11
I wear the shoes of a dead man. I didn’t buy them. Found them in a box outside the glass tower where that rich old guy died.
They’re good shoes. Cap toes. Goes nice with the suit I still wear. Of course, the suit hangs loosely on me now, since I’ve lost a lot of weight. But the shoes are perfect.
Don’t really know why the shoes were left there. The rest of the old guy’s stuff was taken away in a big van. Maybe the shoes fell off the truck. I dunno.
Anyway, the shoes look great! They’re pretty comfortable, too. Not like sneakers, but you know what they say about beggars.
So, now I’m walking around in these great shiny black cap toe shoes and my trusty old suit. Just like I did when there was work. Back then, I didn’t push around a shopping cart with a giant trash bag, protecting my remaining belongings. Times change, don’t they?
Didn’t used to drink but now I find it relaxes me. When people give me money, I don’t spend it on food. I find my own food. But I save my pennies and, when I can, I buy a bottle. Doesn’t always taste so good but it soothes. Nice.
I’m not one to complain. Complaining is pretty pointless. Nobody cares. I push. Scavenge for food. I usually find something, sometimes even something good. When I do, I savor. Let’s see the glass as half-full, shall we?
Tonight. I’m enjoying this lovely day, but I’m really looking forward to tonight. I’ve got plans.
Sun’s out. Bright. Better than winter when I hang out on a grate. Today I’m on the move, taking it all in. I’m feeling a little sad though. Just a bit. I’m thinking about the poor dead man. It’s not that he’s dead. We all die. It’s just that…
He was a rich man. Business man. Harvard educated. Came from a wealthy family. Lovely wife. Two perfect kids. Worked long hours at headquarters. Golfed. Ate out regularly. Drank the good stuff—not like the bottles I sometimes get. Vacationed in Europe. Skied in Switzerland.
The obituary photo shows a man with a charming smile and an easy manner. But somehow, wearing his shoes, I know more than what they put in his obituary. I don’t understand how, but I just know.
Sometimes, when standing in the cap toes, I feel a sensation. It starts in the heels and spreads through the soles of my feet, up my legs, torso and lodges in my head. I close my eyes and see and feel things. Dreams. But I’m not sleeping.
I remember. His memories. The tension over work, family. Fear of being found out to not be actually so great. A momentary wistfulness about something just beyond reach. And then back to the routine with a vengeance. A life.
The thoughts and sensations fills me with gratitude. I’m not him.
I read the paper (some people never take it off the stoop) and learn about what’s happening in “the real world.” That’s what they call it, somehow without irony. A politician is caught in a scandal. Economic leaders meet in Europe. Protests. Bombings. The usual.
The dead rich man, and most people really, think they know what’s important. But life is short and unpredictable and people make up all sorts of things and convince themselves that those things are consequential.
But anything truly worth doing must be an end in itself. Things that are a means to an end are things of diminished value. Working to make money means the work itself has little value. Dressing well to impress others means you are not enjoying the clothes.
That’s the way the dead man lived. That’s the way most people live. Asleep. Hypnotized. Pre-dead.
But tonight! I’m going to the park, the pitch black empty park. Take off my cap toe shoes. I’ll lie down. Feel the cool grass on my remaining hair. Take a swig of cheap liquor. And look at the eternal blackness of space and the innumerable specs of twinkling light—a million suns that burn for no purpose. They just burn.
