X-Ray Vision Ch. 07: Outreach

Though it was a Monday holiday the shoe shop by the mall was open. An Indian family owned it and wasn't concerned with American observances.

Jillian had acknowledged my observation that we should probably drive, since walking shoes were the thing we lacked! This was our first pickup-truck shopping trip. She enjoyed the experience, window down, one arm out in the breeze, lazily feeling the wind as we cruised across town.

"There it is! That one!"

She probably didn't need me to point it out, as the giant neon sign in the shape of a shoe saying "Shoe Repair" was pretty hard to miss. It was a shop in a row of shops on the street flanking the mall, one of the few stores to survive the flood of chains and multinationals that came with a mall. The rest were thrift shops, seasonal specialty stalls, a coffee shop.

Shifting down expertly, swinging into the lot and parking neatly in front of the door, Jill set the brake and killed the engine.

"Before we go in, what are we here for exactly?" She liked to sort out shopping before we got deep into it. Avoided impulse buying she said. No fun I said. Anyway, how much trouble could I get into in a shoe store?

"Walking shoes. Replacement beach shoes - ours are getting pretty stinky." We liked to walk in the surf, which both washed away sweat and added oceanic life. Subsequently they smelled about like those piles of decaying seaweed you find on the beach.

"Sandals!" She was getting into it. "And I need something other than those red pumps."

I thought those red pumps were just fine, thank you. Red fuck-me pumps were my favorite style. She had her own thoughts on that subject.

"Not sure Mrs. Kumari will have all that. We can only hope!"

This shoe store was fourth generation. The Kumari clan apparently came over in the 1800's, servants to a British couple that emigrated to America. Opened a shoe shop. Been selling and repairing shoes ever since. Their granddaughter even worked at a big athletic shoe company, an engineer/designer.

That left Mrs. Kumari and her old employee Chatterjee in charge. Probably the last in the family line to run the shop. I don't know what will happen to it when they retire. They're both sound as a dollar, all that vegetarian food I supposed, so not worried, not gonna happen anytime soon.

We disembarked. Holding hands we briefly window-shopped, went in.

"Master Gregory! So good to see you! It has been too long!"

Jillian raised her eyebrows, smirked at me. She maintained my illusion of stealth all these years was either a polite fiction or evidence of senility on my part. Each time she met someone I had known for years she rubbed it in.

"And you must be Jillian! Gregory, you have excellent taste! Such a fine young lady! Such splendid legs!" Mrs. Kumari understood everyone by their legs and feet; the result of generations of training and experience I suppose.

Jillian played along, tipped one leg, showed off her gams. Very nice! Shorts, beach shoes, lots to look at.

"And you will be wanting?"

Jillian spoke up. "I need some walking shoes. This guy likes to hike everywhere, he's wearing my feet to the bone! Something good for miles of sidewalk?"

Mrs. Kumari asked her to kick off her shoes, walk across the floor to the counter and back. From just that, she knew everything there was to know about Jillian's stride, stance, walking style, footfall. Where her shoes were likely to wear and how. From ten seconds of observation, from being born to the shoe business.

Disappearing into the back she returned shortly with three boxes. "Sit, dear. Try these on."

The first were functional brown almost-boots, meant for hiking really. Stiff soles, so you could scramble over rocks without bruising your foot. Ankle support in spades.

Jillian slipped her naked feet inside, snugged up the laces, tied them securely. Mrs. Kumari sat on a stool in front of her, untied them, snugged them differently, retied them.

"Oh! That is better!" A thankful smile from Jillian, my consummate social sweetheart. She could charm the socks off nearly anyone. Mrs. Kumari smiled despite herself.

"Walk! Outside! To the street and back! Make sure they don't slip, the heel is secure!"

Jillian complied, the door jingling as she departed. Mrs. Kumari watched her go.

"You won't let this one get away, will you dear?"

I reddened. Mrs. Kumari had wanted to match me up all my life, since I was a teenager hanging around the mall. Was deeply disappointed in me for remaining resolutely single.

"I can assure you, I am doing everything in my power to win her over!"

A broad smile, approving nod. "She will make you a better man! Already I see improvement!"

How that could be I don't know. I felt the same, on the outside anyway.

Jingle-jingle! Jillian returned.

"Wonderful! My feet feel so strong! Like I could walk forever!"

"Good; good. You will try all three, compare them, choose which is better. That way you will get only the best!" Always a saleswoman, Mrs. Kumari.

Jillian sat, tried to slip out of the boots but couldn't, had to untie and un-snug them to get them off.

The next pair were more stylish but more flexible. Lower top, not so much ankle support?

Jillian tied them herself, to Mrs. Kumari's satisfaction this time. I just sat on a bench, admired her legs, tried to peek up her shorts, and generally perved on my girlfriend.

Standing, she moved her weight from foot to foot, feeling the difference.

"More cushion! Less stiffness! For city walking only!" Jillian listened absently, just getting the feel of them.

Without being told Jillian jingle-jingled out, headed around the parking lot, striding like she was going somewhere.

"I worry about the ankle support. But she is young, strong, weighs perhaps not so much as some, will not have trouble with turning an ankle like the rest of us."

I nodded, looking around the old shop. I'd been in it maybe a hundred times. Used to spend a penny in a gumball machine Mr. Kumari had by the counter, all those years ago. Mr. Kumari was long gone, bowel cancer, that had been hard to watch. Also gone, the gumball machine.

The stock room was well-supplied, which meant business was still good. I was glad; the independent shopkeeper was a dying breed. The community tried to support them, but it was hard going for most.

A rack in the back of the break room held bagged shoes, repaired, waiting to be claimed and paid for. This was much as it had been when I was young.

In fact, some of the shoes were exactly as when I was young. Still here, all these years later? Still unclaimed? Surely the owners were long gone, moved or dead?

The style of the oldest pair was indeed antique. Maybe even from before Mrs. Kumari's time? I had not noticed such things when I was a lad. While I could 'see' everything, Jillian joked that I saw hardly half of what I 'saw'. And she was right. My memory was no better than anyone else's. I noticed only what was interesting to me. Shoes had not been interesting to a young boy.

"How is the shoe repair business?" I asked.

She tsk'd. "Shoes these days! Not repairable! Designed to fail! Only last so many miles, no more. Hardly any leather; soles that are high-tech as to be more expensive than the rest of the shoe! I get hardly a pair a month, Mr. Chatterjee has become an idler! Spends his time drinking coffee in the mall! Perfectly good coffee shop next door! Just wants to look at the girls! Shameful!"

She always complained about Mr. Chatterjee, how little he worked. I was certain he would never be let go. As much a fixture of the shop as she was, without him she'd be lonely. Her only company after Mr. Kumari died, after her granddaughter went to college. A shop was about more than profit.

Jingle-jingle! "Also wonderful! Lighter yet! But yes, I can feel the road more, feel even gravel in the parking lot?"

Mrs. Kumari nodded, "If you wander far from the sidewalk you will know it shortly! Bruises on your soles, toes that cramp! Yet they are more comfortable on the level; a matter of personal preference, walking style."

The third pair were pretty lurid. Clashing colors, made mostly of foam and plastic, these were among the high-tech monstrosities she'd bemoaned.

Jillian looked dubious; even she knew these were ugly, garish. But she was game, struggled into them, laced them. Mrs. Kumari had to intervene again, these required different tension to fit properly.

Stepping forward, her feet fairly flew off the floor. She high-stepped, laughing.

"They weigh nothing! So strange! Like feathers!"

Mrs. Kumari acknowledged that, but her expression was sour. "Yes, almost magical in their construction. Like things of air and seafoam! My granddaughter designs only shoes like this now. She praises them endlessly!"

Jillian was amused, took off for her turn around the parking lot.

To pass the time, I continued on the subject of shoe repair.

"You must have some shoes that you repair, yet no one returns to claim? What are your oldest pair that you retain?"

She smiled, a subject she was comfortable with. "We have several from Mr. Kumari's father's time, yes! That long ago! Shoes of distinction, durable and endlessly repairable. Why anyone would leave them, I don't know.

"Yet the oldest pair unclaimed are the most remarkable. Let me show you!"

I let her fetch them, actually interested to see. Old things were a favorite topic of mine.

She returned with a large bag, clearly containing more than one pair. Unrolling the top, she extracted a slip, set it carefully aside. Like the owner might really return one day!

Next came out a pair of Oxfords, hand-tooled leather, Italian? Gleaming like the day they were put in there.

"So splendid! Mr. Kumari used to oil them, keep them in the best condition. I would say, why maintain them? Let them rot! But he was truly respectful of shoes, and would not let such a fine pair go to disrepair."

Clearly someone else had been caring for them; Mr. Kumari had been gone a decade and still they were in splendid shape.

"Do you ever seek out the owners?" I was really curious.

"Never! The policy has always been, let the customer wear out their shoe-leather retrieving the shoes. We do not wear our shoes, delivering them! We would become paupers, our feet bare, our shoes in ruins!"

That sounded like Mr. Kumari for sure.

The second pair came out - women's pumps, brilliantly green suede, brushed to look like kidskin. Beautiful! But tiny! For very small feet indeed.

Mrs. Kumari beamed at them; these were something she approved of.

"The workmanship! The finest! A work of art! Like sculpture! The flowing lines, the contrast of buttery-soft suede, the horn heel! It makes your heart flutter!"

Well, her heart I suppose. And perhaps Jillian's! She was a shoe girl I suspected. Her one pair of pumps were treasured, kept spotless and wrapped in tissue.

Idly I 'looked' at the slip.

Mrs. Richardson! Could it be?

"Do you know perhaps, who these might belong to?"

Mrs. Kumari sighed. "A fine lady, is the story. Brought them in to be stretched; feet can grow as you age. Then she died, never returned. Mr. Kumari's father sent a card to the husband but got no reply. So the story goes."

"Why might that be, do you think?"

She sighed again. "Sometimes, a spouse dies, the survivor is reluctant to respond. I think, I suppose anyway, that it might seem too final. To tie up the remaining loose end, to complete the last of their beloved's tasks. Better to leave something undone, somehow that means the life is not quite finished. One task remains."

We were interrupted by Jingle-jingle! and Jillian returned, breathless.

"I ran! These shoes just make you want to run! They launch you on every step! I felt like an athlete." She was flushed with the effort, excited.

"Well Mrs. Kumari, I think that decides it."

Her face fell; she knew what was coming: we would want the high-tech monstrosities.

"Wrap up all three pair! Each for their own purpose; each to be worn at the right time."

Jillian was going to object, but seeing Mrs. Kumari light up she froze, uncertain. Then certain; she would let this happen. It wasn't all about money, after all. There were more important things.

"A fine choice! You will be glad to have them! I will make up the ticket." Beaming, she took the boxes to the counter, began to operate her ancient adding machine.

"You are a softie!" This from Jillian, quietly. I smiled, kissed her cheek.

"You know you will wear them all. Each pair has it's purpose. Take care of your feet! Spend this little sum now, to avoid a doctor's visit later."

Mrs. Kumari was ready for us; we met her at the counter.

It was not a little sum; it was breathtaking. Shoes had doubled and doubled again, since last I'd bought any.

Jillian remembered. "Beach shoes! Sandals! Pumps!"

Mrs. Kumari considered. "The first two I can fit you for. But the pumps? For high style you may wish to visit a dress shop in the mall. They will have the most variety. I have but two styles, for older Indian women."

We browsed, found cheap beach shoes on a display by the window, matching, which pleased Jillian for some reason. She looked at strappy sandals, chose some pair reputed to be healthful somehow, cork and leather.

They added hardly anything to the bill. Jillian paid in cash, new bills brought from her brick of cash. I was amazed she had enough! She had a far better idea of the price of things than I had.

We spoke again of small things, said our goodbye and carried our purchases to the truck.

Jillian banged down the tailgate, hiked her butt up on it, began removing her beach shoes.

"These things are going in the trash right now!" She seemed gleeful to be rid of them. They were indeed epically disreputable - the canvas worn through, greenish around the edges, all trace of tread worn away. Hers had started as my old pair, worn out before she got them.

I did the same, fumbled in the bags for the new ones, gave one pair to Jillian. She gave them back, took the other pair, put them on. I put mine on.

Yes, this was improvement. Something I could have done ages ago but never had - replaced my worn-out shoes. Maybe Jillian was good for me! We were good for each other, taking care of each other. Felt good, a solid kind of good.

I bagged up the shameful shoes, hiked to a bin on the corner, dumped them in unceremoniously. Jillian had driven to the corner to meet me.

She hailed out the window, "Hey stranger! Want a lift!"

"Why sure! I'd love to get into a truck with a beautiful woman I just met! You better hope I'm not some kind of perv!"

"Oh I'm hoping you are!" She giggled, waited for me to come around, climb in my side.

"The mall? For those pumps?"

She considered. "It's not urgent. And we just spent an astronomical amount on shoes. Let me let that percolate for a while."

Not too long. She had to get used to spending money, when it was something that would improve her life or well-being. But her call; I made no objection.

"Where to then?"

She wheeled out on the highway once traffic was clear. "Khang's! I have that dress to return, to get repaired!"

Ah. The dress I'd ruined. The same night I'd ruined Jillian, made her my lover, taken her virtue. Maybe not biologically, but emotionally and psychologically. She'd been violated and abused by another man, a con-man, which had made her resentful and angry. Together we were working through that. One loving day at a time.

"Did you bring it?" I rummaged in the back seat, really just a rumble seat, a ledge behind the bench-seat we sat on. There was a bread bag, and indeed it contained her entire dress. A wisp of cloth, some stiffening interfacing? Barely enough to keep her from being arrested, while arresting the attention of every lustful individual who saw her.

Have I mentioned what a lucky guy I am? I liked to remind myself of that every day, several times a day.

...

"Aren't you two cute!" Khang had recognized our new shoes instantly. She was aware of every scrap of clothing she ever saw; it was in her genes.

Taking the dress bag from me, glaring at me as she removed it from the bread-bag (I didn't put it in there!) she straightened it, examined the torn seam closely, smiled.

The black pearl buttons rattled in the bottom of the bag. She studied them, looked at me. "There's one missing!"

I colored, stammered, "I uh, I kept one. As a ..."

"As a trophy! Men!" She and Jillian shared a look, which made me simultaneously ashamed and proud.

Khang turned the dress inside out, sniffed the crotch, smiled evilly at me. Ok that was uncalled-for! She'd designed the dress, called it Jillian's Greg-fuck-me dress! I could hardly be faulted for responding as expected.

"Ok, I can fix this; I can match the button. No problem. I'll put it on your bill!" This to me.

Khang insists that boyfriends paid for dresses; they were ultimately for them. I didn't mind, not one bit, certainly not after I saw Jillian in the dress. But by god that dress bill was going to be stratospheric.

"Have the day off? Lucky! Whatcha gonna do?"

Khang, absently, as she was laying the dress out on her table, aligning the seam, checking for stretch.

"Walk to the river, in our new shoes! I got walking shoes, hiking shoes. Running shoes!"

Khang looked up, alarmed. "Running? From what? My little sister, rocketing around the streets like a teenager!"

Jillian grinned at her, glad to be considered a rebel. She went to fetch her shoes from the truck, show them off.

"Where are you taking my sister? Nowhere dangerous?" Khang felt protective of Jill, always made me promise to treat her considerately.

"Just to the river! To watch the birds!" And to 'look' in the bottom, explore the history of discarded and hidden objects it was liberally laced with.

"There is construction there! By that old hotel. Be careful! A crane, taller than the building, blocking the street. Some nature society?"

"Sierra club?"

"Yes! Phuong's old gang tell stories, over morning tea at the center. They make up reasons for whatever they see, claim superior knowledge, generally annoy each other."

Sounded like old guys I'd known.

"Still, none can guess why this club is concerned. With an old hotel? In ruins! A dump."

Jillian had returned clutching her bags, heard that last part, met my gaze.

"What? You two shared a look. Tell me!"

Glad to have one over on her sister, Jillian responded first.

"Greg found the Richardson will, the couple that owned the building? Way back? Same name as that fancy street on top of the hill? Seems the old guy, Mr. Richardson, he left the hotel to the Sierra Club!"

"How did they...?"

"Greg sent them the will! With some pictures of the stuff still in the building. On the top floor? Amazing stuff."

I was confused; what amazing stuff? Old chairs, dusty pictures? Antiques I guessed, but still, all old junk to me.

Khang shook her head, went back to fiddling with the dress. Picked it up, tossed it into a hamper. Has to be cleaned first I suppose, Jillian pretty much made a mess in it.

"It's always something else with your guy. Next he'll prove aliens invented the pyramids, or the Civil War was a giant sex scandal."

She saw our look. "What?! You did it again!"

Jillian shook her head, not telling, just got out her shoes to show off.

While they admired the good shoes, exclaimed over the monstrous high-tech plastic ones, talked about heels and pumps, I remembered the old mechanical floor safe I'd seen under the river. With the antique sex toys, Confederate money still inside. Jillian still talked about that one.

Once the shoe talk was over Jillian changed into her walking shoes and we headed out. Leaving the other shoes in the pickup on the street, we headed for the bridge.