Make my day, Shoes!

Late last week, Wednesday it was, while driving from the Salvation Army thrift store in Lakeview to the Village Discount Outlet thrift store in Roscoe Village it occurred to me the absurdity of the task to which I had embarked upon. I was costume shopping, gathering the components of an alternate me. I was intent. I had a design in mind, one of manly kind.

At the first place I spent a good eight minutes pondering the purchase of a woman's belt. It had a large buckle made of silver (shiny metal, not real silver, of course) and those turquoise rocks that are smooth and glossy, whatever those are called. It was $4.50. Pricey. It was just about what I wanted for my costume, considering that it was a belt with a buckle that was large. I passed, figuring I had time to explore other sources, and besides, I was really there to find a pair of boots. That's when I noticed a sign pointing me upstairs. TOYS, KITCHEN, SHOES, MISC.

Stairs hurt just slightly these days (minor softball injury, but that's beside the point)

The upstairs was a flea market of hope and dashed hope. As I moseyed along the aisles, hoping I might find a shelf or case stocked with donated belt buckles or that I might find the best cowboy boot section in the city I glanced down the dishware aisle and saw stacks of plates and dishes and cups. Tucked amongst each tower of plates grew a peculiar weed-- scratched and discarded serving utensils, spatulas and slotted spoons, grill forks and pie servers, potato mashers and kiwi cutters. Something about the stacks of plates gave me pause. In a moment of impromptu archeology I had a vision of a history of meals eaten and served, macaroni and hot dogs pecked at by hungry three-year olds, chicken breasts hacked asunder by dull but determined butter knives, tears and wine spilled over tablecloths, candle shadows and dimmed chandeliers, witness-bearing dining gear to heartfelt graces and heartfelt dining room table sex, Thanksgiving scoops of homemade cranberry sauce, sticky Easter saucers of sugar birds, grandmothers imploring to eat more, have more. Just another slice. Grandmothers like mine, women forged and wired in an era in which food was love. (Although it's good that that era will never die)

"Dude, it's just a bunch of used plates and forks. Relax."

So said the voice in my head that keeps me from going insane. I relaxed.

I bought the ugliest shirt that I could find that fit me. And I bought a "Captain Jack Sparrow" hat. At the last minute I grabbed a set of two-pound dumbbells. They were for my mom, for her to use for her daily exercises since she and I have talked about how some light weights might help her recovery. There is so much one can do with simple dumbbells, I always tell her. Although truly they were essentially just another gesture, a heartfelt effort to help a helpless soul. Through no fault of her own she would most certainly ignore the gesture. That's just the way things are.

I'm ok with that. Why hurry to worry?

At the next store I found what I was looking for. The shoes were in the basement. Even though it was a different thrift store company it had the same odor of disinfectant and infectant. "Wash your hands when you get home," is the common thrift store shopper's advice. Good advice, indeed, although it's probably just as applicable to any day of existence in which a person touches something other than his own teeth and nipples.

In that basement I wandered along the shoes and boots, discarded carcasses of former feet. Just as I was about to give up hope I spotted a pair of caramel colored cowboy boots. They were mangy and marked, but most importantly they were men's. And they were my size.

Stepping into them I found myself two inches taller. So long had I longed to see the world from the eyes of my 6'4" brethren and now here I was, in the basement of a thrift store soaring above the racks at the women of miscellaneous origin and their children of American origin and their sad search for winter clothes.

I was tall and proud and wearing man-heels. They were perfect.

That's when I noticed a pair of Steve Madden's. They were a handsome, casual leather shoe of slight use with no outstanding blemishes. Turning them over the soles presented a story of limited wear and tear. "Sure, I can buy Halloween gear at a thrift store... but can I buy regular street wear? Can I wear some other man's shoes?" I wondered. I'll wear thrift store t-shirts, but shoes? Can I wear the shoes of some sad man who gave up on shoes? Hell no. I make good money. I already have good shoes. I took a breath of that basement, of the shoes and vcr tapes and embarrassing ties that should never have been made and I realized that my dilemma was one not likely shared by the average thrift store shopper. I gave in to the curiosity and I tried them on and they fit like a designer oven mitt. Not too tight, not too loose, and they would would protect me from temperatures up to 700 degrees. They looked right fucking proper under my jeans. And they were $4.

So I bought them, and they look great. I will wear them often and I will carve new memories into their soles, and I will soak their material with foot sweat, with the odor of me.

The cowboy boots were fantastic, by the way. But I had to go somewhere else for the buckle and the western shirt and the cowboy hat. The antennae I made myself... the story will continue... someday...