The Man in the White Leather Shoes

I’d never seen such big shoes on such a short man before. They were made of white leather, and I suspected they were bigger than his actual feet.

This man was out to be noticed.

The shoes were pointed, and curled up in such a way that you couldn’t tell if it was by design or if they had been left out in the sun longer than was good for them.

They had deep crease marks across the top. Some six inches below the tip. Suggesting a man who spent a great deal of his time standing on his tip-toes.

Maybe he was the infamous Tippy-Toed bank robber. If he was, I imagined him to be harmless enough. Armed with only a sad face and a simple note that read: Please put whatever cash will fit into this brown paper sack and I will be on my way. PS. Please excuse the grease marks. It once contained my lunch.

He was a frugal sort.

Or perhaps he’d just spent a lot of time reaching for the cookie jar. By the size of his waist-line, I’d say he gobbled at least one cookie jar’s worth of Oreo’s a day.

But noticing his wonderfully toned calves, I’d have to say it took him several dozen sprints to the kitchen to accomplish this gluttonous feat.

He wore pink Bermuda shorts and black socks. These, along with the white leather shoes, fostered the notion that he was a retiree. That, or he was just plain color blind.

Color blind and single. For no wife would have let a man leave the house in such a state.

Unless, of course, she no longer cared.

She wanted him to appear ridiculous. Maybe it was that prenuptial agreement she had long ago signed in haste at his lawyer’s office.

’Sure, I’ll sign,’ she had said. ’One day we will die in each other’s arms and this piece of paper will have meant nothing.’

But she hadn’t foreseen the extra-long white leather shoes that he would eventually purchase and wear on any and all occasions.

‘Oh, why did I have to be so desperately in love at the time?’ I could almost hear her say. ‘How I wish he’d be swept out to sea on one of his early morning walks. Walking the beach in white leather shoes. Who does such a thing?’

I now watch as he sets foot inside a drug store. I follow. It was my intended destination in the first place. I need to have a prescription filled. I have the gout.

"Stay away from shellfish and beer," my doctor said. "They are the gout's arch enemy."

But I have been unreasonable in my efforts to stay away from such wonderful things. So I take medicine to lower my uric acid intake. That my wife has witnessed me washing down my pills with a Budweiser is causing some alarm in our love nest. But that’s for another story.

I am a writer. But there is no actual proof other than the the five hundred megabytes worth of material I have on a flash drive. I have never been published, and whenever I tell a fellow cocktail party denizen what it is I do, he will perk up and say, 'Oh, where can I read your stuff?’ I then pretend to be choking on a cherry and excuse myself.

Nonetheless, I am a writer and a curious fellow who must observe this gentleman in the white leather shoes a little closer. I want to be more accurate in my assessment of him. For I will one day create a story of such a man as this.

I watch as the man in the white leather shoes steps behind the prescription counter and disappears.

“How may I help you?” I hear a voice say.

“I need to fill a prescription,” I tell the voice.

“May I have the prescription?” the voice says.

“Fine,” I say, “But where are you?”

“Sorry,” the voice says, “I seem to be missing my stepping stool. I’m down here. Just hand it over the counter and I’ll make a grab for it.”

I did so and got a glimpse of the man in the white leather shoes as he bounced in, then out, of view.

“It’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes,” I hear the voice say.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be back.”

I was hoping the man in the white leather shoes would have had a different ending. I was looking for something a little more intriguing that a pharmacist. But such is the fate of this curious writer.

I then remember passing Coby’s Cabana on my way to the drugstore and decide to wait out my fifteen minutes over a platter of steamed shrimp and a pitcher of iced-cold beer.

I’ll simply double up on my medication and even the score, I tell the waitress.

“What?” she says.

“Nevermind,” I say. “I’m a writer, you know. We’re known for our non-sequiturial quips.”

“Are you drunk?” she says.

“Nevermind,” I say. “My beer and shrimp, please.”

And if my wife hasn’t all ready gathered my things and tossed them out the window, I’ll pick up my medication and go home for a good night’s sleep.

The End

Hmm. Maybe I ought to start this story over.

Let’s see.

I’d never seen such a big dong on such a short man.

Yeah, that’s better. Porn always sells. Can’t go wrong with porn.