Shoeless Joe

Betrayal by loved ones had become my norm, but I never expected my shoes to follow their path. Footwear of all shapes and styles had covered my feet as a toddler, the first day of school and my last. Various styles of shoes, trainers, casual, hi-tops and low-tops had all filled my closet until they no longer fit or were worn out.

When Jill and I married after graduation, I wore rented black patent leathers that elevated my sense of importance. From that day forward, work boots were my only shoe of choice. I trusted them, and they protected me. When Jill ran away with the garbage truck driver, I drank at work and was fired from the airport ground controller’s job. Evicted from our empty flat, I still had my faithful boots. Now, I’m barefoot and content for the first time in my life. The betrayals in my life accelerated when Mr. Hurely forced me to work late.

If I hustled, I could still make the trolley stop in time and not have to weather the storm on foot. Rain splattered my head, soaked my clothes, and flooded the gutters by the road as I ran. Automobiles splashed the standing water in sheets over the sidewalk as the final trolley bell made its last call for departure. I thought I would make it in time until my boot jammed into a drain grate cloaked by the flood waters. Stuck, I sat on the curb and watched the trolley depart.

The betrayal of my boot was manageable until a taxi switched lanes to miss an errant car. A yellow blur struck my head and left me unconscious and underwater. By good fortune, a nearby police officer witnessed the incident and transported me to a nearby hospital.

Amnesic for weeks, they called me John Doe until my proper name, Joe Pratt, returned to my memory. Paper slippers covered my feet when I left the hospital a month later to learn I had lost far more than my boots.

Incessant rain fell again, and my saturated slippers disintegrated and left me barefoot. My company had fired me for job abandonment. How would I remember my job if I couldn't remember my name? My landlord, who was a fair man, had stored my personal possessions in a box by his office. He thought I had skipped out on the rent or was dead. The row house catered to low-income clients, and he had a job to do. I didn't blame him.

A single-worded note in the box, Loser, was the last message from my girlfriend. She had found another loser to buy her food and beer. The remaining tenants had sorted through my possessions, and my spare boots were gone.

Homeless, broke, unemployed, and abandoned, I trudged to the city's indigent shelter. Blisters erupted on my tender feet that were accustomed to the protection of rubber and leather. The slippers had dissolved into pulp, and spots of blood left a trail behind me.

Registering at the shelter, I waited in the soup line and coldly crushed a roach with my toes. The cold ooze of bug guts on my feet felt odd, but I related to its day. Slick spillage on the floor led to an impromptu circus maneuver for everyone’s entertainment. Bare feet have limited traction. The steaming stew in my bowl was saved, and I didn’t go hungry.

The night monitors called "Lights out," and I lay on my cot and thought about the burning pocks on my feet. Shoes make us blind to the lower spectrum of our existence, the ground. They shield us from an entire world of ugly as we deny its gross existence. Tears welled from my eyes as my new reality overwhelmed me.

What is wrong with me? I want a job, to live a life of ease, and be desired for who I am. All I have known is betrayal.

The following morning, dried salt crusted my eyelids, and a headache pounded my head, discouraging me as I awoke.

I’ve lost everything. Today can't be any worse. Get up!

A sympathetic shelter staffer presented a voucher for a used shoe store two blocks away. Beggars can't be choosers, so I limped the short distance and entered Mr. Jolly's Used Shoes. The mundane block building housed multiple aisles of previously owned dress shoes, boots, and athletic wear in every size and color imaginable. The used footwear was torn, scuffed, and worn.

"Can I assist you, sir," said an elderly man who reminded me of Father Christmas. I handed him my voucher from the shelter.

"Ah, you're the shoeless Joe they called me about," he said and stared at my damaged feet in the bare.

"Do shoes make a desirable man, or does the man make the shoe?" he said and laughed hardily, "Your feet have been skinned alive."

"I think I have the ideal pair for you," he said, "Excuse me for a moment."

My expectation as a beggar diminished, but he surprised me when he returned with a decorative box.

"From my experience, I believe these will match your size," he said, opening the box to the finest pair of brown Oxford wingtips I'd ever seen. The expensive shoes belonged in the display case at Macy's.

"Mr. Jolly, don't you think these shoes are too extravagant for someone like me?' I said.

"Hogwash, I lean to the side of 'fine shoes make a man,' and I detect you need help. And help, I will," he said, "Try them on, and you tell me."

With a gift of donated socks, I slipped the executive footwear onto my street-worn feet, and they fit like they had been custom-made. The bunions jutting from my first toes fit into the fine leathers like a glove.

Mr. Jolly laughed so hard his belly jiggled in pleasure. I expected a ho-ho-ho to come from his lips.

"They fit perfectly. You will be in the company of bankers soon Joe. Enjoy the gift, and I wish you a wonderful day," he said and moved to help another customer.

Halfway to the shelter, a bulge in the right shoe irritated my arch as I passed a Thrift Store. I stopped and slipped the Oxford off. My fingers searched the insole, discovered a piece of paper, and pulled out a one-hundred-dollar bill.

"What a lucky break for me at someone else's misfortune," I said.

Never extravagant, my reflection startled me in the Thrift Store's glass window. I realized the condition of my clothing was quite scary. The torn and stained trousers I wore would not survive a thorough wash. My shirt would not qualify for a rag pile at the dump. With the confidence of a man with fine new shoes and a C-bill in his pocket, I entered the establishment.

A bell rang as I entered, and a pleasant woman's voice rendered, "May I help you?”

"I hope you can," I said, "My clothes are a bit the rag. I would like to purchase clothes for a fair price."

A plumpish white-haired woman with exuberant steps came from around a clothing display in a white apron over a blue dress.

"Oh my, what fine shoes you have," she said, scanning the rags hung on my skinny body without any evident judgment.

"Do clothes make the man, or does the man make the clothes?" she laughed, "With fine shoes like these, we have the perfect suit for you. Excuse me for a minute, please."

She returned with a fine vested wool suit, white dress shirt, suspenders, and a necktie without noticeable wear. It was the type of fine men’s suit seen from afar when laborers cash paychecks at the local bank.

"Please, sir, you have to try it on," she said.

“I can't afford clothes like these," I said, “It is far too expensive.”

"That it is, but sir, this is a thrift store where a thousand-dollar suit sells for one hundred. Can you afford the price?"

"Ma'am, I have been blessed by rare fortune today, and I can afford the price, but I doubt it will fit me," I said.

"Let us find out," she said, "The dressing room is in the back hall."

Excited and quite out of my element, I entered the dressing room and stripped off my rags. The fine attire would not have fit me better if a professional tailor had been present. Like a Monarch butterfly escaping the cocoon, a new man emerged from the dressing closet.

"Oh my, sir. You look like a successful businessman. May I assume you will take it?

"Yes, ma'am," I said and handed her the money.

I strolled the street proud of my renewed appearance and returned to the shelter.

***

The hard cot was centered amongst one row of two and absorbed the racket of men's snores, coughs, and screams from bad dreams. The new ensemble hung on a peg with the shoes below. For a third time, I inspected the clothing, fearing I suffered from a delusion. A slight bulge in the vest pocket caught my eye, and I slid a key out with my finger and a slip of paper. I entered the shared bathroom and examined my find in private.

The handwriting on the slip read.

First National Bank, Box 927, Password - John Privett

The numbers nine, two, and seven were engraved into the brass key.

I returned to my cot and pondered what the key unlocked and to who it belonged.

***

The Thrift store bell rang, and the Oxfords gripped my feet in discomfort. I grimaced when the leather uppers contracted to squeeze my toes and pressed hard on my bunions. The woman who aided me the day prior greeted me with concern.

"Happy morning, sir. Is there a problem with the purchase? All sales are final and as is," she said.

"No, ma'am, I am happy with the clothes, but I found something in the vest pocket of concern to the previous owner. If you give me his name, I will return it to him," I said.

"Sir, I appreciate your intent, but we cannot give out personal information. Please note the sign above the counter."

I had missed the multiple displays in the excitement of the moment. The signage was like the disclosures of a used car lot.

No Returns or Exchange

All Purchases are "As Is" Without Warranty Express or Implied

We Respect the Privacy of our Donors

Any Items Found with the Purchase are Included in the Transaction, No Matter the Value

"As you can read, sir, the suit is your property, period," she said, "Goodbye!"

The shoes relaxed, and the horrible pains in my feet ceased when we departed the store. Central Park West, to the left, was my next planned destination to enjoy the misting fountains and cool shade. The shoes rebelled and contracted as if someone stomped my feet. I stopped, doubled over from the pain, and the agony receded. Another step forward caused more anguish, and the thought of visiting the park was abandoned. I attempted to remove the shoes, but the leathers contracted tightly, and I surrendered the idea. Alarmed passersby witnessed the battle with the leathers and crossed the street to avoid me.

***

The short walk to the shelter was the best option to rid myself of this absurdity. I turned east in the opposite direction, and the throbbing stopped. At the intersection of Broad and Fifth, the torture returned when I waited at the crosswalk. Facing North, West, or East, the shoes pressured my feet until I turned South as if the Oxfords had a mind of their own. The shoes were in control and led their host around like a bit in a horse’s mouth. Tired, I surrendered and trod south for several blocks. The Wingtips not only relaxed but massaged my feet as a reward for being obedient. Without warning, they contracted and afflicted the digits so hard I thought my toes would fracture. I stopped, and the pain ended. The steps to the entrance of the First National Bank loomed above me.

"What do you want?" I said to the shoes as bewildered strangers stepped around me. The Doctor had warned of the potential mental effects of a serious concussion. Short-term memory loss or hallucinations would not be unusual, but not this level of insanity. To seek relief from the temper of the shoes, I climbed the steps toward the entrance and entered the bank.

The vaulted arched marble ceiling portrayed the bank's power and intimidated most clients. A security guard greeted me, "Good day, Sir," and his acknowledgment amplified my discomfort. Never had I been observed beyond a wary eye of disdain when I cashed my checks from work. The difference was my attire, as the world does judge a book by its cover.

"May I direct the gentlemen to assistance?" the guard said.

Displaying the key from my vest pocket, he directed me to a walnut-paneled office in a wing off the central concourse.

"You will want to inquire with the Safe deposit box Clerk inside those doors, sir."

The Oxfords shuffled forward with impatience. My options were to push the door open with my hands or my nose. The shoes didn't care. I chose the former, and we stepped into a walnut-paneled office with a desk set and a vault door behind it. Vaults locked possessions in and people out. The opposite principle applied to jails and cemeteries. They all appeared the same. I figured my odds of being incarcerated were an even bet at fifty-fifty.

A female clerk in a gray dress suit stood at attention at my entrance, smoothed her skirt, and presented a smile worthy of a television game show host.

"How may I help you, Sir?" she said.

I handed her the key, which she examined, noted the number on a pad, and returned to me.

"Please, have a seat while I verify the standing with the bank. Thank you," and stepped into the vault.

The right Oxford's tip tapped in agitation until she returned with a long black ledger book.

"Sir, I will need you to write the given password by the key number in the ledger. I will then do the same beside yours to verify. The secure code cannot be spoken by either of us. Understand?" she said and laid the book on the desk before me with a pen.

Nodding in agreement and I found the correct line as my hand quivered.

When I write these words, would I be accused of fraud? Will I be hauled to prison? Would the courts send me to a psychiatric hospital if I told them of the shoe's extortion?

The Oxfords applied severe pressure, and I wrote John Privett beside the number Nine Two Seven.

The clerk rotated the book, wrote the bank's password, and examined both. Tense, she stoically stared into my eyes and picked up the phone.

The game is up, and I'm going to prison.

"We have a match. Please secure vault room seven for our guest," she said and hung up the phone. "Follow me, sir," and lead me into the vault. Had I known what would become my future from this point on, I would have let the shoes crush my feet even if they reduced me to a cripple.

We stood before box Nine-two-seven, slid our respective keys into the slots, and unlocked it. She slid the Oxford dictionary-sized box out and led me to room seven.

"Take as long as you need, sir. Call me when you finish," she said and closed the door behind her.

The lid on the box lifted easily. Two standard white envelopes lay on the felt liner and were addressed, To the Finder of the Key

The first envelope held two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. The second secured a typed letter.

Dear Finder of the Key,

Congratulations, a world of luxury awaits you. There are lottery winners in this world and grand opportunities to which they pale. Please use the funds to taxi, without delay, to the office of Mr. Frank Drake, Esquire, 131 4th Ave, New York City. Do not return to your home or work or notify anyone of this note until you have met with the attorney.

The Benefactor.

Do not return home? I thought.

"What home?”

Work? “I don't have a job.”

Don't' notify anyone? "Who would I notify?"

My life was a proverbial wreck. The woman I married when eighteen had run off with the garbage truck driver. A taxi ran me over. I almost died and lay in a hospital unconscious for weeks. Evicted from a dump of an apartment, my girlfriend ran away, someone stole my boots, and I walked the town homeless, broke, and barefoot.

Finally, something positive had come, and my luck had turned for the better. They say a true friend will guide you even when the truth is painful. Maybe the Oxfords were the only friends I had in the world. Maybe the pain they imparted was meant for my benefit and had brought me to this serendipitous moment of redemption. Anything would be better than the current state of my existence.

***

Mr. Drake's receptionist greeted me like royalty when I presented the letter. He ushered me to a conference room where leather-bound legal missives lined the walls. Coffee and water were offered, and he left me alone with the Oxfords.

"What do you think, Oxford? Have we hit the motherlode here?" I said but did not receive a response.

Mr. Drake, a short and stout man of wide girth but little hair, entered the room. Upon our acquaintance and his review of the letter in my possession, I detected glee as he seemed more excited than I.

"I have a few questions, Mr.?" he said.

"Joseph Pratt, people call me Joe," I said, and Mr. Drake wrote it on a notepad.

"Family?"

"None."

"Job, friends?

"None."

"Mr. Pratt, or may I call you Joe," he said, "You are about to be gifted a life of wealth and luxury. The letter of certificate you bear makes you the unnamed heir to the late tycoon John Privett. Mr. Privett's last will required the consignment of the suit to the Thrift store and the Oxfords to Mr. Jolly's. By sheer fortune, you acquired both. If you accept this gift, there will be documents for you to sign, but first, we have required tasks to accomplish while my clerks draft them. Shall I proceed?"

"What are the required tasks?" I said.

"One, a complete physical by Mr. Privett's private physician and two, a tour of the estate."

"When do we begin?” I said.

***

Dr. Wingal, a tall thin man, drew vials of blood and performed an EKG, EEG, MRI and Cat-scan. He examined my eyes, swabbed my mouth for DNA, cut a hair clip, and requested two urine samples. He was unconcerned by my brain injury. A nurse took my medical history and asked hundreds of questions. The intrusive prostate exam by the Doctor's classical pianist fingers was the most disconcerting. I had never been this thoroughly prodded, poked, and invaded by a doctor.

Mr. Drake drove us to the Privett estate on Long Island when Dr. Wingal had finished.

"Are you ready to see your new life, Joe?" As he turned the car into a curved driveway lined with manicured Eastern Red Cedars, I held my breath in astonishment.

A half-mile up the winding driveway, a twelve-foot masonry wall with a wrought iron gate with polished brass trim appeared in the windshield. A gatekeeper stepped from a hidden guard house, peered into the vehicle, and the iron entrance swung open. Half a mile further, a four-story neoclassical mansion stole the skyline, surrounded by manicured flower gardens. We stopped in a circular driveway in front of two massive twelve-foot-high ornamental doors. I thought I must have fallen into a coma and attained some fantastical dream.

Someone pinch me.

The tour of the mansion's parlor, study and library, kitchen, dining room, morning room, spa, and ballroom left me overwhelmed. I skipped the thirty guest rooms and dropped into a chair in the Master suite, which was more like an apartment unto itself.

The neoclassical wood trim and casings were as artful as the many paintings displayed throughout the estate. Mr. Drake introduced me to the chef, butler, maid, valet, chauffeur, and groundsman.

"What do you think, Joe? Will you accept this life?" Mr. Drake said.

I stood before the French doors that opened to a portico and faced the south lawn. To the left were tennis courts, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and a pool house. In the distance, an acre-sized blue water pond accented a red horse stable with white trim and a dozen Bays and Thoroughbreds at pasture.

“This estate will be yours once you sign the documents. Are you ready?"

"Yes," I said, "I'm ready."

I dined with Mr. Drake and Dr. Wingal. The chef had prepared a meal of filet mignon, scalloped potatoes, and asparagus. The meal was by far the best I had eaten in my life, and we retired to the library, where I enjoyed my first experience with fine Port. I signed the papers with my two new friends as witnesses.

"Please read each document before you sign," Mr. Drake said.

The first documents testified to my acceptance of the estate and all assets. The legal jargon overwhelmed me, and I signed every document without reading them. After completing the stack of papers, I retired to my room to find blue monogrammed pajamas laid out on the bed. The silk sleepwear fit like they were custom tailored to include my initials, J.P. The late John Privett's wardrobe now belonged to Joe Pratt, and I fell into a deep, restful sleep in the solitude of the estate.

***

The following month flew by as I lived an opulent lifestyle, and my body grew in strength and weight. Every morning a trainer guided a workout followed by a two-hour session with a masseuse. Dr. Wingal came by weekly for an examination and made copious notes in his notebook. The Doctor would stay for lunch by the pool, and we became friends. He learned my miserable life's history. My confidence grew with my mental and physical strength.

Early one morning, with a desire to go for a run, I donned Privett's Nike shoes, gym shorts, and a T-shirt and slipped out the front door alone. The run took me down the driveway to the entrance of the estate, where the gate had been left open.

I'm rich, and I'm free to do as I please.

Crossing the gate's threshold, the shoes seized my feet in a bone-crushing grip, and I fell to the pavement and skinned my knees, elbows, and cheek. A horn blared like a fire alarm and echoed through the trees. The guard on duty ran to me, lifted me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and returned me to the estate. The electric gates hummed and closed with a click. The shoes relaxed, and the pain stopped. Confused, I hobbled to the house and wondered if I was an heir or a prisoner. Mr. Frank and Dr. Wingal arrived an hour later but did not detect me as I stood above them on the portico outside my suite.

"Is he injured?" said Dr. Wingal, "Excessive contusions delay us another week. The Guild will not be happy."

"We can't alter the course now. The Guild members have already RSVP'd," said Mr. Drake.

"Yes, the menu has been set. I'm particularly excited about the kidney pie and liver pate, my favorite," said Dr. Wingal.

"Months have passed since I've had either. I've already placed my bid. The chef's Langue De Humain en Sauce is what I'm looking forward to trying." Mr. Drake said.

"The gala is critical to the Guild, and the cutling meal from spare body parts is exquisite, but do not forget our real mission. The project is about acquiring a heart, and Joe Pratt's is perfect. The Master awaits his renewal, and a damaged donor will cause us to fail. I will examine Joe now and start administering the transplant supplements, said Dr. Wingal.

“I reset your password for the gate to Heartless4U,” said Drake and Dr. Wingal laughed.

An agitated Blue Jay who claimed joint ownership of the portico squawked, and I jumped back and landed on my rear. Distracted by the disturbance, the Doctor and the Attorney turned upward toward the porch in alarm. The Blue Jay fluttered away and eased their fears.

These people are heartless. They plan to take my heart like I'm a replacement part for Dr. Frankenstein and dine on my remains. They are fattening me up for the slaughter. How stupid can I be? I am being played the fool. I have to get out of here.

For the remainder of the day, Dr. Wingal performed his examinations and feigned concern for my skinned knees and bruised face. The tests focused on the condition of my heart with another EKG. Mr. Drake lectured me about leaving the property alone due to security concerns and garnered a promise I would comply.

"Joe, I'm sure there's an adjustment from your previous life, and you need to socialize. We have decided to host a gala in your honor one week from today. The time has come for you to meet your neighbors. Their taste in humanity and the arts are unparalleled, and I think they will enjoy you," he said.

Two choices were apparent. Escape the madness or donate my heart to revive a dead man and be the bill of fare for the Guilds Gala. For three days, I noted the movement at the gate and learned the pattern of vendor deliveries. The frequency of traffic increased as the night of the gala approached.

On the fourth morning, I rose before sunrise, stripped off my pajamas, avoided the shoe closet, slipped naked onto the porch, and climbed down the flowered lattice to the ground. I crossed the dew-laden lawn and waited in the shadows.

The gate hummed open for a fleet of delivery vans to enter, and I ran like an Olympic sprinter. I escaped past the gate with my newfound strength, down the winding driveway, and raced nude through the lamp-lit streets. Naked, free, in perfect health, and barefoot, I fled the island like a new babe born into the world.

***

A week later, I walked to a park in Queens across the river from Manhattan. Dressed in worn blue denim jeans and a plaid shirt I had stolen from a Salvation Army donation bin, I snatched a discarded newspaper from a park trash can to search for day jobs. Within the classified listings, a half-page display ad advertised Mr. Jolly's Used Shoes. A photograph of the fine Oxfords, the shoe jailer, centered the ad, and the caption read,

Shoes make a desirable man. If they fit you, they are free. Visit us today.

I am not content to remain in hiding. Shoeless Joe has awakened and this cannibalistic guile must be exposed.

“Mr. Jolly, tomorrow, barefoot and free, I’m will begin with you.”