers. Keds commandments tell me no, my Mom tells me yes, and my mind is ambivalent. Cleanliness isn’t my concern; I recall feeling irrationally yet utterly self conscious the first month — having them blaringly untarnished and the whites of them leering at me. Once immaculately and uniformly black, replete with a sense of emptiness, their eclectic earthly smears are now landing it somewhere between dinge and dank. It’d be washing away everything. The shoes have lifted and carried me everywhere in the past eleven months; the past eleven months when life has been jolted with a resemblance of a life well lived.
I never even meant to buy them; the kind sir I contacted about the job let me know I had been hired and I was to report to work the following morning. I needed black shoes. It was ten o’clock in the evening. I went to the virtually non-existent clothing department in the 24-hour grocery store.
My Keds were laced up pretty tightly the first weeks; it saw ten-hour shifts of a dozen happy unions – wedding cake being the first foreign contaminant it was acquainted with. The precariously tipped over wine glass in the bride’s hand as she danced with her betrothed dribbled champagne into the litter of petals on the wood floor and on to my shoes. These sneakers greeted my first room-mate, saw me through late nights of academic pursuits, escorted me to the nearest coffee vendor, ushered me to house parties, and waded me through streams of cheap beer leaked from kegs. They sat beneath me against the dewy grass during sunrise and while I read string theory on the hill; they forgave me when, during a lapse of poor judgment, I had opted for trying a new short-cut and had sunk them in an alarmingly viscous and inconspicuous pool of mud. They’ve run through rain puddles dashing water in cinematic glory; the only emission of sound save for the rainfall was the splashing of these sneakers against the concrete, each decibel cutting into the late-night as thunderous as each vein of lightning that shredded the sky. We stood at very front of the concerts we’d go to and they’d support the tips of my toes while deafening music pulsed through its fibers, sweat waxed to the floor. They’ve ran with me through the subway system in New York City, hopping over incompliant gates in disgusting weather. They kept their modest dignity when met with the loafers of urban bourgeois. We strode around cities. We spun the sky. On summer days, they flirted with the pavement but settled on the grass; even in times of mundanity, they’d comply with my desultory, absentminded ankle-flexing under tables. There’s something satisfying seeing their soles worn thin, knowing it’s partly due to getting lost in the most enriched and fascinating realms of ideas and potential enlightenment — glorious libraries and science museums. They’ve walked my head into a place I didn’t mind being and they’ve helped me wander my mind to living on my own in Ann Arbor.
We’ve stomped out potential forest fires and we’ve discovered glorious fields through muddy passageways. Each splatter of mud means something; every moment is a spot of dirt, collectively creating an idiosyncratic batch of eccentricities. I remember how they maneuvered me around the puddles and I remember emerging from a narrow path to the field and letting them rest on the table, to get off the ground for a bit.
We’ll be together, sockless and laces loose, to sit through exams next week. And we’ll be together finding our way back to couches inlaid in forests. We’ll be together until we can’t be together anymore.
The shoes seem mistakenly too emphasized for a single size eight Keds, but they’re hauntingly not. I ended up hand washing them tonight, and with each layer removed, I made room for another one.
Sue majors in Neuroscience & English and tends to lurk in bookstores.
If you have even the slightest doubt, don’t do it. Don’t think twice. The answer is firm. The answer is “No.†No climbing of trees. No climbing of mountains. No shoes without proper arches (and they must always be clean). Take better care of your shoes. I don’t even know why I buy them for you. They’re always ruined. Don’t walk in the rain, stop walking in the rain. Your shoes will ruin and you’re really better off staying indoors, anyway. If you walk in the rain you’re likely to catch a cold. Or pneumonia. And don’t think you’re going dancing in those shoes, either. I don’t want you out dancing and drinking. You’ll get too tired; you’ll stay up too late. Your friends will forget about you and leave you behind. And worst of all—your shoes, they’ll scuff. A proper lady keeps her shoes clean. Don’t listen to music loudly. Eat your food slowly. Order a salad. At home, clear the table. Don’t tell your boyfriend, “I love you.†I know you don’t. When you break up, wait a while before finding another boyfriend. Not long enough and you’re trash. Too long, you’re a lesbian. Don’t tell me you’re a lesbian. Your reputation is only as clean as your shoes. You have too many male friends, which makes me suspect you’re a lesbian. You spend too much time with them. You sweat with them. You’re going to get hurt if you carry on like this, with your hiking, your camping. You can’t live out of a backpack. You can’t just gallivant about the wilderness. You can’t fight the elements. Listen: You’re going to get very hurt, or maybe you’re going to die. The mosquitoes are terrible out there. I’ll bet you contract West Nile. Your asthma’s getting worse, too. And for God’s sake: remember your blood condition. I know you’re not drinking enough water. I know you’re picking your scabs. That’s why you have so many scars—don’t you listen to your dermatologist at all? If you weren’t gallivanting about the wilderness all summer, wearing your hair short in that bandana like the lesbian you’re becoming, you wouldn’t have these hideous scars. Or this sunburn. Don’t you wear sunscreen? And how many times do I have to tell you to reapply it? You reapply sunscreen every hour. That’s every single hour, reapplying your sunscreen. That’s the appropriate amount. But you, you’re red. Don’t you know that this family has a history of skin cancer? And would you please just stop and think a minute, about your condition? Jesus Christ, your condition! Well, once you’ve gotten another boyfriend I’ll continue questioning your sexuality on a semi regular basis, but you better not be having sexual intercourse. Slow down. Don’t blow all of your money on train fare. And especially not on airfare. There’s a lot of risk involved with air travel. Don’t go where I can’t follow. Don’t walk so fast in those shoes. They’ll scuff.
Come the time to light the Olympic touch, the previously unflawed performance had a little hiccup. Of the four supports for the cauldron, only three were able to emerge. It must have been tough for the torch bearers, having to just stand there and smile, all the while thinking Dang! This thing is heavy. Hurry up!
