Confessions of a Shoe Lover

                                                     by Connie Pacis

When I remember how a pair of shoes can bring two people helplessly into love, it makes me want to write the recipe for a can of real love.

I met Roger in a very unlikely place—a secondhand store where my friend and I were admiring a pair of ladies shoes for sale. They were patent leather, sling type, and the name brand was familiar to me as a good and reliable one. However, I was not really looking for shoes at the moment.

My friend and I were just killing time. We’d brought some leftovers: some odds and ends of chips and cookies to feed the seagulls at the waterfront. We thought, the birds need some special treat since it’s almost Christmas and wouldn’t it be nice to give them something different.

My friend and I have been doing this for a while now—going to Edmonds waterfront to get some fresh air and exercise, and to feed the birds. And if we have more time, we stop by the secondhand store to see if we can find some things to buy that we don’t need. J The only reason we don’t buy the bigger items is that we know we don’t have any space left to put them. But… whatever, my friend and I have the luxury of having time, more time to have those what they call “senior moments.”

Now, getting back to the pair of shoes. As we were lost in time, figuring out whether we should buy or not, this man materializes beside me. “I’ll buy them for you, if you like them,” he said. My reaction was zero. I’ve learned not to shoot when I’m not sure. However, I was thinking, who is this joker? Where did he come from? Who is he?

I have a private code of my own that told me I should not refuse a gift when the giver is sincere. A gift is a blessing. Whether you like it or not, accept with grace and say, thank you. While processing all these thoughts, I didn’t say a word.

“Well,” said this guy, “Do you like them or not?”

My friend provided the answer. “Yes, Connie. They’re your size. They’re good for you.”

With that, this guy picked up the shoes and walked to the cashier and we followed. The pair cost eight dollars and again, I thought to myself, eight dollars will not make him poor.

He handed me the shoes saying, “I have nobody to give Christmas to. You are it.”

Finally, I found my voice. “Do you have a name? I’d like to have your phone number.” He found a piece of paper, wrote his name and phone number. I did likewise—and thanked him. And just as he had materialized before, he disappeared! Like a vapor. How weird. Now that I can talk and would like to have more questions, he was gone! Well, that was that and I didn’t even know his name at that point.

Christmas Eve came and I remembered I needed to pay in kind the generosity of this man I knew nothing about. My family has a holiday tradition—making this special cookie called pizzelle. It’s an Italian Wedding cookie made of butter, sugar, eggs, flour, vanilla, and baking powder. It takes a whole day to make enough for a wedding party. Thus, it’s made only for special occasions. My family starts making it at Thanksgiving time.

 I dialed the number the generous man had given me and he answered, “Is this Connie?”

I was startled that he knew my name. I replied, “Are you Roger Wilson?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I called your number and the person who answered said, “There is no one here by that name. I’m glad you called. Give me your number again.”

I did and continued, “I have a can of cookies for you, but I don’t know where you live. And I don’t drive.”

“I’ll come and get it,” he offered. Great, I thought. I barely had time to give him my address and he hung up.

He came and lingered for a couple of minutes and left. And that could have been the end of Roger. But—the following Saturday the Sea Hawks were scheduled to play against Green Bay. It was a big day. My family filed out, saying goodbye to me, leaving me alone to see the game.

Well, I thought, what do you expect? Your family cannot yell or swear or whatever else, when you are around. They want to be free—to be themselves. That’s what happens when you are too old to be young. The family just leaves you behind.

I’m still in control of myself, and surely, I thought, I can do something.  I refuse to be lonely. Aha, there is Roger! Why don’t you give it a try?  God was talking to me. But I barely know him, I answered. So what? said the “Voice.” Does he have to be Patton, or Bill Gates, or Russell Wilson? Silly, go on and talk to him.

I did. Roger said, “Thank you. I’ll be right over.”

The game was so exciting, I didn’t notice anything else. Halfway through, though, I noticed that Roger had the swivel chair turned facing me from across the room, not the television!

“Did you see that? Weren’t you watching?” I asked excitedly.

“No,” he said. “I don’t care much for football.”

I was silent momentarily. If he wasn’t watching the game, what was he doing?

After a long silence, Roger said, “May I sit beside you?” Again, this “Girl from Ipanema” has lots of questions to answer. Too bad. The game was on and I don’t have the answers.

“Sure,” I said. I was sitting on a big couch that seemed bare and lonely. He sat beside me, very quietly, very properly, and I was comfortable again.

But, I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even drink my coffee. I wanted to say, “There’s a fee for holding my hand that long.” But I didn’t. I only know his name. How can I make a joke? He must have known what he wanted to do if he sat beside me, and he was alone in his world as he held onto my hand…until the Seahawks won!

He reached for my hand without a word.

The rest, hereafter, is a complete blur.