Crossing Your Laces

OK since i got a review(sort of) Here's another slightly sillier one from the book "Border Crossings,Tale of Transit and Transgression in the Global Village"

EXTENDED CROSSINGS

12.  Crossing Your Laces

Well, like so many others, I was born in China, but raised primarily on the dusty shelves of K-Mart. You might imagine the disappointing letdown--enjoying first an orderly, technical genesis, amidst the well lit, efficient, humming and meticulous factories of China. Only to then find oneself, suddenly prodded, poked, pushed, and fingered, stretched, smelled and tried on by endless sweaty-footed American bargain hunters. He, on the other hand, (I've heard him say), when he had more money, used to waste it on the likes of 'Adidas', ‘Ni…” or, eh...whoops--(for sensitive copyright reasons, better not have this resemble any relatives, living, dead, or franchised). Let's just say he used to spend vast sums on the ‘more expensive brands’. 

Now, looking back, we had, all in all, thanks to my patient commitment, a pretty good relationship, although it's a little difficult to admit that after what's happened. Ever since that sunny California spring day he first waltzed in, choreographed by the distant, ubiquitous, euphonious muzak, below the K-Mart overhead, ‘blue-light special’.  He knew full well he needed some new tennis shoes, but he was 'just browsing'.  He first just passed me by! Humbly I rested,  nice and clean, gleaming gold and shiny blue, smiling to the world, surrounded by all my undersized siblings. He didn’t even notice me.  I know I cannot actually take too much personal credit for his ultimate choice; I was the only one there in a size big enough to fit his clumsy feet. 

But choose me as he did, and very soon he learned that I was tough--tougher than he had ever imagined!  We first spent a very close spring and summer together. He was lucky; he could just as easily wear me to work or the beach, gardening or jogging, jitterbugging or sailing. He had just assumed that like my more expensive counterparts, I would be good and worn out by autumn, when he was planning to leave on his ‘big trip’, and he could again buy a brand, spanking new pair, just for his travels. 

Ahhh, but did I fool him!  By the time we parted those sunny western shores, the only discernable wear he could perceive in me was a slight tread reduction in the polka-dot pattern at my underside heel and toe. Well, some worn out laces, too, but that's nothing. Kinda like parting with baby teeth, laces are. 

Anyway, traveling first across the long Great Plains with ease to the East Coast by automobile, I didn't see why he was so surprised; almost seemed upset, that I hadn't fallen apart at the seams yet, like so many previous pairs he had purchased. My insides would have still been quite pristine as well, if it weren’t for the atrocious odor from his dirty feet. He would look at me with a forlorn wonder each night at my pungent removal, trying to imagine in what small European village I would finally betray him to the necessities of a foreign price, probably twice what he would have to pay in the bargain basement stores stateside.  

But then glory, and on to Europe, and I was happy and singing, and in my youthful prime. Try and imagine the joy and sense of accomplishment that a professional actor feels when he stars in a 'blockbuster,' the pleasure of a singer * upon selling the first million records, or the satisfaction * a baseball player feels after getting a batting title. That's just how I felt, tromping through the streets, mountains and valleys of historic Europe. I proudly fulfilled my life's sole function (no triple pun intended), and also to satisfy any shoe’s secret urge to see the world. 

With forty additional pounds of pack on his back, I must have averaged at least a dozen weighty kilometers a day. My voice echoed short-shuffling sticky screeches up and down stairs through the marble hallow-sounding churches, cathedrals, museums and monuments.  I firmly planted my gummy rubber with pride and resilience. Puddle-jumping through the rain and sleet of damp England, I smiled back down at the perfectly round wet ripples that expanded outward, and personally signed each of my light steps. And yes, being somewhat vain, I also admired each of those steps, smiling back in repeated reflected glimpses of handsome polka-dot running tread, over each clear pool.

Still only slightly-stained, we charged undaunted through marshy green and muddy Ireland. Through bushes and over fences, once (ouch!) he didn't lift his leg high enough over a barbed-wire fence, and ripped a small hole in my face. Heather-filled meadows were filling my every seam with sweet, redolent fumes of honey nectar and pollen. I gladly picked up every manner of gum, tar, spittle, dirt, and grime on my undersides without complaint. Shuffling through the gritty and overcrowded subway and train stations, I put up with getting kicked, stepped on, and abused. 

I even helped with his other equipment; like providing an uncountable number of quick assured kicks at backpacks and handbags, shoving them into all manner of corners and storage sites. Or jogging with friends around the damp, downy English countryside, yet always remained in good humor, even with the constant flutter-slap of long traveling pant-legs with each stride across my tail. Can’t you just picture so many neighborhood dogs sniffing and nipping at those same pant-legs, and at my heels? How about tour bicycling with thousands of pushing heel-drops and puddle splashes; or jumping off all manner of rock bridges, fences, and stairs, to ever still uncomplaining bottoms of soft cushiony rubber and foam?. He’s a clumsy oaf too. Slipping and falling into all manner of icy streams and puddles, I’m sure his toes weren’t as cold as my nose, which could take hours to thaw out. Co-mingled, we marched through my steamy steps and his feet's vapor breath. But while my canvas faded and frayed in the wind, sun and repeated soakings of rain, we pushed on through Northern Europe together.

 

Yes, still in my prime, much to my praise, I refused to wear out on him. I had to secretly laugh at all the stockings he went through. Each time we passed a large department store, he would stare in, checking prices for cheap socks to satisfy my ravenous appetite. You may, no doubt, estimate at this time my insides were quite a sight -- beaten up, dismal and smelly. Souls within soles, we shoes have too, we just don't worry so much about the spelling or the smelling, nor their continuance after an inevitable earthly demise. He tried saving mine on this earth with a few of those 'Dr. Scholl's'-type odor-eaters, until soon he noticed that I began devouring those expensive little suckers just as quickly as his socks. 

With my canvas smile only slightly faded, we criss-crossed the continent together. After canal-hopping in Amsterdam, we padded softly through the ancient streets and alleyways of Paris, and around ancient causeways and castle turrets. I especially liked the way my previous centuries’ much heavier style steel-toed predecessors had already worn nice, deep and smooth, rounded depressions into the hard stone for my brief passage.  Imprinting round messages into various tracks of cow dung and dog s**t, I even escaped a Doberman's jaws once, which clomped threateningly around us.

 Fortunately, Europeans seem to chew gum less than in America. Unfortunately however, they don’t really believe in curbing their dogs much. Through any nice stretch of grass, or even smooth cement, one’s vision and smell could quickly become clouded for long periods by a staining, ugly, pungent canine mess.  During grape harvest in France, he drunkenly spilled wine all over my face, and then lamented and apologized to others how old and worn out I looked.  Sand in the eyes and aglets at beaches, or cold at my back through snows; I always left the same precise directional footprint patterns, until a wave rolled, or new snow fell, to reclaim my tracks back to the land once again. 

         Oh, and I have forgotten to mention one brutality that only I have had to suffer so. He actually considered himself to be the ‘world's greatest rock-kicker.' Yes, I know, this may sound like foolishness, but certainly not to me. What the ‘world's greatest rock-kicker’ does all day is to align up any and all rounded rocks in his path, and shoot them soundly at any target/goal, dog, storm drain, or passerby's feet. This, while wandering, he does continuously, all day long. We were, I have to admit, quite a good shot. Drain gutters were the best targets because you can hear so well the metallic resounding fall of success. But any goal was okay, and you can imagine what this distasteful habit will do to the snubnose end of any good pair of proud sneakers……

           I'm certainly not one to insinuate that all was hardship or terrible despair though. I really enjoyed those moments when we'd find an empty cinema and he'd stretch back in the chair, prop me up on the seat in front for a rest, and afford a perfect view of the newest release. Or, those nights after a long, wet walk he'd place me, filled with pride, right on top of the heater vents before all of his other worldly possessions to dry. Or those times when he'd find so many quiet spots to just sit and relax while listening to the early morning colors of wind, waves, or countryside, far away from the harsh, competing sounds of other boots on parade.

But then, alas, that disgraceful day finally came, as I knew it eventually would, when he met my youthful and foolish would-be replacement. Roaming through Italy on his way to Africa, I suddenly remembered a warning he had received somewhere in conversation, months previous before we left the States: "Don't try buying any manufactured goods in Africa. They're all terrible, and expensive." So sure enough, in a large town in Italy, he set out one morning, (of all the gall) atop me, right there dutifully supporting his bouncy, crunching stride, to look for some new tennis shoes!  As I was, (frankly) still a long march from the canvas graveyard yet, I felt like a jilted lover, always giving a hundred-percent loyalty, traded in for a younger wench. 

He eventually found those cute little conceited pug-nosed rubberized pale ones, with fancy blue stripes that literally shone under the cheap department store light. They were all coquettish and blushing as he tried them on, shoving me casually off in an embarrassed, lonely disgrace into a box in a dark corner. With their kind of a blush suede type top, I fully expected him to suddenly break out in an Elvis tune at any moment.

But I knew that my end was not yet to be. Traveling with very little carrying space, although a big dreamer, he was no fool. At such activities as mealtimes, I noticed whether full and satiated or not, he never wasted or left any food, drink, or anything behind in waste. Thrifty, and conservation conscious too, he was not about to turn me out to pasture just yet, not, to his obvious amazement, while I still had loyal and comfortable miles of tread left. These new haughty, cheap-w***e Italian imitations would first have to suffer a certain degree of arrested development and humiliation, while I continued to shine.

He actually took these gaudy little wop-walkers down from that glamorous display window, finally boxed them up, and found room for them in his pack! Imagine all the pride and poise I felt as I lightly led the way with quick, little confident steps out the store in full sight of my supposed replacements. Still my show baby, and as the old pro, I would enlighten these young whippersnappers to a trick or two yet!

So, onward we continued to push together through southern Italy. On we were, across sun-bleached marble temples, onto other ferryboats, as the golden sea lashed salted sea-spray astride my refreshed instep.  We continued to warm ourselves and brushed by matted fur of friendly dogs and herds of docile sheep that were willing to join us through fields and villages.  All this time, growing ever more frustrated by my stubborn resilience, he was pampered so well that he never once tried on or wore my successors!  He just kept them hidden away, in waiting--carried along with all his other, well-used items in his backpack. 

Until that final moment of vengeance and glory right before the end�"Together we stepped off a long ferry ride, actually onto Asian soil, right before heading into Africa. His foolish error and oversight certainly wasn’t any of my fault or problem. 

At the immigration depot, all things seemed to be going fine for him until the careful guard got toward the end of reviewing his declaration papers. In a low gravely, and I must say, somewhat threatening tone of authority and malevolence, the large man looked askance, and pointed to the page:  “You declared right here that you have brought nothing with you purchased in Italy; Correct?”

Silly boy, he actually lied!  He knew better.

But immediately upon opening his pack for inspection, the tattered Italian shoe box literally jumped out at them in condemnation and protest.

 “Then what is this?....It still has a price tag on it!”

“This is a very serious offense; not claiming items imported from Europe.  It is against the law here. How do you think we should handle this situation?” All spoken in almost perfect English, from this heroic, conscientious, protecting, hard-working gentleman. 

Well, you can’t even imagine my pride, hubris, and contentment. 

How sweet but brief revenge can be!  The way they handled the situation was that Mr. World’s Greatest Rock Kicker had to come up with his own kick-back to cross continents, which conveniently became those same new little suedey Sicilian s**t loafers of his. The border guard very gracefully accepted them as a “gift” from the frazzled tourist, who lost his shiny new shoes, but got to ultimately pass through customs.

 

Time wounds all heels.  It was sublime.  But indeed, vengeance is short lived. 

Ambling down a dark, wet street in Alexandria one night where he should have never been wandering anyway, I say he just tried to move too quickly. There was danger written all over that neighborhood anyway, and could have come at him from anywhere. But he never did ask me, and didn’t see it that way I guess.

 

The pavement was very slick and icy from the night's mist and frosting. There was even an uneven slope that was fairly steep. My tongue all tied down and laced up tight across his arch, there was really no way to warn him, or, to do any better for that matter. Sure, by this time, while still upwardly rather youthful in appearance, with a strong sturdy profile, my underside tread pattern had understandably turned quite smooth through miles of abuse, and had lost much of its original gripping power. But he didn't have to be so clumsy or uncoordinated, either. 

 He totally lost hold on the slippery pavement, and we both went sliding, right at a critical moment when he needed my help to accelerate.  Later, he looked down at me like a betrayed lover, and I knew our time together was soon finished. One stupid move and you're only looking to blame someone else for being a chump the rest of their life. Meanwhile months of dedicated and diligent service gets suddenly forgotten.

Well, friends, that was it for me. Next day he threw me, laces and all, out in some dirty garbage field. Humph! Can you believe the gall?!  Some gratitude!

But I finally had the last laugh anyway. The new, cheap little Egyptian tennis shoes he eventually chose to replace me with were too tight and didn't fit him at all. He must have been flirting with the salesgirl, and impressed with the imitation brushed leather-look.  He never even noticed until later.

 I know because he came by the cemetery looking for me the next day. But I hid under some old refuse and tin cans. I may be tired, old, and worn out, but one can still maintain one’s pride and dignity all the same. Let him dance and tiptoe in pain all around this new continent like some silly, twinkle-toed grandson of Babe Ruth.  See if I care!!

 Meanwhile, I have befriended an old worn-out girdle, whose lost elasticity, like me, may have reduced her previous charm to her former owner, but to me, she's still as slim and taut as new. We're celebrating our first child here in the old folk’s junkyard, and are in love. Soon enough, she tells me, we'll be expecting a whole litter of little stretch-hose, and I’ve never been happier.