Yours Truly 2017 / Cascadia College / Bothell, WA 2017 YT Online Book | Page 25

Souls of Their Shoes
Rhea Abbott

There are many ideas out there about
the measure of a man, but mine is the only one I
know of that involves shoes. Sure, there is a lot to
know about him by his demeanor, the use of his
wealth, or how he treats those less fortunate. But
the shoes tell a more subtle story, for he is aware
he will be evaluated by those other measures,
and it does not occur to him he may be judged
by his shoes; they are a more true glimpse of
him than his reputation or handshake. The shoes
will give you as intimate a clue to his person as
if his wife had let something slip after too many
cocktails.

So of course I pay a lot of attention to
shoes, and I most often walk with my head bowed
low, scanning the soles (and thus, the souls) I
pass on the sidewalk. Working, as I do, on the
Accounting block of the Business District, most
of the shoes I see are polished black leather with
hard heels. There are the occasional feminine
pumps with conservative low heels housing a
thick-stockinged foot, and on lucky days maybe
even a pair of red stilettos. But for the most part,
the feet I see tell a sterile story — the men I pass
are a well-bred herd; quotas and deadlines mark
the tempo of their lives. My shoes are leather too
but old, brown, scuffed. The laces are loose and
have been replaced a few times; inside you’ll find
a perfect impression of each foot and the cracks
are filled in white with talcum powder.

While other accountants work through
lunch or only make it down to the corner for
a hotdog from the stand, I always take my
paper sack 4 blocks south and 2 blocks east, to
the St. Madeline Cemetery. Most folks would
think it inappropriate or eerie to have a picnic
in a cemetery, but (as you may have guessed
from my shoe-watching hobby) I don’t like
people much and the cemetery is a divinely
private sanctuary where I can finally lift my
head without fear of meeting eyes. You may be
surprised to learn that in the 6 years I’ve been
coming here for lunch, I’ve only seen 2 funerals.
You see, people don’t schedule funerals for
12-noon; they prefer early mornings or late
evenings. They might argue they appreciate the
symbolism of a burial under watch of a setting
or rising sun, but I think it’s because they don’t
like to see death too clearly, in the full wash of
midday. They don’t want to see the detailing on
the coffin, the bugs in the flower wreath, the
brushstrokes in the deceased’s makeup. They
don’t want to see each other’s faces — neither
the depth of real pain nor the shallow cast
of boredom. No, noon is too bright for these
people, so they keep to either side of it and I
usually get the grounds to myself.

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