Shoes Pt. 1 and 2

First and foremost, I am speaking from the vantage point of an outside observer looking into a situation in which I cannot judge in any way or form. I am only stating facts, that in a way, come together to create one hell of an ironic situation. More—I will look at the evidence before me like a scientist—and will attempt my best to carefully dissect and examine the nature of the matter that lies before me. With that said, the following is completely made up—and the characters bear no resemblance to any living being for which I have seen or known in my life. Nor have you known them. The situation, of course, may seem to have happened to you or someone you know. It is in way, common among this generation.

Shoes

Thursday night—the night you go out if you’re a young man with an ID that has a date of birth that doesn’t add up to twenty one years of age. They were playing Michael Jackson, so I went to the bar. The only way I’ll dance to Michael Jackson is if I’m alone or if I have another drink. At the bar, my eyes began to scan—usual faces, same music as the last time I came to this club. I then wondered if the disc jockeys had the same playlist run its course every weekend—it certainly seemed to be so—and if that were so, did everybody that came Thursday after Thursday dance the same routine with the same steps and sways from week to week?

I paid fourteen dollars for a Hennessy on the rocks, coke on the side. Ridiculousness. My eyes couldn’t help but wonder, and eventually they caught the gaze of a beautiful girl—the red revolving spotlight illuminating her caramel forehead. Her hips swayed so close to the bounce of Michael’s voice as he sang, “Bil-ly Je-ean, is not my lo-ver,” I couldn’t help but bite my lip. She smiled and lured me forward with her index finger, placing her other hand on her hip as she kicked it back. Her hair swayed like little fairies buzzed around her earlobes, blowing with all their might. I looked at the schmuckos around me and she nodded to reiterate that she was looking at me. The universally experienced, awkward feeling that comes from walking across the room to a girl who anticipates one’s arrival only to have her boyfriend pop out from the opposite direction—she then leaping into his arms—I try often to avoid.

I killed the Hennessy. Made the effort for a refreshing, “Ahhh.” Remember, I’m telling the story here, thus can romanticize the whole of the situation at my pleasing. So I made off like the new, ‘I don’t give a fuck cuz I’m cool and young’ James Bond. She turned as I lit a cigarette at the bottom of the stairs—looking up as her hips winded slowly like an Egyptian hypnotist who happened to dance on the weekends.

“I didn’t know white guys can dance,” she said, turning back smiling. It takes a talented girl to turn back and make eye contact.

“There are plenty of misconceptions about white guys,” I said, my voice slowly rolling with a deep seduction—only resembling that of a voiceover used to advertise a seventies porno.

“Oh, is that so?” she said, practically lifting we off my feet as she dipped low and grinded up her derriere.

We danced a few songs and went our ways. I roamed for a while. In the other room they were playing house. I figured, hey, I already danced to Michael Jackson—but didn’t know what to do. I looked around and no one else knew what to do either—so we all didn’t know what we were doing together. We just kind of jumped up and down or and did what looked like some sort of early morning workout routine.

After taking a piss I went back out to the big room and they were playing Jay-Z, something I could really get into. My slow walk turned into a long strut, and my chin moved like a fast moving wave as I weaved through the hot pressing crowd. Then, a hand pressed against my chest.

“You can’t come in here.”

“You shouldn’t doubt me,” I said with an about face.

I went to the bar and got another drink. Twenty eight dollars for a half cup of alcohol, foolish or straight smoothness? I walked around the crowd and leaned against the sofa that marked the barrier from that oh so special area I was restricted to enter. I lit another cigarette and lifted my left leg and then my right. I about faced again, slipping into the seat. I can come in here—as easy as stealing pie from an unguarded window.

I sprang to my feet as if rewinding a dropped rake. I decided to pour myself a glass of champagne and clanged glasses with those around me. They all were suspicious before the clink. Then, they were all smiles. I made it a few steps before I felt a tug on my shirt. I turned and looked down into her eyes. She grabbed the hollow of my back and pulled me in. We swayed and ducked, bobbed and weaved. Did the dirty bird, whatever you may call it. We got down. Then she looked off to the left. I followed her gaze with mine and her friend pointed with her head toward the ground near my feet. The Egyptian hypnotist that favored dancing on the weekends followed her eye line. I realized they were looking down at my shoes. Simple dress shoes, no laces, smudge on the tip. She nodded in consent and gave me a wink and a regretful smile. I saw her later wrapped up with some dude in the back of the bus on the way back to campus, his shoes were immaculate—his smile devious as he kissed her softly on the neck.

◊◊◊

“You mind if someone comes over?” he asked.

“Naw, that’s cool,” I said.

“I gotta fuck something.”

“That was impressive.”

“All you have to do,” he said, “is tell them what they want to hear.”

“Simply amazing—never heard anything like it.”

“It’s not amazing. Son—it’s so easy.”

I heard the whole conversation. He kept the volume of his phone to a level for all to hear. It truly was incredible. At the beginning of the conversation she was fortified on her position to not get mixed up with a guy again anytime soon, after all, she just broke up with her boyfriend. She said she knew she was being taken advantage of in her past relationship and was determined not to fall for men’s tricks anymore. Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door.

She walked in and looked at him with a meager smile. He had listened; he said he felt the same way. Coincidentally he just broke up with his girlfriend as well—the reason she was there was to ease both their minds of love’s little quarrels. We made an agreement that the couch was off limits. Use the futon.

“Take off your shoes,” I said as she stepped in the front door.

She climbed out of her high heels and laughed unassertively at my presence. She looked familiar, and was beautiful without doubt. Not until later did I know who she was. Granted, I still don’t really know who she is. I shrugged my shoulders and kept watching the movie I was already into before this guy came along. Smoke piling up on the ceiling. Second thing, he didn’t even live there. They would have to wait a minute or two. It was early; my TV was in the living room. Eventually I left them alone. I couldn’t be that guy—cock blocker if you want to be vulgar about it, no matter how good the movie was. So I went into my room. But like I said, it was early. My clock is nocturnal and I work while others sleep, so I took to my task. The keyboard pattered even when I wasn’t typing and clapping occurred even when the chorus had stopped its Sunday song. I skipped to the next and Trick Daddy said he’d be my player. I don’t know if he was addressing me, but it sure seemed like it. They got louder. I skipped the song, it was totally inappropriate for the music I was listening to coincide with what they were doing—and weird as it was. I put my headphones on and scratched a piece of history into the books. The first instances of El Tigre were finding their way onto the page, as a reference to when this occurred, a very exciting time that required late hours.

Thirty minutes later I heard heels clack against the tile, the front door open and close slowly, and the heels slowly faded away. That was that, and I thought that would be the end of it.