When I was nine years old I had a chance encounter with a schizophrenic shoe sales man. He worked at Nickel Cent Shoes on the corner of Thompson and Hill Street. I initially went in for a new pair of thong sandals, the kind that have the flimsy rubber soles and squeek when you walk on linoleum. My foot has an awkward arch that seems to plateau in the middle and jut violently down toward my toes. Usually the inexperienced salesperson assumes I have a high arch and emerges from the backroom with a Dr. Scholl's insole.
However, the sales man at Nickel Cent immediately identified my unusual foot structure. He slowly massaged the arch, letting his pudgy fingers ride the curves of my flesh. Even for a nine year old his touch was quite sensual, and I admired the way his fat Polynesian stomach rolled over his polyester slacks. Of course our mental intimacy was violently interrupted by Bertha, a forty-seven year old retired actress currently auditioning for an informercial. My husky salesman dove headfirst into a speech detailing the three speeds of a vacuum sealer. While the sealer provided a useful accessory in the kitchen, its capabilities were literally endless. I had never even heard of vacuum sealing a dog's leash, but apparently it is one of the most neglected items.
While my knowledge of mental disorders was quite limited at age nine, I did know one thing: the salesman had an obvious knowledge for the contours of the underdeveloped foot. In fact his knowledge was so clear by our brief encounter that I would have easily accepted his suggestions to any of my other appendages. I knew I had to seize the moment.
As soon as Bertha left the scene in favor of a craft services employee I bought the shoes my friend recommended. While I never saw the man again, his memory has become a breathing extension of my soul.
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