John's New Shoes

“Broke a damn ‘gin,” thought John Livingston, as he made his way home from work. The rain poured on his hat and overcoat as he made his way up Main Street, walking the four blocks to the rooming house.

“Sixty-six just hasn’t been my year!” as he stepped into a puddle, soaking the inside of his right shoe.

“Damn hole!” he muttered to himself.

“Working as a teller isn’t so bad but I need more money,” murmuring to himself as he squished along in front of Bern’s department store.

As he walked, he couldn’t help but notice something lying on the sidewalk. Getting closer, he realized it was a little book, an address book perhaps. And it was an address book, its pages smeared by the rain.

Reminded again about his wet sock, he sat down on a bench in front of Bern’s and stuck the little black book into his shoe, covering the hole, to help fend off the water just a little bit.

“That’ll get me home anyway,” he said to himself.

As he stood up from the bench though, something strange happened.

“Hi, John!”

“Hey, Mr. Livingston. How are things at the bank?”

“What the hell?” he wondered. “No one ever talks to me, except at the bank.”

Despite the moody rain, the greetings continued until he made his way around the last corner toward the rooming house.

Only, something was strange there, too, as he spied his name on the mailbox out front.

“What on earth is going on?”

As he turned toward the house, he noticed it looked far different than normal. It was nice, instead of the derelict 50-year-old two-story owned by his landlady, Roberta Branch.

Reaching for the doorknob, the door suddenly opened from the inside, revealing Ms. Branch in what looked to be a housekeeper’s uniform.

“Good evening, Mr. Livingston, get inside before you catch your death!”

“Hello, Ms. Branch! How are you this evening?”

“Fine, sir. How was your day?”

“Kinda’ strange. I didn’t walk into the wrong house, did I?”

Smiling, Ms. Branch answered, “No, sir! Right at home. Dinner’s ready when you are.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Upstairs, John found that his room was now a nicely furnished bedroom, his belongings neatly placed on his dresser and side table.

“All of this is just too strange. What the hell is going on? I must be dreaming or something. This can’t be real!”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, John slipped on a fresh pair of socks and an old pair of shoes—dry, but with holes in the soles, too--then headed down to the dining room, only to find himself alone.

“Ms. Branch, where is everyone?”

“Everyone who, Mr. Livingston? Were you expecting guests?”

“Well, no, but Mr. Jacobs and Bill, Mr. Benson…” his voice tailing off.

“Are you sure you feel alright? If you invited no one why would anyone else be here?”

“I, uhm, don’t know. Maybe I’m thinking of another day.”

John, now beyond confused, enjoyed a fine dinner of a steak, potato and salad, accompanied by a cold Shlitz beer.

“Mr. Livingston, if you’re retiring to your den, would you care for a brandy? Oh, and your paper is on the arm of the chair, just where you like it.”

“A brandy? Yes, that’d be nice. Thank you, Ms. Branch.”

“I’ve never had a brandy in my life.” John thought. “I must be losing my mind. If this is losing it though, it’s good. I’ll just go with it until I come around.”

It wasn’t often that John read the newspaper. Normally, he’d wait until everyone had had their turn then take it upstairs, maybe read it, then stuff it in his good shoes to cover the holes, the ones he worked in. He’d thought about a new pair of shoes but just couldn’t afford them, so keeping the ones he had polished kept them passable for work…as long as no one looked at the soles.

“Mr. Livingston…excuse me,Mr. Livingston.”

“Huh, oh, Ms. Branch. Yes, what can I do for you?”

“I thought you’d like your mail, sir,” as she handed him a large stack of letters.

“Why yes, thank you, Ms. Branch.”

Letter after letter he read. Many were from family and friends, most congratulating him on his new job as the bank manager.

“I’m obviously losing my mind. I’m not the bank manager, hell, I’m just barely a teller. But why all these letters?”

One letter, though, looked ominous. Tom Wickland, Attorney-at-Law, it read. Opening it, John half expected he was in some sort of trouble, but that wasn’t the case. As he slowly read, he discovered that one of his former customers, Mrs. Albert DeSpain, had passed away and left him some money. Flipping the check over, he was flabbergasted to see that it was for $20,000!

“Twenty thousand! All I ever did was to suggest a couple of stocks for her to invest in.”

For the first time since he was a teenager, John actually got up and danced a little jig. After catching sight of himself in the mirror, though, he sat back down and stared at the check.

“This just can’t be real. It just can’t! This house, Ms. Branch, steak, brandy, $20,000! What the hell is going on?”

He just sat, alternately staring in the mirror, then staring at the check.

“It has my name on it. John Livingston. It was addressed to me. I’m puttin’ this sucker in the bank tomorrow.”

Tucking the check in his shirt pocket, John decided to call it a night.

“Good night, Ms. Branch.” He said as he passed through the foyer on his way upstairs.

“Good night, Mr. Livingston.”

That night, John slept only fitfully. His dreams were those of falling, every single one. Waking occasionally, he tried to make sense of them but, like everything else, they didn’t make sense either. There was nothing logical about any of this, so he finally gave up and drifted off to sleep one last time.

Always an early riser—hoping to get hot water in the normally communal bathroom—he enjoyed a long shower, then watched the local morning news over breakfast.

While putting on his shoes, he decided to make use of that little black book again, tucking it in the shoe to cover that hole.

“Not the most comfortable thing,” he thought. “But it’ll work.”

As he made his way to the bank he made a mental note to stop by Bern’s on the way home and buy a new pair of shoes.

“Maybe a new pair of wingtips, or just pair of loafers. They’d be okay for work, too.”

Being Friday, payday for many, he knew it’d be a busy day and was happy that Bern’s stayed open until 6 p.m.

“I’ll just pop by on my way home.”

When he arrived at work, he asked Lena to deposit the $20,000 windfall into his account.

“My goodness, Mr. Livingston, aren’t you the lucky one! A promotion and now this!”

The day was busy, especially the afternoon, and by the time 5 o’clock rolled around he’d just about decided to wait and get the shoes Saturday. But that nagging hole bothered him as he made his way home, so he walked into Bern’s looking for that new pair of shoes.

After about 15 minutes of shopping and being measured by the store clerk, he finally decided on a fine pair of Bass Weejuns, black, so they’d match his suit. They looked good and made him feel good.

“You want to take the old pair, sir, perhaps have them resoled?” asked the clerk.

“Nope, no thanks, can you get rid of them for me?”

“Yes, sir. I’d be happy to.”

And with that, the shoes—along with the little black book still inside—were tossed into the trash bin in Bern’s backroom.

In the comfort of his new shoes, John strode out of the store to make his way home.

Not bothering to look as he stepped into the street, John never saw the car.

Much like his now lifeless body, John’s new shoes were left scuffed and lying in the gutter. They’d been knocked from his feet on impact.

It just goes to show, never let your little black book get away, as it could be your key to good luck.