Some Life

Sometimes I delight in the scorching heat of asphalt. It’s a sort of penance for my horrible deeds. Every day I ponder them, wondering what I could do differently to make things right.

Gum is a sort of sticky conscience with all the sweet chewed out. It’s not a burden, but a companion who reminds me who I am: a murderer.

Every day when Bob slips me onto his right foot, the load of guilt barrels into me harder than pavement during a morning jog. The horror of what I do every day is almost too much to bear.

Steve, my left-foot pal, doesn’t understand.

“Dan, your laces are tied too tight,” he says on the way to the office for Bob’s afternoon conference. “We’re shoes. We walk, we stomp, we run. It’s what we do.” He spits water from the puddle that Bob just splashed through. “I mean, if they don’t want to be stepped on, they’ll move.”

I sigh. I know they should move, but sometimes they can’t. When Bob drives me downward to meet an unsuspecting spider or ant, I simply can’t fight him. And they can’t fight me. Unfair odds.

What’s worse is that Bob is right-handed. That puts me on the first foot he always uses to react to a bug or anything startling. That makes me the killer. The cold-blooded, empty sole of a killer. I disgust myself.

I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to drown out the cries of poor little insects whose innards cling to my tread. With every shake and stomp of Bob’s foot as he attempts to clean me off, I feel more and more nauseous.

Steve just chills out. Sometimes he’ll work his laces loose, little by little, just to irritate Bob. He’s constantly picking up tiny pieces of gravel in his tread that scrape across concrete and tile – those little pieces that Bob has to stop and work loose because the noise and the feel are so annoying. And Steve loves nothing more than to squeak across linoleum flooring after Bob’s been walking in the rain.

“Hey, man,” Steve whispers, looking very conspicuous. “Check this out.”

Bob stumbles on Steve’s laces, muttering words I won’t repeat and finding a bench to sit on. We’re just blocks away from the office, and I’ve been lucky enough not to strike yet. I know it’s coming soon.

“All right, come on,” Bob grumbles as he ties Steve’s laces back together and re-ties mine for good measure. “Can’t be late. Gotta hurry.”

When Bob stands up, he really starts moving. Jostling, sole-to-pavement, in-business moving. Here’s the first spider of the day – “Sorry!” – and now several ants. A beetle! Insects and crawlers of all kinds scurry out of my way.

“I can’t take this, Steve!” I yell above the pounding of the sidewalk.

“What?” he’s too busy checking out the ladies’ shoes we’re passing at rapid pace. “What’d you say?”

“I said I can’t take it!”

Steve looks blank, and I give up. I’m considering working a hole through my sole or through the soft cloth that covers Bob’s foot. Anything to get away from this life and my daily, inevitable murder sprees. A life in a dumpster or stuck on the shelf of a thrift store would be better than carrying this load of guilt.

One block to go. As Bob crosses the road, he slams me into the curb he’s trying to step onto, stubbing me and his big toe. O, karma, how ruthless you are!

Steve’s laughing. “That didn’t feel too good, did it?”

I don’t have the nerve to say what I want to say to him, so I use the moment to soak up the pain and remind myself that Bob tripped on that curb for a reason.

We’re nearing the office building where Bob’s meeting is supposed to be. The last time Bob was here, my laces got caught in the revolving door. Bad memories.

Somehow, today I’m lucky. Bob makes it through the revolving door and into the building smoothly. The marble tiles are cold – instant relief from the scorching pavement outside. This is the life: indoors on a smooth, cool floor…no abundance of bugs in sight…quiet atmosphere with little bustle –

Flash! Flash! Suddenly there’s a mad rush of shoes, cameras and people toward Bob. I should have known.

“Mr. Stanley, are you planning on – ”

“Tell me, how will you keep in shape – ”

“Will you be donating – ”

“Mr. Stanley, how does it feel to be five-time winner of the Boston Marathon after countless attempts?”

Bob just waves his hand and smiles. “No comment at this time.”

The reporters follow Bob up the stairs with their cameras, notepads and microphones, continuing to shout obnoxious questions as a security guard leads him into an open room with a long table and lots of chairs. Press conference time!

Bob’s been a runner all his life, and Steve and I have been his lucky shoes since he was 38 years old – the first year he attempted the Boston Marathon. He’s 49 now, and with all the fame, money and recognition he’s earned for his determination over the years and now for his triumph, he’s ready to retire from racing and ease back into a normal life. That’s what this meeting is about.

I can’t stay awake through the press conference. It’s an endless drone of questions and answers, photo flashes and notes whispered into tape recorders.

Steve’s having no problem with drowsiness – he spotted an attractive pair of black high heels belonging to a reporter named Jane, and he’s been cat-calling at them off and on the whole time from underneath the table. I’ve managed to drown him out.

Apparently, I’ve also completely drowned out what Bob is saying, so I’m taken by surprise when I feel him bend down to unlace me. He then unties Steve’s laces and pulls us off his feet.

Steve yells in alarm – something unintelligible – as Bob holds us up in the air, brushes over us with his hand, and neatly tucks our laces.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I, Bob Stanley, hereby donate my lucky running shoes to the Smithsonian Institution. May they be an inspiration to all who have a dream and the drive to fulfill it.”

Shock. Awe. Wonder.

…No more bugs?

***

It’s only been a few days since Bob’s press conference, and Steve and I are resting neatly and comfortably in a glass display case that houses the memorabilia of athletes who have come and gone over the last century. We get plenty of attention from the ladies’ shoes that pass us by, but it frustrates Steve because we’re behind this wall of glass.

“Man, what did I ever do to deserve this? It’s like purgatory for a shoe, man! I can see heaven, it’s on the other side, I just can’t get there.” He sighs heavily. “Some life.”

I sigh, too – but happily. “Some life.”

For me, this is paradise.