(6) The Stupid Shoes

Spring rolled around and she began to agonize over shoes. Lydia, my friend and neighbour, that is. Organic cork soles, tempting criss-cross straps, just a bunch of really killer shoe stuff started going on in her mind.

Now, Lydia is a starving artist and amateur opera singer. I got to know her because she’d practice scales, sing entire scenes outside during the summer. Not something you expect when sitting on the fire escape reading the paper with a coffee unless someone like Lydia moves to your street.

She couldn’t afford a whole lot of shoe lust. Lydia’s student loans were as big as ever ten years after they were acquired. I gathered there was romantic trouble as well. Instead of the usual choruses of Verdi I heard the final fight, with a local radio DJ, one afternoon. Talk about having a face for radio.

The major purchase the shoes would require was denied several times and then acted upon impulsively, like a spare doughnut. I’ve bought good used motorcycles for less money.
Sure, the shoes looked fantastic. She told me they felt even better. The shoes were also stupid.

First day out, the unfamiliar heels, soles and calf-flattering straps caused a stumble. Lydia tried to recover and whacked her left big toe straight into a curb in Kensington Market. I had to take the truck down to the hospital and give her a lift home. I also took her for groceries once and drove her to her physiotherapist twice that summer.

For a month, the only shoes that she could put on, because of the pain and swelling, were the stupid shoes.

copyright Stephen Caulfield, 2009