Oh My God Shoes part two
“I could give you a detailed list of obstacles counteracting with personality traits. Explanations defining paralysis, minus the neurological process that underline the reason why I am at odds with the realities of the modern world, because my main motherfucking professor at Stanford has as yet to cover the affects, working within the layers of the cerebral cortex when options land one feeling: distorted, broken, locked in nothing but constant disappointment. . .of course he is a prolific thinker and creator, and I'm that TRUCK THAT GOT STUCK in the song of the same name. I'm falling behind and fuck all that shit anyways, It's making me dizzy. I rather relive the history of all my shoes.” A confused look, I'm well acquainted with, took over behind thick rimmed glasses.
“What?”
“Whatever, I'm going through a rough time. It seems to be lasting forever. Then this motherfucking multi national corporation , who owes it's monumental success to a three brothers from New York City, Brooklyn baby, pulls this fake shocking shit, splashed all over their website. Fuck man I was shopping for shoes over here, I wasn't ready for guerrilla marketing attack on my heritage.”
“Man, what are you on about?”
“My Adidas baby, and why I told them to take a flying fuck. Yeah well, you're a sneaker queen. I though you could relate. The last time I heard the voice of my first love, she was bitching about adult men dressing like teenagers and how completely unattractive it was. Good thing she's married with children early. The idea always stuck with me. Man was she ever and integral part of who I am, for better or for worse. Lawd have mercy.” I looked over and grabbed the partner of the boot above my head and examined the sole, where the ball of my foot would be, if they were sported. It was coming loose, It reflected my thoughts.
“What are you trying to say?” I looked up into her blank look.
“I was pissed off for so many reasons and these fucking gay ass, high cut, Greek god inspired foot crimes were an outlet I guess.” I didn't pause with the thought 'CAESAR NON SUPRA GRAMMATICOS'. “I was exercising Pseudo mental heath through commerce, and them ugly plastic gold chain, ankle shackling motherfuckers, inspired a quick search of solid gold knuckle plates filled with the words love and hate, as I started scream tweeting fuck Adidas.” The leatherless biker was shaking her head now. “I still needed a new pair of kicks man.”
“Is that all you did?”
“Hahah naw man I put on a movie. I know right.” She added a laugh.
“Scott Pilgrim, sent me into so many memories of teenage years. Sneaking underage, into all the bar's where Sex Ba bomb were playing at, hit me with a solution. I was getting my first pair of adult shoes, my first set of designer gear.”
I was looking over at what was left of the second pair of shoes I ordered online through paypal. Not an adult yet in the eyes of industry. No credit was the rational, and a whole other nightmare. Was paying the bank for the house on my land, but no fucking credit, go figure. I tossed the single, BBC Radio boot over my head, and latched onto one of the black members of my collection.
“I remember not liking the look of them once they arrived, pulling them out of the blue box.” I started to wonder if the microscopic, invisible, invading fuckers were the ones that kept tripping me, as I heard a truck pull into the drive way. I wasn't sure I trusted my feet as yet. “They came with super long laces that wrapped around the arch of your foot.” My eyes bounce from window to company, the ceiling, returning to the work boots, shoes, in my hands. Finger the holes and broken leather, that used to fit these critters together, trying not to touch the green spores. “Those long ass leather strings never remained fixed. I replace this with gold cuff links, pimped out the motherfuckers. I can fix those brown boots oh mine, but if I choose, these ones are going to need the steady hand of a professional. The young fella, of the woman I was trading window trim work for, first saw the boots and said they looked like something a wrestler would sport. I shook the box, it weight nothing. I remember thinking 'how could there be boots in ah dis shit'? Personally, I love the description, on the art deco designed website, thief-ed straight from Photoshop filters, of a 1920 style work boot. They arrived from some stylish boutique in Montreal. Receipt scrawled with loving words and hearts, as if written by a high school girl on the prowl. Man I miss receiving those kinds of love letters.” I stressed the first L word. “Man I miss those days. I gots to do some living god damn it.”
“Did you get a lot of love letters” She was mirroring with a smile.
“I did.”
“When was the last time you got one of those love letters?” I had to smile. How was I going to put this without revealing the identity of guilty parties.
“It is just the way of the walk when women reach a certain age till they hit, like 25 maybe?” Curiosity crinkled my nose. “I have worked with a few women, younger then me, so I have gotten a few since I turned my back on Adidas.” We swapped expressions, looking into each others eyes. I dropped the fouled shoe.
“When was that man?” She asked and I laughed.
“When was what?” A feller I used to hang around with and had seen recently at the liquor exchange, popped through the door with a quick shake of his head, to my other friend. They were an interesting couple, dressed like twins and filled of stereotyping, that would make for an interesting title for a graphic novel: COUNTRY BOY VRS DYKE GIRL, but I had a feeling it was a stolen idea from a music video somewhere's.
“What are you fellers up to and what are you doing on the floor?” Our new company locked eyes on mine worried if his salutation caused offence or not. It was the Island way of discrimination I found in my company, which I wasn't used to. Hardly every intentional, said in a way automatic. The way Islanders have always spoke, since a time before anybody there was to offend, had crossed the bridge. I say hardly. I'm used to less direct bigotry. Expressed through almost harmless words, stuff full of ugly intent. I say almost.
“Man are you bleeding?”
“I don't know, am I?” I didn't feel anything and I didn't look. I lifted my head and the room set a slight spin again and I dropped it with a bump. A fit of frustration thinking, filled with curse words and the idea of 'what the fuck is next', set into a maniacal giggle,
“Fucking kilt pins baby I miss them. Kilt pins and love letters.” The idea of blood brought them into mind, as the the lady in our company and I shared looks over smiles and crinkled noses. I stuttered her first name in introduction.
“Aston, this is JahjahjahJessssica haha.” They shared a hearty hand shake and I looked up. I was again looking for a flush. “I never would business with a woman, lest she was in a kilt.”
“What the fuck you on about and, what the fuck are you doing on the floor, man?”
“I am looking under the bed for something.” I lied. “Well I guess I still haven't found, what I was looking for.” I kind of sighed and I kind of laughed with the music of the passed.
“What are kilt pins” The dizziness was getting worse with all the questions, now he's going to want an explanation and I didn't want to reminisce any more. But is would seem today, that's all I could to do. I thought about my young fists, protruding with a single claw resembling an ice pick, pointed to the sky, left and right. Tell tale sign I am no longer living existentially. I mean, this kind of revelation is fine when I'm on my own, but there are witnesses here. It made it all the more humiliating.
“Way back when in High school, I used to collect the huge safety looking pins, that kept the skirts of catholic school girls, closed.”
“Catholic school girls skirts need pins to keep them closed?” he asked.
“Sheet the good kinds did. With a kilt you could do your business and they look, some what decent if you held it right. Normal skirt you would have to flip it up above nipples, way more obvious you were up to no good. Did you bring some beer or is this a social call?”
“It's Tuesday 10 o'clock man?”
“Oops, sorry just reliving glory days.”
“Ahhh, I was wondering if I could borrow your tile saw?”
“You're a carpenter man, you don't have your own?”
“The one I have is huge and makes a mess, and the room I refinishing is tiny. I figure I can just use the one you got, and put it in the tub for an easy clean up.”
“Sure It's in the building on my lawn mower.”
“You have a lawn mower?” Now he was just being an ass.
“Keep that shit up you can leave her where she sits and you sir, can travel further.” He offered me a smoke.
“No I'm good, I'm good.” My subconscious is going to punish me for the lies.
“Do you still smoke in your house?”
“Go for it man. I heard you were jogging the other day, what was up with that?” He lit his smoke and laughed.
“A new woman will make you do funny things.” We all laughed. Oh how a new woman would effect the serious levels of learning, on the array of ideas bouncing around upstairs, in hopes of encouraging neural plasticity of a child. If I only had some will power, but then again, she might be just another excuse to distract me. Keep me trapped within desperation's cage. I would love me a new woman though, to find out which prospect would prevail.”
A sigh passed through me, a look passed the shoes, onto the white baseboards made of cheep pine. Replacements of all the original birds eye maple floors and poplar trim, that was once on this level. It was a lay of black, spots. Could they be causing this dizziness? Again I thought about the people of the world, as lab rats.
“I'm obsessing on the idea of vivisectionists. I can't help but think of one Harry Harlow and his conception, the pit of despair. If the cruelty he invented, in divining mental illness in the lower primates, was a sadistic urge he was born with, or if he was exercising his grief in loosing his wife?” My compatriots looked at each other. “Do you think these spots are was mould?”
“How long have they been there?”
“Years I would guess, but I don't really know. I have been ignoring them.
“No man, they would have taken over the house if it was, and you would be sick.” I chuckled. “It kind of looks like soot, as if the original coal burning stove was still active, but running a clogged flue. The world is covered in soot, do you think it is turning human hearts black?” I didn't wait for an answer. “Revolutions are turn digital, they are just being controlled by the intentions of evil men. At least that's the word from the gods. Do you all know the song by the Specials 'IT'S A DAWNING OF A NEW ERA'?” They both shook their heads. “I am one of the TV babies out of story of a DRUG STORE COWBOY. Do you guys know that movie?” There was more negative head shaking. “At least I was, until some acid slapped me in the face with a bush screaming, 'SUICIDE'. It reinforced the truth. I was no sociopath. I feel more than anything else, and I have to stop lying to myself, about a bunch of things. Harry Harlow was quoted with saying, 'Not even in our most devious dreams could we have designed a surrogate as evil as these real monkey mother's were?' But this, pit of despair, was his dreams turned into reality, tortured honest evil out of real monkey mothers. How would that change a person? I learned that you can get used to killing things after hours of doing at a job. Feel death grips of life, squeeze with all its might one last time, as you rip a soul apart with one pull down across a metal post, and wait for the slow recede to null, flaccid. We would do 50,000 pounds of killing a night, sometimes more.” My friends were just blinking at me now. “It all just became a murder race game some of the competitive women and I used to play. It all became easy. It's funny how the joking of pretty women can make a dirty, smelly, soul sucking task fun. I suppose there needs to be equilibrium between the sexes.” I thought about another, thick rimmed, letter writing, woman of my passed, with a smile. “A woman I know once warned that bad things would happen if I hired another woman, at an old job I was captain of. A warning weighted serious, impressioning there would be blood, if not heeded. It was true. I could see it. The interpersonal relations between women is an interesting thing for an outsider to witness. I guess I don't have to tell you that Jess. More than once, the intent hidden within ladies cackling, filled me with a dangerous, uneasy spirit. I have had many a tom cat companion in my time. Baby, none of them killed like my cool little calico.” I looked around for her. She must have been outside. “I do love a ferocious woman, but I have turned my back on the psychotic. She's an interesting time.” I could tell my rambling was confusing them but hey, I was on a roll.
“The internet of today, rule over by resource stacked boardrooms, is not the internet of yesterday, run by broke, everyday people with something to say. Modernity's cyber waves seem stacked as a maze, of social psychological booby traps, leading us all into unwilling addictions. Smart people have said, that first addiction leaves one susceptible. It would be cheaper and less hassle, to simply toss out the rubbish footwear, and trade them in for new versions. It would be easier to accept the mind manipulation, of gambling apps, advertised in support of video games children play. With their social engineered anticipation, of a snowball clicking into acceptance onto a device. If you can get a person to agree more than twice. . .as they say. The fight for legislation, against the exposure to such under handed, subconscious influence reminds, of the battles stuffed within biblical lore. These first black dress shoes, crafted with excellent performance in mind, are sentimental to my spirit. I was amazed how comfortable they were. I was a solid convert, after the first three times, the feeling of a worrying snap of a leg, race the heart beat, before the shock of expected, soon to be pain, was surprising corrected. These solid fuckers prevented the rolling of an ankle midway. Wow, sturdy construction saved hours of limping. I have to believe, if the intention of the pillaging sentiment was eradicated from the heart of industry, if the human consciousness, from conception, was forged with a solid foundation of curiosity in scholarship, and an actual realization that we are wonders of creation, we could finally rise, to be masters of the planet. Mastery and domination are birds of a different colour, and following the latter always leads to a reset.”
“Jesus man, what the fuck are you on about? Aston looked over to Jessica and nodded his head toward me. She shrugged back.
I kicked off my socks and stood barefoot, listening to teeth grinding. I ignore the whirling, if I was to fall, fuck it.
“I only ever had one pair of shoes growing up. Always Bargain Harold's special. Cheep, and they were never replaced until they were ceremoniously holey. I once, ripped the sole off of a pair of creepers, kicking at a friend of mine. I had to wait for him, in a subway station, while he to return home and fetched me a spare pair. Then, we could continue to the party we were off to. They where size 12, black Chuck Taylor motherfuckers and I looked like a clown in them. All of this shoe talk is a metaphor of me trying to come to grips with life adjusting, the way the book of changes warns of, that we are all experiencing. This fresh world of raging chaos. There are realities I haven't fully accepted in my situation, and even if I did, I can't stop myself from saying, 'today I am not moving'. Jessica bit her lip and looked at me, over her thick rimmed glasses and offered in a shy way,
“Maybe you should try counting your blessings. Today you have more than one pair of shoes.” I wanted to explode with anger at her rosy coloured statement, but I could not argue. In mind, I looked back at that young man. Standing in the subway, hopping on one foot, slapping a perfectly shaped but dislodged sole across the tiled wall. Screaming at the unfair world. I remembered the simple list he fantasied would settle a favourable adult life in those young, brown eyes which, would perceive to be an impossibility, considering all the obstacles. Here in the future they were all checked, save the love of a good woman, and mostly paid for. I simply had to conjure a solution to the pathology congesting the two avenue's of my dopaminergic coma. The next time some dirty fucker tries and cheat me out of hard earned wages, there will be blood. I have stabbed people, with a paint scraper, for less. Pulled a blue handled, Master Craft, flip box cutter on the foreman on the last job. I hearing the word Nigger one too many times. Strange, he was my best friend after that. I smiled, kissed my teeth, narrow eyes on to her small grin forming. A little nose wiggle. Aston look back and forth between us.
“Never mind, let's head to the building.”