Versus Nurture
Available February 2012

The Best Sniper Ever
Available February 2012

WEEKLY COLUMN:
JDM vs the WORLD

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FINE PRINT

It was a Friday night and my toes hurt.

Let me explain:

I wear New Balance sneakers. But not the good kind of New Balance sneakers (i.e., the kind well-known for their comfort). No. I used to wear the good kind. Now I wear the crappy kind. Factory rejects. I bought ‘em at a discount department store.

Now, I’m not going to lie to you. I buy commercialized clothing. I pay $50 for $5 shirts with brand names. Abercrombie. Gap. You get the idea. I’m not ashamed to say it. And ordinarily, I’d do the same with my shoes. So the only reason I’ve been wearing a cheap pair of sneakers lately is because the expensive stores just haven’t been carrying my size.

Ten and a half, that is.

Wide.

So it was a Friday night, a guys-night-out—a dying ritual, I fear, since I’m soon to get married—when I’d finally had enough. My sneakers were just flat out killing me that evening. I’ve had nothing but problems since buying them. They never tie evenly. I’ve got to double knot them because the shoelaces suck. Etc. Etc. And then there’s the worst part—the botched stitching inside the left sneaker. I hate the botched stitching. It cuts off my circulation each and every time. That’s no way to spend an evening. Limp like that. So finally, after several months, I stopped by the mall to look for a perfect new pair—my sole mates, if you will.

I went into a store called Champs.

Don’t know if you’ve heard of it. When my brother and I were younger—10 and 14, respectively—we wanted to work there. I’m not sure why. All they’re good for is tube socks and Celtics jerseys. I think we liked their selection of Champion ski jackets back then.

But anyway, I go into Champs, and my toes are twitching with the thought of breaking free. Toes aren’t as smart as tongues. Tongues are like little detectives. But toes are still pretty smart. They sense things. And so mine walked me over to a nice pair of Nike sneakers—gray and blue, just like the Civil War.

Now, it’s been years since I’ve worn anything Nike. It’s been years since I’ve just done it. And to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I feel like doing it ever again. Nike’s played out. It’s so five-minutes-ago, for a brand whore like me. But at that point I was thinking, “Hey, if the shoe fits...”

Right around then, a female employee—a cold slice of pizza, this one—came up to me and asked, “Was there anything I could help you with?”

I don’t know.

Was there?

Did I miss it?

“Yes,” I said, “but not yet.”

She half-laughed and went about lacing some shoes.

So I strolled a bit further down the sneaker shelf, taking my sweet time. I saw some Chuck Taylors. You know, the ones by Converse? These ones were red, white, and blue, and they looked like American flags. Perhaps that’s a metaphor. I don’t know.

And soon I found myself thinking, God, doesn’t anyone make good looking sneakers anymore? Why is it even plain sneakers are ugly nowadays? You know I’m not against sweatshops. They’re good for Third World economies. If it isn’t forced labor, I think it’s okay. But to think these poor kids are sweating over absolutely atrocious sneakers—I’m sorry, it’s just wrong.

“Mommy!” I heard a little girl yell just then.

I looked to my right.

And there she was—all of 4—running right past me, pigtails flailing, nearly knocking me down.

She stopped with a hop, a skip, and a jump near the end of the shelf, pivoted, and screamed to her mom again, “Mommy!” And then she ran back in the direction she came from, pigtails flailing, once again nearly knocking me down.

I looked at Cold Pizza, still lacing up sneakers.

Cold Pizza sort of snarled and said, “Don’t you just wish you could trip these kids sometimes?”

The little girl hugged her mother’s leg.

“No,” I said, “I wish I could kick them in the head.”

Cold Pizza half-laughed a second time, which, according to my calculations, equals one whole laugh.

As if kicking kids in the head is socially acceptable.

Well, who knows, maybe it is here in Champs land? Who am I to judge?

So I turned back to the shelf for a second, picked out another Nike and a third shoe by New Balance, and then—sure I’d found the only three sneakers worth buying—I said to Cold Pizza, “If you’d like, you can help me now.” My fingers were crossed.

She stopped lacing shoes and said to me, “Sure. What size?”

“Ten and a half,” I told her. “Wide.”

“Great,” she said.

Great, indeed. And a feeling of victory overcame me. I could taste it now.

“Oh, but you know what?” she said. “We don’t carry these sneakers in wide.”

Darn.

“Just these sneakers?”

“Any sneakers,” she said. “We don’t sell stuff for people with wide feet. Maybe you can try a Size 11.”

“But I’m not an eleven,” I told her. “I’m a ten and a half. If I wanted eleven, I’d ask for eleven. But I didn’t. I asked for ten and a half.”

She shrugged.

And then something hit me. For as long as I live, I’ll probably never know what it was. But something hit me. A thought occurred. What if this was it? What if this was my meal ticket?

In my day, I’ve been yelled at for using slang words like “gay” and “retarded,” by people who won’t even let me call gay and retarded folks those words. And I’ve been yelled at for comparing the Atkins diet to ethnic cleansing in front of people who count their carbs religiously. I’ve been called “insensitive,” “uncaring,” “close-minded”—an “asshole”—for speaking my mind, or just speaking, on matters big and small. It never ends. And I’ve seen folks get rich by complaining.

I looked her dead in the eye—Cold Pizza—and I said to her, “What do you mean you don’t sell stuff for people with wide feet? That’s like saying you don’t sell stuff to black people. This is discrimination. I could sue you, you know.”

She looked around.

She looked nervous.

And I know I hit a nerve.

I was right. I could sue. And hell, I could win. It doesn’t matter how stupid it would be. If Champs doesn’t sell enough wide-sized shoes to make it worth selling them, that isn’t my fault. I didn’t ask to be different. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t ask for any of it.

Our world is run by people with feet as narrow as their perspective. And this was my chance to make a buck off of that.

And so I looked Cold Pizza up and down for a moment.

And I thought it over.

And my toes twitched.

I dropped the sneakers. I ran my hand through my hair. And I said to her, “Something seems unfair about this,” turned, and walked out of the store.

I went out that evening. And I had a good time.

I could’ve been rich, you know. That’s the kind of world I live in. But I’m a busy man. And I don’t have time for frivolous lawsuits.

Yet, still, I wear uncomfortable shoes.

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