November 21, 2013--NYC: The Shoe Lady

The only thing I have from my father--in addition to his DNA--is a pair of black leather gloves. When I wear them I feel as if I am in his hands, a place I occasionally want or need to be.

Like last week.

The transition from small-town Maine to very-big-city New York was traumatic. We have done this many times before but each year it becomes more difficult. Perhaps because any change at a certain time in life is disorienting and frequently upsetting.

And upsetting this time it was.

I have less motivation and stamina to negotiate the teeming life of the streets. People, cars, buses, careening taxis, and now more and more people on municipally-provided bicycles--Citibikes named for their sponsor Citibank.

Everything feels even more commodified than in the past; and though we are fortunately financially comfortable, reentering the world of the one-percenters is a vivid reminder of the other 99 percent. Of both what people have and do not have. Reality here ranges from $100 million condos to rent-controlled walkups in the outer boroughs. And the palpable frustration nearly everyone appears to evince, particularly those blessed with so much who ironically, in that state of being, are aware of what they do not have and which will always be out of reach.

It's a tough town.

My father's gloves needed some repair. I am careful with them, as you might imagine, but during the 15 years he has been gone one of the finger tips frayed and needed to be expertly stitched.

Rona knows a place where the work will be carefully done. Shops of this sort have become uncommon in the city where even modest retail space ranges upwards from $5,000 a month.

As we were heading toward the shop Rona had in mind, she said, "I hope it's still there and hasn't been converted into a cafe or bank."

"Unlikely," I said, "As I remember it, it's too small for a bank or--"

"But not for a coffee shop. We've already passed three new ones that opened while we were up in Maine. I'm beginning to think New Yorkers have become coffee addicts."

It in fact the shoe and leather shop was still there on Sixth Avenue.

The glove required a simple repair and we were told that if we had the time we could wait while they stitched it. So we plopped down in comfortable chairs and read through Curve magazine, which says that it is, "The nation's best-selling lesbian magazine [and] spotlights all that is fresh, funny, exciting, controversial, and cutting-edge in our community."

"We are for sure back in New York," I said, for the first time since returning feeling good about my town.

In came a woman who looked frazzled. On the counter there was a bell to ring for service. Sweating though it was chilly outside as well as in the store, she began pounding on it.

From the back, someone said, "Hold on a moment. Please. I'm fixing someone's glove. I'll be out in a minute."

The woman seemed so agitated that I feared she would have a thrombosis. "It's OK," I called out, trying to help, "We're in no hurry. Please take care of your other customer."

The repairman appeared and the woman thrust a claim ticket at him. He squinted at it. "Am I right?" he asked, "This is for 14 pairs of shoes?"

"I'm in a hurry."

"That's a lot of shoes. Give me a moment, if you will, to round them up." She began to tap her foot as he disappeared behind the counter.

"Yes, fourteen. Make sure you find them all. I don't have forever."

"I'm doing the best I can," he said from floor level. "From the ticket I can see you brought them in ten days ago. There are so many and space here is so limited that I'll have to look carefully to be sure I find them all."

In separate brown paper bags they began to be tossed up onto the counter."

She was tapping her toe even faster. "Be careful with them, will you. Most are Pradas. I only brought them in to be polished," she sounded overwhelmed and exasperated.

"Are they all yours?" I couldn't help myself from asking. She glared at me. "I mean, I thought you might be--" I don't know where I was going with this.

"They're mine," she snapped, not looking in my direction. "Count them, would you." The shoemaker had reemerged, smiling at the heap of shoes he had tossed up on top of each other."I want to see what's in each of the bags. I don't want someone else's shoes."

He bagan to take the shoes out of the bags. "I think there are fourteen."

"I can count, thank you." She was sorting through the shoes. "As I said, I want to be sure they're mine. The last thing I want is to have to come back later and fight with you about giving me the wrong shoes."

"Whatever," he said, shrugging in my direction.

"I think these are all mine. You put new heals on these, right?" She showed him his handiwork. He nodded. "And tips on these?" He nodded again, smiling. "And what about these? Weren't you supposed to replace the full soles?"

"Not those," he said, taking the shoes from her. "But these. As you can see, these have new soles."

"How much?"

"Please?"

"How much do I owe you? For everything?"

"I think I have the bill in one of these." He began again to look into each of the bags in the pile. "Here it is. All together, it comes to, let me see, $276. Tax included."

"You charge tax for polishing shoes?"

"Just for the materials. For the heels and soles."

She snorted and muttered with some disgust, "Taxes, taxes. What'll they think to tax next? The air?"

"In some cases it wouldn't be such a bad idea," I said under my breath.

"You take checks?"

"Cash is preferred, but a check from you is OK."

"All these people love cash," she said to no one in particular.

She flipped the check in his direction, scooped up the shoes--which he had consolidated into three large shopping bags--and stomped toward the door, allowing one of the overstuffed bags to bang into a woman and small child who were trying to negotiate the tight space and approach the counter.

"Excuse me too," the childcare woman said to the back of the departing customer. "I guess time is money."

"Not to her," I couldn't help myself from saying. "In her case money is money."

"I get yuh," the new woman said with a knowing smile. Rona in the meantime was attempting to engage the little boy who appeared to be about three years old.

"Can you fix the chain on this pocketbook?" she asked the repairman.

"Let me take a look." He bent to get a closer look. "No problem. None at all."

The boy was fiddling with a stack of innersoles. Rona asked, "Do you know what they're for?" He smiled shyly. "You're too young to need them. When you get to be his age," she gestured toward me, "then maybe you'll need them." He continued to take the foam inserts out of the packages and stole a quick glance in my direction.

"How much you say this costs?" The caregiver seemed outraged.

"Twenty dollars," he said.

"I paid only twenty-five for that old thing."

He shrugged apologetically. "What you gonna do," she sighed, resigned. "Everything here costs so much. It's a wonder anybody can live in this place. Mercy." I thought about the woman with the 14 pairs of shoes.

"Now leave that nice lady alone," she said to the child. "Don't you see she's reading her magazine?" At its mention, Rona slipped Curves out of sight, not wanting the child to see any of the pictures.

"It's OK," she said, "He's not bothering me. Are you?" she turned to him. "He's adorable. How old are you?" Not looking at her he held up three fingers. "My, you're big for three."

"You should see the mother," the nanny said under her breath, to illustrate, raising her arm to at least six inches over her head. He moved toward her and hugged her leg, burying his face in her coat. "He gets like that sometimes. Clingy. Whenever I mention his m-o-t-h-e-r. To tell you the truth, he misses her. 'Specially mornings."

"I can understand that," Rona said. "It isn't easy juggling so many things."

"To tell you the truth, though it's what I do, it wouldn't be my choice."

"Choice?"

"This." She pointed down at him. He continued to cling to her thigh. "Is this really the best way? I mean."

"Wouldn't be the way I'd do it," Rona said. "But I can understand. As you said about your pocketbook, things here are really expensive."

"I know I'm talking myself out of a job I need, but . . . ," she trailed off.

She left after leaving her bag, saying she'd be back in an hour to pick it up. "Glory be, twenty dollars."

Even though the weather was unseasonably mild, all the way home I wore my father's gloves.

November 5, 2013--Size Matters: Concluded . . .

We found ourselves last week in Renys general store. Rona looking for cold-weather socks, me, out of life-long habit, wandering aimlessly among their stacks of men's shoes.

Maybe, I thought, I have a shoe, not a foot problem. But Renys stocks mainly shoes for carpenters and roofers, contractors and construction workers, not anything I would feel comfortable--socially comfortable--wearing back in New York City,  especially downtown in Soho.

"These's don't look that bad," I said to no one in particular. There were a pair of normal-looking Nunn Bush shoes on display atop a stack of shoeboxes. "A little clunky, but of the type that at least look that they won't cause any additional pain." Maybe, I thought, I should try them on.

"Thirteens, thirteens. I can't seem to find any." They had 9s and 10s, 11s and 14s, but no 13s. "Oh well," I said, again talking to myself, "business as usual."

"Oh well, what?" Rona had joined me, clutching a half dozen pairs of Earthworks socks.

"It looks as if one of us did well." I was full of attitude when it came to anything involving shoes and feet.

"I love them. They're expensive, but Renys' prices make them affordable. But what about you? You seem to have found some shoes to try on. The ones you wear all the time are ready to be dumped."

"I agree, but before I do that I have to find replacements. And for me, that's impossible. Timberland, of course, doesn't make my model any more.  I knew I should have bought six pair. But these, which sort of look OK, don't come in 13s. I mean Renys doesn't have any in that size."

"Why not try the 14s then? One never knows. Their 14s may be similar in size to Timberlands' 13s."

I was dispirited, moping around. If there is anything I hate these days it's thinking about my feet.

"Try them," Rona was attempting to be encouraging--she knew all about my shoe-feet phobias. "What have you got to lose?"

"They're so big they'll make me look like Clarabell the clown." Here I was again assigning myself to the circus. But, in spite of feeling grumpy, I pulled the box of 14s from the bottom of the stack and tried the first one on.

"To tell you the truth," I said with surprise, "it actually feels good."

"Try the other one too," Rona said, "And be sure to walk around in them for at least ten minutes. On the tiled floor too. Not just where it's carpeted."

Which I proceeded to do. Up and down, back and forth, up steps and down, I wandered all over the store. And then returned to Rona who was sitting, self-absorbed, on the bench stroking her new Earthworks. She looked up. "So what's the verdict?"

"Believe it or not they feel great and, even more amazing," I was genuinely excited about shoes, "if you can imagine, my feet, which have been killing me for years, don't seem to hurt at all. Could it be that . . ."

"Yes it could. That you've been wearing the wrong size shoes. Thirteens are too small for you. You've become a 14."

"How could that be? I'm not getting bigger," Rona restrained herself from having some fun at my expense, "In fact, I'm getting smaller."

"Indeed." That she couldn't resist.

Ignoring her I continued, "I used to be 6-5 but now I'm only 6-3. I'm shrinking, not getting bigger."

"You could stand to lose five pounds."

"That's not what I'm talking about." Though Rona is in fact right--I have been overdoing the desserts.

"But you know that as you age you're feet can get bigger. Actually, do get bigger." And she repeated, "You used to be a 13, but now you're apparently a 14."

So I bought the shoes (they were originally $110 but at Renys only $54) and have been wearing them day and night. All my foot problems have been miraculously resolved. In truth, most of them. And I am not using any Dr. Scholls' prosthetics. Just the new shoes and sensible socks.

There is, however, one problem--just as 13s were almost nonexistent back when I was an overgrown adolescent, 14s are now equally hard to come by. To cover myself, I got Renys to find a second pair so I can warehouse them. I'm gentle on shoes and these two pair should last me at least five years. I wish Renys had four more. Then I'd be set for life.

On the other hand I'm not sure I'll last five more years, much less longer; but at least when it comes to shoes, I'm in good shape. Any shoes left over, can be part of my estate.

While looking at my new shoes yesterday morning, Rona said, half to herself, "I think they'll be OK in the City. But maybe . . ."

I cut her off before she could complete her thought, "I think they're cool. So I, I mean we should be fine."

"You'll be fine," she corrected me.

November 4, 2013--Size Matters: Part 1

If you do not insist upon details, I will share a story about one of the few things that gets bigger with age.

First, some background--

I grew very tall very fast. I was at least 6-5 by the time I was 12. That was scary. If I kept growing until the typical time when boys stop, I calculated that I could get to be 7 feet tall.

My parents were worried I would become the butt of schoolyard jokes. They had cause to be concerned--there were quite a few nicknames in circulation about me, none of them flattering. "Beanpole" was the most benign. The others, I prefer not to recall.

One night I overheard my parents talking worriedly about my height.

Always not politically correct, my father said, "He's turning into a freak."

"No he's not," my mother said--she always tried to find ways to temper his frustrations, "He's just a little big for his age."

"A little big," he mocked, "Soon we'll be able to sign him up for the circus."

She was familiar with being disregarded, "The doctor said," attempting to change the subject, "we should Xray his wrists and feet to see how much growing room there is. That will give an indication of how much taller he'll get."

"So take him to the shoe store on Church Avenue. They have a machine there where you can Xray his feet. They use it to see if shoes fit. But you can just go in for the Xray."

And with that in mind my mother took me to the Treadeasy to Xray my feet.

Everything looked normal to me--I didn't see any big gaps between the feet bones, which suggested that there wasn't that much growing room left. Maybe, I thought, I'll stop growing soon and use my height to advantage when playing basketball. The only problem was that I was uncoordinated and had such big feet that when running up and down the court I kept tripping on myself.

But I did make a ritual of going to the Treadeasy store every Friday after school to Xray my feet. It's a miracle I didn't give myself radiation poisoning or cancer of the instep.

While there I pretended to be shopping for shoes. But in my size, 13, they had virtually nothing. Just an occasional pair of black Oxfords that to me looked like shoes for old men.

"Maybe," Morty the salesman said, "when you're older there'll be more people your height and size and you'll have more of a selection. In America, everyone is getting taller. Even girls."

"In the meantime," I said, "I'm doomed to walk around looking like I'm a 90-year-old immigrant."

But over time, what Morty prophesied turned out to be true. With so many very tall men around--6-5 nowadays is no big deal--for at least 15 years I have had no trouble finding shoes in my size. Even in Europe. Even occasionally shoes that actually look cool.

But in recent times my feet have begun to trouble me.

I hate going to podiatrists and thought I would either on my own figure out what the problem was and see if there were any Dr. Scholls' products available to ease my pain or, like other symptoms of aging, I would accept aching feet as part of my lot in life.

I tried Dr. Schools Orthotic Inserts (no help); Ball-of-Feet Cushions (no relief); Sport Replacement Insoles (worthless); Bunion Cushions (made things marginally better); and Molefoam Padding (about as helpful as Bunion Cushions). I even tired the good doctor's products in combination--I adhered Bunion Cushions to the soles of my feet and also inserted Molefoam Padding in my shoes.

But still I hobbled around. Now, with so much Dr. Scholls' product on my feet and stuffed into my shoes that they no longer fit and this made matters even worse.

Thus plagued, we found ourselves last week in Renys. Rona looking for cold-weather socks, me, out of habit, wandering aimlessly among their stacks of men's shoes. Maybe, I thought, I have a shoe, not a foot problem. But Renys stocks mainly shoes for carpenters and roofers, contractors and construction workers, not anything I would feel comfortable--socially comfortable--wearing back in New York City,  especially downtown in Soho.

To be completed tomorrow . . .