Bathroom Shoes

During the day, it's Bostonian, Brooks, Clarks, Sketchers, Diesel and Kenneth Cole. But at night, it's Nike, Adidas, Reebok, Converse and K-Swiss. That's right, I'm talking about shoes. They come in all shapes, forms, sizes and materials. I should know, I sold womens' shoes before at Kaufmann's and then Macy's… and then Macy's again. I bore witness to the intimidating phenomenon that entrances women every day. I knew what it was to have women lined up at the door to the stockroom with a sourpuss on their face because I was the only person working that night and they just had to have their shoes "RIGHT NOW". I saw the thousand dollar purchases and early morning sales that brought hundreds of people to the store's entrance. I know shoes. This is why I know that this man's pigeon toed loafers were recently involved in aromatic abuse at the behest of its owner.

I don't know why or when it started but I realized that I, for some reason, I take note of the shoes on a man that is sitting in a bathroom stall. Whether I am occupying the adjacent stall, I'm his neighbor a few stalls down, or not even in a stall at all but washing my hands or face or using the urinal… I notice. But it doesn't stop there, as it should (Maybe it should never start but I'm already way past mending my ways at this point, it's ingrained). I don't just note the shoes. I store them and then look for them throughout the day or night. I look for my bathroom companions. It's like a special bond of sorts. We have all united here today to take part in urinating or defecating or defecating, then urinating or urinating, defecating and urinating again, whatever your pleasure. We have all united here today to emit substances from our body.

It's like I'm a part of a team. I notice the same shoes every time I'm on the same schedule as them. I know that the Black Bostonians with the wing tip arrives at approximately ¼ after nine, probably just after he's had his breakfast and coffee, or maybe just after his long commute in. I know that the all white Jordan's with the red black and white confetti on the heel will come rushing in at about midnight if I'm working the night shift. And I know this because I'm usually there waiting for him. Sometimes I wish they noticed too, so I could give them a high five, tell them I'm glad they showed up today. Tell them we need them in there, the cleansing agents battling back my assault, the team needs their pungent ass to wreak havoc and get us back in the game.

But it doesn't happen. It never will. Sometimes I see these people, my teammates, out in the halls. I may be grabbing a bagel from the café upstairs or I might just be walking out to my car to grab something, but I'll see their shoes and I'll let them know that I notice. I'll say something to the essence of "Hey, nice shoes", or "I like your shoes" and give them a kind of a wink, not like a gay wink, but kind of an "attaboy". Just to let them know, that I know. Just to tell them "I'm there with ya. We're kin."