Shoes
By J T Pearson
copyright 2013 Joseph Pearson
CONTENTS
Shoes
About the author
Other short stories by JT Pearson
Novels
Contact
Shoes
Four hours of John’s shift remain and the rain has finally let up. Puddles that had been shimmering like sun on hammered metal near the lighted sign finally relax, so he steps outside into the parking lot of the gas station just outside of town, where he works. The cloud from his Marlboro hangs in front of him, one of the true remaining but soon to be dying symbols of American freedom, even if it is only the right to die slowly, a suicide over decades. “Cancer, come to me now,” he sings as he holds his cigarette up to the sky, as if God will hear his plea and honor his request by starting him to rot from the inside out. Lately, John has grown weary of the world around him. He isn’t noticing the beauty around him anymore, just ugliness and pain. So many people fighting to stay alive but he’s becoming nearly indifferent to the specter of death. John glances again at his watch as a semi speeds through the light mist that remains in the air after the rain. The wet asphalt shimmers like black glass, reflecting the distorted red, white, and blue image of the Amoco sign, making it look as though it’s melting. Maybe America’s melting too. Toxic dust devils dance in the wake of the fading truck. John’s eyes narrow as he inhales, the same way his father’s always had when he smoked. Imitation is the greatest form of flattery. He pictures his daddy with a Marlboro in his hand and a bottle of Jack by his side. Wonder if he ever thinks about me? Do the dead have memories?
Mist riding the breeze licks John’s face like an unwanted puppy. He erases it with the back of his denim work shirt - a shirt that reads, Stacy, in dingy white across the pocket, just under where the company logo used to be. The manager, Mr. Looter, was going to extort thirty dollars from John’s first meager check for a new shirt so he adopted Stacy’s orphan. When Stacy wore the shirt the boss never called him by his name. His name was ‘you’ while addressed to his face and ‘that doper’ when he wasn’t around. And now he finally chooses to use Stacey’s name. It’s what he calls John. John is bigger than ‘that doper’ and the seam on one of the shoulders has come apart and been repaired. It is held together with staples John found in Looter’s desk. John also wears a tie. This hideous platinum fugitive from the disco era was a donation, compliments of his Uncle Leonard, after he drunkenly erased himself from the earth, wrapping his custom candy-apple red Dodge around an elm tree while driving back from a Packers game. Lombardi would’ve been impressed with how aggressively he and his Dodge tried to tackle that tree. This Bud’s for you, Uncle Len. John says it out loud in the store sometimes, saluting the dead, whenever he dries his mouth after drinking a beer he stole from the store’s cooler, or uses the tie like a napkin to wipe his mouth after eating something particularly messy. It has taken on a Pollock-style blend of color and texture from the addition of condiments and chocolate. John never met ‘the doper’ but somehow he knows that he would be proud.
A smoke ring birthed by the Marlboro floats lazily toward the bright of the pumps. There is an army of eight standing by, nozzles at attention, ready to offer everything from regular unleaded to the more price-savvy diesel. The smoke ring loses its ambition and abandons its journey long before reaching its destination, breaking up and making its escape on a random gust. John rubs the bony transition between neck and skull, fingering the stubble over his knotted muscles. These overnight shifts are hell to get used to but at least he doesn’t have Mr. Looter buzzarding over his head anymore, waiting for him to screw something up so he can swoop down on him and start pecking. Looter is wealthy with misery and unfortunately generous with it. He’s also ninety pounds overweight, and wound as tight as a medieval corset. He flails wildly, desperately, at life, like a startled drunk waking in traffic. He drips with sweat and sarcasm, and hate, and disdain for everyone around him, barking out orders, the supreme lord of the Amoco gas station. Occasionally, Looter runs out of steam and his carcass slumps down on the only stool in the store, the one that he begged the owner for - citing a medical condition. He dwarfs the stool so severely that it disappears beneath him, creating the illusion that he can levitate like those Tibetan Monks you hear about from wide-eyed Buddhists that try to convert you with ridiculous tales of spiritual superheroes. With each day, Looter is playing tag with the Reaper, for now, just stealing time.
A familiar click clack and the shuffling of soles that never lift high enough to fully clear the pavement breaks the silence and John turns to see his friend emerging from the shadows that lurk and exchange secrets at the perimeter of the convenience store. The man’s hair is long and uncared for. His face covered with a heavy, untrimmed, Jesus-like beard. His frail body is draped in a ragged duster that was once wrapped around a dead man he found frozen solid under a bridge in Michigan. Hell of a way to receive a hand-me-down. An oversized pair of chinos with missing knees is held up by a rope around his waist. He’s filthy, except for his shoes. They are Italian and in perfect condition, not a blemish, and shined to perfection. Everybody around town knows him by that one trait. They call him Shoes. He and John have been friends for about a year. Shoes has been banned from the Amoco by Looter, citing his odorous and unsightly condition, claiming that it drives customers from the store. He maintains that Shoes also exhibits obvious signs of psychosis, arguing with internal voices and waving off imaginary entities and invisible spiders. He is correct on both counts, that Shoes smells, and that he is mentally ill. Looter has threatened John, telling him that if he catches him allowing Shoes in the store just one more time, John will be joining him living behind whatever dumpster Shoes is calling home. Sometimes John can’t help wishing that Looter would hurry up and have his heart attack. Maybe John will inherit another tie.
“How about sending some smoke my way?” Shoes says, pointing at John’s cigarette, his grin revealing a mouthful of yellow-green-brown-black desolation that would leave a dentist wondering where to begin.
“Don’t you read? You don’t want one of these,” says John pointing to the Surgeon General’s warning on the pack. “Says here that these things are bad for you.”
“‘I’ll quit as soon as I take up jogging again. I’m sure the boys back at the health club been missin me something terrible.”
John slaps the pack against his thigh and a cigarette snakes out of the top of it. He points the pack of Marlboros at Shoes like they’re a gun, aiming for his heart. “Hands up.”
Shoes reaches out and grabs the cigarette while John says “bang!” slowly pulling the imaginary trigger. Shoes spasms and grabs for his midsection, staggering back like an old cliché – the overacting cowboy in a spaghetti western with a gut wound. Somewhere in California Clint Eastwood drops his teeth in a jar and goes to sleep along with the rest of the retired heroes.
Shoes places the cigarette between his teeth causing him to talk like he has no lips but John still manages to make out, “Are you going to light this or am I supposed to eat it?”
John raises an eyebrow in mock disdain while dragon-breathing a cloud of smoke that distorts on the breeze and then disappears to find the rings that fled Dodge earlier. “Ever heard the expression beggars can’t be choosers, Shoes?” John draws his Bic and pops a flame better suited for welding. Shoes jerks his head back reflexively before easing the tip of the cigarette into the blaze. He carefully inhales in tight short puffs. The end of the cigarette illuminates, reminding John that he still needs to fix the brake light on his Ford.
Shoes takes a deeper pull and his chest rattles like a broken accordion as the smoke invades his battered lungs. He violently erupts, coughing uncontrollably, finally doubling over and allowing a long stream of transluce
nt phlegm to crawl loose from his lungs and drop to the pavement - a sticky, fulvous, syrupy pool.
John jumps back, giving him room. “Hellfire! You gonna live?”
Shoes remains facing the pavement, not sure whether he’s done emptying himself out. He holds his hand with the cigarette up, requesting a moment. After a couple seconds he swallows, clears his throat and straightens up. A stiff wind finds them, slapping John across the face with the smell of old sweat, whiskey, and urine. He fights the instinct to wince, repositioning himself so that he won’t be directly downwind again while also keeping track of the small lake of lung fluid near their feet. He thumps the end of his cigarette with his fingertip dismissing ashes that hang glide to the puddle and settle on the surface. A waterlogged carrion beetle makes its way out of the shadows. One of its legs is wounded, causing it to drag. John slides the front of his shoe over the top of the struggling nomad and prepares to render an emperor’s decision. Suddenly Shoes is crouched in front of him, stealing the oblivious traveler from a careless ruler’s fate. He cups it gently, almost motherly, and carries it off to the taller, neglected grass along the side of the