People Look at Me and Say to Themselves, I Wonder If She’d Like These Shoes…

“Hello. Hi.”

A sturdy man with a sturdy Russian accent is walking toward me.

“Hello. Hi. What size shoe you are wearing?”

I look around. It is as it appears. This man is talking to me.

What the heck.

“Seven,” I say, “Seven and a half, depending on the manufacturer.”

A short man with hair like a thatched roof and a nose like a potato, his eyes sparkle. “Come,” he says. “Italian shoes. Your size. Very cheap.”

What’s that, comrade? Cheap shoes?

I leave the book section and follow him through the aisles of the local Savers, a building stuffed with donated clothing, household items, and immigrants.

There, amongst the battered and abused footwear, is a pair of Roberto Cavalli heels.

Well, I’ll be.

Excitedly, he hands them to me.

I hold them up. The leather is like butter; the heel, sublime. They appear to have never been worn outdoors.

“Try! You try!”

I take my shoes off, balance on one foot and then the other as I put them on. It’s exciting, and I am reminded of a much earlier version of myself excitedly trying on a rabbit-fur coat at a garage sale.

That coat? It was 40 below at one point, and I was toasty warm.

But finding these shoes? Here?

Better than that coat.

The Russian beams. “Very good quality. Very good. I see shoes. I see you. I say to myself, there is voman who must to wearing these shoes. They feet?”

Do they feet?! Of course they feet!

“They’re exquisite,” I say.

“Yes!” he says. “Exquisite. That is word. You take. You buy.”

“You don’t want them? Maybe for a woman at home?”

He winks at me. “Voman at home, she is having feet like wooden boat…”

We both laugh.

“I’m sure she has lovely feet,” I say, feeling I should defend her. He nods quickly. Of course, of course.

I buy the shoes. Twenty dollars.



Riches around every corner, that’s what I always say.