She was a young girl serving, (if that's the right word, which it isn't), in the shoe store, and she looked at me disapprovingly.
'I don't?' I said, 'Why not?'
It could be that I was in trackpants that had been in the wash two thousand times (and looked like it) and a faded top to match.
She just looked at me. 'You don't.'
OK, she looked like she'd just come out of the Brand New Krispy Kleen packet, not a brown curl out of place and the slickest footwear I'd ever seen, with everything in between in exactly the right spot, and I may not have seemed like someone who could afford the Sharks.
'Bring me out a pair. Size 8.'
I tried them on and they fitted like... well... a glove. Gloves. I don't know how I tied the laces, given that I take five minutes to do so at the best of times and not with a Miss Precious looking on, but they were no problem. I stamped about in them, similar to the way you kick the tires when buying a used car.
Her disapproval was almost tangible, or would have been except that she kept a safe distance from my dishevelment as if it were contagious. The corners of her mouth turned down.
'I'll take them.'
She looked like someone who'd been forced to yield up a silk purse to, or possibly cast pearls before, a member of the hog family with an ear missing.
Maybe that's how she makes all her sales to blokes a bit long in the tooth. The old fools can't stand the challenge to their authorit-air and she makes a whopping commission. I give her credit for not breaking character from beginning to end, though. And just possibly she could have been right about my choice.
Then I woke up, needing to go to the bathroom. It was 5.35 am today. The dream was longer than that, but the remainder lacks any re-tale quality.
Analyse that, you Freudian freaks!
By the way, I don't have the faintest idea if there's a line of sports footwear called Sharks, but it's a great name, and I'll bet it's been done.
I just checked. Bloody hell. Quelle dang surprise!
And the cookie monster? It's coming. Gimme a break.
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| Sharks. Thanks, Stan Smith You're a legend. |
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Your dreams make excellent short stories, Denis! For a moment there, though, my heart did a little dance for you before I figured out it was a dream, when you tried on the shoes and "stamped about in them".
ReplyDeleteHa! I've always been a big believer in kicking the tyres [or tires] on used cars. It gives you instant cred.
DeleteGood thing it was a dream. The ugliest shoes ever! Be grateful you don't have to wear them. I'm also glad that it WAS a dream - I once gave my son a bit of a bollocking when he ended the story he had written so unwillingly for school with "I woke up and realised it had all been a dream". I knew you would never stoop to that.
ReplyDeleteSo you don't like surprise happy endings? :) I stoop to conquer. I'll pass on the bollocking.
DeletePS I had the dream before I ever knew about or saw the real Stan Smith objets d'art, but they have completely blocked from my mind what the dream ones looked like. I am pretty sure they were somewhat more conservative. What will always stagger me is that Sharks shoes do exist.
DeleteFor a moment I thought they might have been those shoes that have toes..I saw some in Byron Bay. They are sort of 'barefoot' shoes and look like frogs' feet, but I thought you may have been advised that they would work well for you. We all know about the shop assistant. She is the one I get when I shop just about anywhere these days, unless it specifically caters for the aging and overweight.
ReplyDeleteHmm. Walk a mile in my shoes? Sharks swim, and are tough guys.Stamp stamp. Poo to young smartie pants-s, you know what you need and it works for you.
Sounds good. You're in charge there.
Julie M xx
I do think walking down the Armidale mall in my old trackies and sporting those Sharks would make people wonder about some things....
DeleteThose shoes are to canvas plimsolls what MsWord is to good old Wordstar. What is it with humans that we need to 'improve' perfectly useful stuff, until the original intent is basically lost?
ReplyDeletekvd
Cool, man - that's what you lose. Well, if you're 18. I'm not so sure at my age. Respectability, I suspect....
Delete