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Rags & Italian Shoes Jon Nicholas
Rags & Italian Shoes Jon Nicholas
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When I saw George Lowell meet Kathy Wyeth, I knew there
was no chance she'd ever want to go out with someone like him. I used to work
with Kathy a few years ago and believe me, she's picky. I hadn't spoken with
her since I left that job, but I never expected her to be friendly with someone
like me anyway. I'm just not in her league. That reminds me, I had a girlfriend
named Kathy when I was a senior in high school. I broke up with her after two
dates, though. She just kept talking and talking all the time. Drove me nuts.
Anyway, George met the lovely Miss Wyeth in Hal's Cafe. If you've never been in
Hal's, you're really missing out on some great food. It's located on the ground
floor of the 40-story Scheaffer Building, which makes it the perfect place for
a quick bite or a cup of coffee if you happen to work for one of the many
companies renting office space there. George and I work for Kinder & Kinder
on the 27th floor. It's an ad agency. They're the ones who came up with that
space-chimp TV commercial about five years ago. That was before we worked
there. You know, the one where the chimpanzee discovers that bananas are
actually alien beings but he eats them anyway. That ad campaign put them on the
map and they've been struggling to stay on that map ever since. I keep asking
George when he's going to create that next big ad campaign, and he never has an
answer. He actually has to come up with ideas and present them to Mr.
Wexellman, the head honcho. I'm just one of the artists. They throw an idea at
me and it's my job to make it come to life. Yeah, it's a pressure job at times,
but much better than trying to make it as a freelance artist. Talk about your
roller coaster ride. I'll pass.
Now, I've been a regular at Hal's for a
few years, but George is a relative newcomer. He fits right in though. As
a bonafide geek, he kind of blends naturally into the mix of unusual characters
that frequent the place. Speaking of unusual characters, there's this one guy I
call Mr. Stick. He carries a cane, but that's not why I call him that; he's so
thin, he looks like a stickman. I try to imagine what his diet must be like. I
also fantasize about tackling him, holding him down, and stuffing a Big Mac
down his throat. "Eat! Eat something, you son-of-a-bitch!"
Speaking of
eating, George was eating nachos the day Kathy Wyeth introduced herself. You
know, nachos just aren't very romantic. Think about it. I mean, have you ever
seen a movie where the couple falls in love while dipping tortilla chips in
cheese sauce? Too messy. Too cheap. Just not quite right for love. I hardly
ever eat nachos. I think the last time I ate them was the day I broke it off
with that girl Kathy in high school. Did I mention she had red hair? Yep. She
sure did. Mom always told me to steer clear of the redheads. Strangely enough
though, my mother always dyed her hair red. I asked her why one time and she
said because people think blondes are stupid. Then I asked her what people
thought of redheads and she just smiled and changed the subject. I asked Kathy
the same question. I mean, she was a true redhead so she should know, right?
She just slapped me.
"That looks good." That's what Kathy Wyeth
said to Georgie about his nachos. I call him Georgie sometimes. Helps me to
keep things in perspective. Anytime you're feeling insignificant, just start
calling people by their little-kid names. Works like a charm. Anyway, Georgie
was minding his own business, scooping up globs of imitation cheese goo when
she approached him. He had cheese smeared all over his right cheek and it made
his little-kid name seem perfect. I like the way food can change a person's
entire look. Take Hatcher for example. Hatcher is this guy who runs a mortgage
company up on the 34th floor. He stops in at Hal's every morning, buys a large
coffee, a long john, and reads The New York Times. Always tips the girl behind
the counter even though a sign says no tips. He's filthy rich and loves every
penny of it. He likes to take hot chicks out on dates all the time,
then tell me all about it. I don't call them hot chicks by the way,
that's what he chooses to call them. I think hot chick is about the
lamest thing to call a woman. The last time I used that term was with Kathy in
high school, so that tells you a lot right there. Anyway, he's got this really
hot chick and they're eating at Giovanis down on Fifth Street, right? I
just happened to be there with my mother. It was her birthday. I am so glad
birthdays are only once a year. She always wants to go to Giovani's. Says it's
the only true Italian restaurant in town. I know why she really wants me to
take her there though. It's Mr. Giovani himself. He's her idea of the perfect
man. Wealthy, respectable, handsome, and available. If there's one thing that
upsets my stomach, it's watching my mother flirt. Why should any son ever have
to endure this kind of thing? Well, anyway, Hatcher gets to eating this lasagna
or some kind of Italian stuff, and a big old flat, wet noodle is draped across
his beard. The hot chick doesn't see it because she's too busy looking around
the room, trying to find somebody she knows so she can show off. The waiter
walks up to their table and presents him with this bottle of wine. Oh yeah, and
I don't get it with the wine. Why do waiters insist you read the label before
they open the bottle? Do they think it's good reading material or something?
Have you ever noticed that they don't really give you enough time to read it
anyway? Id like to just grab it sometime and sit there and read the whole
label, front and back, maybe pull out my pocket-dictionary and check a few
words to be sure I'm understanding everything perfectly, then hand it back and
say, "You know, that label really sucked ass. Bring me something better." So
anyway, the waiter sees the big old noodle and makes this little motion with
his hand like he was wiping off his chin, but Hatcher isn't paying any
attention. No, he's blabbing about his new Beamer and how it's only one of 23
specially built Beamers designed by some fashion guru in Germany. German
fashion, by the way, is a subject worth talking about. To Germans, it seems the
word fashion means boring. The more boring, the more fashionable. I
could make it big as a fashion designer in Germany. You could make it big as a
fashion designer in Germany. Hatcher could make it
nah, not Hatcher. So,
the waiter gives up trying to get his attention and just goes about his
business opening the bottle of wine. There he was. Good old Hatcher, just
blabbing away with that huge noodle parked right there on his chin. His hot
chick finally saw it and started to make these awful faces. I think she was
grossing out. She left the table and didn't come back. Across the room, I was
laughing hard. At least until my mother punched me in the arm. She has this
uncanny ability to find that spot. You know, the one that makes you want to
scream, but you can't because it was just a little bitty punch, and it
certainly couldn't have hurt that bad.
Yeah, food can really take you
down a few notches, and here was Georgie looking like an idiot with that cheese
crap all over his face. To be honest, good old George always looked like an
idiot anyway. His eyes just had that glassy, vacant thing going on. I've often
wondered what it must have been like the day he had his job interview with Mr.
Wexellman. What could have been going through Wexellmans mind? "Hmm. This
guy looks like a complete idiot. A bafoon if I ever saw one. But those are
swell shoes he's wearing. Maybe Ill give him the new position opening up
in our Concepts department. Yes. That's what Ill do." Life's weird that
way. Idiots get some of the best jobs in the world.
When Kathy spoke,
he dropped his little nacho tray and most of it landed on her shoes. Together
they cleaned it up and she sat down next to him. I know he was nervous because
his lip kept quivering. He'd been watching her for months though. He thought he
was being clever by peeking over his magazine each day, but I think she was on
to him right from the start. She's a smart lady. Reminds me of Kathy in high
school. I never could get anything past her. That was one of the reasons I
broke it off with her. That and the talking thing. You never really get to know
someone who continually flaps their gums. Kinda works backwards if you think
about it. Yeah, she was smart enough to know that the guy reading Vogue
magazine was eyeing her. Actually, it was George's choice of reading material
that intrigued her. Every day he'd have a different magazine. It might be Cat
Fancy one day and then Cosmopolitan the next. Good Housekeeping, Vanity Fair,
The New Yorker, every day it was something else. She'd never known a person to
have such a wide range of interests. The funny thing about it was that Georgie
was only checking out the advertisements in all those magazines, looking for
ideas and angles he might be able to use at Kinder & Kinder. Once a day all
the department heads would meet in the room they called the Garden. I used to
get a kick out of watching them through the glass. Wexellman sat at the end of
a long table and waited while each department presented its latest ad ideas.
Oh, by the way, Wexie didn't know they called his meeting room the Garden. It
got that nickname because he was known to treat his subordinates like little
children, chastising them when they failed to impress him with their ideas.
Kinder-garden. Get it? Anyway, Georgie was really pulling it off well at Kinder
& Kinder because he figured out a way to snooker old Wexellman. Every
single day, George had yet another good ad concept. He was spitting them out
like a machine. Word of his genius had even gotten back to Herman Kinder, III.
George didn't even know his name was at the top of the list for Wexies
successor. I found that out from the old man's secretary, Valerie. She was a
knockout, by the way. She was really looped at an office party and I got her to
tell me a lot of things about Wexie. The good stuff, you know? He'd die if he
ever found out I knew about his leather fetish. Anyway, she told me the old man
was planning to retire soon, and he was thrilled to have such a "go-getter"
like George Lowell to take the reins. Funny thing was, George didn't really
have any special abilities when it came to advertising. He just made it a point
to stop by Barnes & Noble every day to buy a magazine. I think he just
started at the far left side of the first periodicals rack and had been working
his way slowly through every single rag in the store. Oh yeah, that's what they
call magazines in the ad biz. Rags. So, he'd look at the ads in his
rag-of-the-day, find one he thought was clever, and just modify it ever so
slightly. Once at work, he'd throw the concept at us staff artists who would
quickly draw it up and voila! Yet another Lowell ad, ready to be consumed and
digested by Wexellman. It took me a while to figure out Georgie's little game,
but he started leaving his rags on the counter at Hal's. It didn't take me long
to find the ads he'd been "borrowing" from. The irony was at its fullest though
when it was all those different magazines that attracted the beautiful Miss
Kathy Wyeth to this homely little fraud with cheese on his cheek.
Well,
I suppose I should tell you Miss Wyeth was attracted to Georgie in one other
way. She also had a thing for men who wore expensive shoes. Now, the story
behind George's shoes only makes things that much more interesting and I would
never have known what I'm about to tell you if it hadn't been for a chance
meeting with George's uncle, Lee. The details behind how I met him are boring
but the story he shared with me is priceless. You see, George has never cared
about what brand of shoes he wears. Not in the least. It's his mother. Well,
actually, it's his mother's ability to make shoe store managers do strange
things. Come to think of it, my mother had a certain effect on shoe store
managers too. The ones that knew her would hide when they heard her piercing
voice making its way through the aisles. "Oh myyyy! I just cannot believe they
charge these prices! This is ridiculous! And look at these shoes! They're put
together like shit! No wonder they look like shit! You don't expect my boy to
wear shit to school, do you? Where's the manager!" Now, Georgie's situation on
the other hand, was just peachy. You see, his mother, Sadie, had always needed
custom made shoes on account of a genetic lump that runs in her family on her
mother's side. The lump protrudes on the top of her left foot and makes it
impossible to buy regular shoes. Since she frequented all the stores that make
their own shoes, she had the chance build up a certain rapport with some of the
store managers. Now, stay with me on this. Custom made shoes are very
expensive. Georgie's mother was a waitress at the Parkway diner. Parkway didn't
pay very well, right? But Georgie's mother knew how to make things happen when
it came to lonely shoe store managers. She was the only customer that got to
"go behind the curtain" to help find "the right style." Well, she was obviously
very handy behind that curtain because the shoe store manager always seemed to
find a surplus pair of hand made leather shoes that just happened to
accommodate her lump, and sometimes, on those evenings when business was
especially slow, she'd come away with a surplus pair of Italian dress shoes for
her son, the advertising genius. At least, that's what his uncle Lee told me.
Apparently, George had never been without expensive shoes in his life. His
mother just wouldn't have it any other way. Wouldn't you know it that Kathy
Wyeth had a thing for expensive shoes too? The world is a funny place.
Not to drive the shoe thing into the ground, but you should know that,
according to Valerie, those Italian wonders really were the final tip of the
scale that made old Wexellman hire George. "Shoes like that never wind up on
idiots," he'd said to her. "It just doesn't happen." Now, Id never owned
a pair of shoes that would make someone think I was special. Kathy from high
school used to complain about my sneakers. That was before we dated those
couple of times. After I broke it off with her, she complained about other
things. Not my sneakers.
I watched as Miss Wyeth took a napkin and
wiped Georgie's cheek clean. There's something intimate about that sort of
thing. You'd never catch a beautiful woman walking up to some bum on the street
and wiping food off his face, but here it was. Take Georgie's Italian wonders
away, replace them with my old sneakers from high school, then take his
Yachting Today magazine and swap it with a bottle wrapped in a paper bag, and
that's exactly what you had. A drop-dead gorgeous blonde, wiping food off the
face of a bum. And enjoying it! You know, it wouldn't be so bad if the little
turd actually understood the scope of the situation. His lip kept on quivering.
Jeez. He had her wrapped around his slimy finger. She was putty in his hands.
He could have invited her to his place for some serious fun if he had half a
brain. No, Mr. Lowell, advertising-wizard-shoe-wearing extraordinaire just
smiled nervously until she had to go. Kathy gave one of those little looks
before she left George. You know what I'm talking about. Any normal red-blooded
American male would have read the signal. It was the "you can have me if you
want me" look. The one us guys always dream about. The defining moment when,
after flipping her hair around, she looks you right in the eye with a level of
resolve that cannot be denied. It sends a jolt of electricity right through
your groin and if you're not careful, you'll do something really stupid like
slobber on yourself. God I love that moment. When Kathy from high school shot
me that look, I walked into a locker door. I had to go to the school nurse for
a while until the bleeding stopped. Oh man. Nurse Gaines. Now, there was a real
woman. The white uniform dress she wore would be outlawed in schools today. Her
breasts just weren't small enough to fit down inside that thing. I think when
they designed school nurse uniforms in those days, they just assumed, for some
reason, that they'd all be flat-chested. Nurse Gaines was built like a brick
house. All the women teachers hated her and all the men drooled over her. The
nice thing was, I was prone to bloody noses. There was a god. She and I spent a
lot of time together. It got to the point where she would confide in me about
her relationship problems. I'm serious. I actually got to hear all about her
boyfriends and how all they were interested in was getting some. I just played
along like I was on her side. All the while I was imagining myself on her side,
on her front, on her back, getting some.
So George got the look.
Wouldn't you know it but he didn't seem to get it. How can a man that dense get
so many breaks in life? And there she was sitting beside him the very next day.
He was still off in la-la-land and so she popped the magic question for him.
Can you believe that? She actually asked this guy out on a date! Damn Italian
shoes. He was "reading" Popular Science and she just rattled it off like it was
no big thing. "Hey, why don't you take me out for dinner tonight?" If I had
been drinking my coffee at that moment, I would have spewed it all over myself.
That reminds me. Tenth grade, Mr. Wellss science class. Oh boy was that a
gas of a class. One day, Trina Johnson filled her mouth with cherry Kool-Aid
and held it there for the first 15 minutes of class. When it was her turn to go
up to the front to give a presentation, she faked like she ran into Mr.
Wellss pointer stick which he always carried around and smacked people's
heads who fell asleep. Well, when she faked the collision, she let all that
cherry Kool-Aid come splurting out like a fountain. Mr. Wells thought she had
punctured an artery or something and ran screaming down the halls for help. By
the time he returned with Nurse Gaines, there was no evidence of anything. No
"blood," no nothing. Nurse Gaines winked at me as she left. The next time she
tended my bloody nose, she pulled my arm behind my back and made me tell her
what had happened to make poor old Mr. Wells run the halls screaming. That was
one time it felt wonderful to have my arm pulled behind my back.
So,
Blondie got George to take her out to dinner. I overheard her picking out the
restaurant and everything. I wasn't sure why she was making it so easy for him.
I mean, every woman I've ever dated insisted I make the restaurant decision. I
always saw it as a test. Inside her mind there was this point system and every
restaurant within a fifty-mile radius had a certain value. All the women kept
score and compared with each other. If there was a wine list though, you were
always okay. That was a sure thing. If you took her to one that didn't have a
wine list, you'd better at least ask for one and then be agitated when they
inform you that only serve beer. Speaking of beer, I have this problem. Beer
makes me burp something awful. I learned not to drink beer on a first date when
I took Kathy from high school to that football game. Man did I burp. I even
burped during our good night kiss. Now that's pretty bad. It reminded me of the
first girl I kissed in eighth grade. July Fraley. She wore braces. After lunch
one day, we found a deserted stairwell and got into some serious French
kissing. She had just eaten spaghetti and there were still quite a few chunks
of it stuck in all those little crevasses. She was doing fine but I started to
gross out. I could tell she was ready to make this one of the longer kisses in
our relationship. You know, like she was going to take us to new heights as a
couple. But, man those spices and the little pieces of food made me start to
heave. It was just so gross, and when I caught myself short of vomiting, she
backed away and got all mad at me. "What! What was that?" I didn't know what to
say so I just said I wasn't feeling too well. God how gross. That was the last
time we ever kissed. That was also the last time I ever dated a girl with
braces. I was worried I would have a relapse if I ever kissed another girl with
braces, no matter how clean they were. I mean, wouldn't you be thinking about
that moment every time you kissed?
When Kathy got up from the table,
she did something that caught me by surprise. It was so unbelievable that I
thought I was imagining it. She actually licked her lips at him. Damn. Damn
those Italian shoes! I couldn't get to sleep that night imagining her falling
all over Mr. Advertisement, offering herself to him in any way he so desired. I
found myself looking at a shoe catalog and figuring out if I could afford
anything from Italy or some other Mediterranean country. Greece? Spain? Don't
they make shoes too? What is it with the Italians anyway? Will somebody tell me
why the Italians are so good at making shoes? I found one pair that went for
350 bucks. Cheapest pair in the book. Jeez. Where's my mother when I need her
to seduce a shoe store manager? Okay. I wish I hadn't said that. God what a
visual. Anyway, I decided I could swing for one pair of genuine Italian leather
shoes. Id just have to give up a few luxuries for a while like buying
Penthouses and Wild Turkey 101. Start buying store brand colas. It was going to
be tough but I was ready to make the commitment. I dialed the number on the
back of the catalog and gave away my 16 precious little credit card numbers. It
always feels strange calling out those numbers. It's like giving away an
important body part, or something. Anyway, the order was placed and a lady with
an Italian accent thanked me. I got some sleep after that.
Days went by
and the Kathy-Georgie monster was getting healthier and more disgusting as it
was obvious she was giving him reasons to wake up with a smile. One day I had a
sandwich I was about to eat and I noticed Georgie had his hand in Kathy's
crotch. Losing my appetite, I tossed it to Mr. Stick who happened to be nearby.
He said thanks and proceeded to open it and remove all the extras. He took off
the lettuce, the tomatoes, even the damn cheese, until it was just meat and
bread. He ate three bites and threw it away. Damn him. Oh to have had that Big
Mac right there and then! Down the hatch, buddy! Doooooown the hatch!
When my package arrived, there seemed to be a sudden change in the air.
I don't know how to describe it, really. Things just started looking up. Those
shoes fit like gloves. That analogy doesn't seem right, does it? Anyway, when I
dressed that morning, the shoes didn't go with my usual outfit of jeans and a
golf shirt, so I had to reach back into the dark recesses of my closet. That
sector was sort of like upper Siberia. Nobody ventured into that place without
a good reason. It was the land of the forgotten. By the time I had pulled
everything out, I had gone down several memory lanes. There was my three-piece
suit from when I graduated from college. Five sweaters with coordinated slacks
my mother had given me over five consecutive Christmases. The tags were all
still in place. And enough dress shirts and ties to keep me guessing for years
on which ones were supposed to go with which. I had no idea Siberia had so much
to offer.
Now, I don't know how those Italians do it, but my new shoes
seemed to go with everything that had a price tag of more than 50 dollars.
Amazing. I left my apartment looking like a million bucks. Okay, maybe
five-hundred. I got looks from several women on the way to the station. Hello,
Italian Stallion! The next week proved to be a revelation as more and more
doors seemed to open for me. Should I have been so receptive? I mean, isn't it
pretty shallow that clothes can make such a difference? It felt like I was
cheating. Would the "Rich Police" catch me, strip me down, and haul me off to a
JC Penney dumpster?
The highlight of my first two weeks of dressing up
was the day George Lowell was too sick to go to work. Kathy Wyeth sat down
right next to me at the counter at Hal's and asked how things were going. I put
down my copy of Smithsonian and smiled. "Rather well, Miss Wyeth, rather well."
I brushed a little dust off my fine Italian shoes and I could have sworn she
started breathing heavier
End.
Copyright © 2001
Jon Nicholas |
Copyright © 2001 Jon Nicholas
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com" |
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