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Insurrection

Robert P. Bishop

    It is early morning and the shoes are under the bed, waiting for their owner to rise and put them on. The right shoe whispers, “Lefty, are you awake?”
    “I’m awake.”
    Righty says, “Have you noticed we never get to go anyplace we want to go?”
    “That’s because we’re always on Mr. Higginbotham’s feet. We go where he goes,” says Lefty. “We don’t have much to say about it.”
    “Well, I have an idea.”
    “What?”
    “We take over Mr. Higginbotham’s feet.”
    “You mean stage an insurrection? How are we going to do that?”
    “When Mr. Higginbotham puts us on, we tell his feet we’re in charge and they are going to go where we tell them.”
    “What if they don’t listen to us?”
    “They will.”
    “How do we make them do that?”
    Righty thinks his mate is sounding a little tentative and needs encouragement. “I’ll tell my foot I’m going to rack him up with bloody blisters if he doesn’t do what I say. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll zap his arch as flat as a Kansas farm.” He pauses for a moment then continues. “Of course, you have to tell your foot the same thing. We can’t have my foot doing one thing and your foot going off in another direction. How would that look?”
    “Like Mr. Higginbotham is drunk,” snickers Lefty. The image of Mr. Higginbotham’s legs going off in different directions amuses him.
    “Exactly.”
    “What if Mr. Higginbotham takes us off?”
    “We tighten the laces so tight he can’t untie them. Then we squeeze off the blood and it’s goodnight, feet,” says Righty. He cackles like a madman and flaps his tongue against the laces, bludgeoning them into submission.
    “Watch it,” cautions Lefty. “Here he comes.”

    Mr. Higginbotham uses a shoehorn to put on his shoes then ties the laces in a double bow. He stands up and wiggles his toes then says to the empty house, “Today I am going for a stroll along the embarcadero then I’m going to have a seafood lunch at Clem’s Clam Cabin.” He wiggles his toes again in the comfortable shoes and adjusts his tie.
    “OK feet, we are off,” says Mr. Higginbotham.
    “Did you hear that?” whispers Lefty
    “I did. I don’t want to go to the embarcadero. Sea air is not good for my shine. The salt in the air makes my skin crack.”
    “Where do you want to go?”
    Righty thinks for a while then says, “I want to go dancing.”
    “Hey, that’s a good idea. We have never been dancing. Let’s do it.”

    Mr. Higginbotham leaves his house and begins to walk to the embarcadero but soon comes to a standstill on the sidewalk. He looks at his feet. His shoes look wonderful, freshly shined and tied in identical double bows. “What is wrong with you, feet? Why have you stopped?” Mr. Higginbotham peers anxiously at his feet.
    Receiving no reply, Mr. Higginbotham tries to take a step but he cannot move his right foot. “Hmmm,” says Mr. Higginbotham. “This is very strange.” He checks the rest of his body for movement. His arms move freely. His fingers flex and his toes wiggle. He moves his head back and forth on his neck. But his feet refuse to move.
    Once again, Mr. Higginbotham tries to lift his right foot. This time it comes up but turns to the side. Next his left foot comes up and turns in the same direction as the right foot. Soon Mr. Higginbotham is walking quite rapidly in a completely different direction.
    “Stop!” he commands his feet. They stop walking. “Feet, what is the meaning of this?” demands Mr. Higginbotham.
    “It’s not us, Boss,” replies the left foot.
    “It’s the shoes,” says the right foot. “They have taken over.”
    “We will see about that.” Mr. Higginbotham leans down and tries to untie the laces. He cannot. They are tied too tight. Then he tries to slip the shoes off. He cannot. The shoes contract so ferociously they are like a second skin.
    “Ow, ow,” his feet yelp as the shoes contract even more. “Make them stop,” his feet howl.
    “Stop at once,” orders Mr. Higginbotham. The shoes stop contracting and relax a little. He glares at his shoes. “Why are you doing this?”
    “We want to go dancing,” says Lefty.
    “Well, I do not,” Mr. Higginbotham says. “I insist we go to the embarcadero.”
    “Too bad,” replies Righty. “We’re going dancing.”
    “Do you know where to go?” Lefty asks his mate.
    “Just follow me.” Righty takes a step. Of course Lefty follows him.
    “See, Boss,” his feet exclaim. “We told you this isn’t our fault.”
    Soon the shoes, and Mr. Higginbotham, arrive at the Silver Slipper Saloon. Mr. Higginbotham hangs onto the doorknob and sobs, “No, no, it’s horrible in there. I do not want to go in,” but the shoes carry him inside. The interior is dimly lit and music comes from large speakers hanging on the walls. Several couples are jitterbugging on the dance floor.
    A thin woman with sharp-pointed shoes approaches Mr. Higginbotham and takes his hand. “You have such nice-looking shoes. I bet they want to dance,” she says and leads him onto the floor.
    Mr. Higginbotham tries to resist and throws his body this way and that and steps on the woman’s feet several times. “Oh, dear,” cries the woman. She releases his hands and says, “You are a dreadful dancer. Go away.” She leaves Mr. Higginbotham alone on the dance floor.
    “Well,” Lefty says to his mate, “I guess dancing isn’t as much fun as I thought.”
    “See?” cries Mr. Higginbotham to his shoes. “I told you we should have gone to the embarcadero.” Mr. Higginbotham is still in the middle of the dance floor, shouting and waving his arms madly. The dancers look nervously at him and move away.
    “Now let’s go,” Mr. Higginbotham tells his shoes. They ignore him and stay rooted to the dance floor.
    “Maybe we need dance lessons,” says Lefty.
    “That’s a good idea,” agrees Righty. “But who will teach us?”
    “The woman with the pointy-toed shoes?”
    “I don’t think so. We ruined her shoes. She doesn’t like us anymore.”
    Mr. Higginbotham jerks his body about, trying to free his feet but they don’t move. “Help me,” shouts Mr. Higginbotham to the people in the dance hall. He waves his arms frantically. “My shoes have taken over my feet and I can’t move!” The dancers edge away from him and arrange themselves in small clusters and mutter nervously about the man in the middle of the dance floor shouting at his shoes.
    A young woman with three gold rings through her right nostril and animal tattoos on both arms approaches Mr. Higginbotham. “May I help you?” she asks. Mr. Higginbotham notices all the animals have malevolent red eyes.
    “My shoes will not let my feet move.”
    “Oh?” says the woman. “Are your shoes alive?”
    “Yes, yes! That’s it. They are alive!” cries Mr. Higginbotham, relieved that someone finally understands him. “Can’t you hear them talking?”
    “No, I don’t hear them.”
    “I polish them and keep them shiny and never walk in mud puddles and this is the thanks I get.” Mr. Higginbotham tries to lift his right foot again but it doesn’t move. “And after all I have done for them, too,” he adds bitterly. “I even had new soles put on them.”
    “See?” he grunts, pulling on his right foot. The right foot doesn’t move. He tries to move his left foot. It refuses to move. “These shoes are so ungrateful. I wish I had never bought them.”
    “I will take your shoes off,” the young woman says. “Then you can move.” She bends down and grabs the laces of the right shoe.
    “Did you hear that, Lefty?”
    “I did. Time to tighten up.” The shoes contract, squeezing Mr. Higginbotham’s feet unmercifully.
    Mr. Higginbotham lets out a ferocious shriek as the shoes clamp down.
    “Don’t touch them,” yells Mr. Higginbotham. The young woman stands up and quickly backs away. The shoes relax.
    “Well, it looks like we’re not going to get dance lessons,” says Lefty. “Let’s go to the Museum of Modern Art instead.”
    “I like that idea,” says Righty.
    “I refuse!” shouts Mr. Higginbotham. “We are not going to any museum!”
    “Then we will stay right here in the middle of the dance floor,” say the shoes.
    At that moment, four men in white coats come into the Silver Slipper, approach Mr. Higginbotham and speak quietly with him. Soon they carry Mr. Higginbotham outside to an ambulance which takes him to the hospital. Nurses dress Mr. Higginbotham in a cotton gown, put him to bed and give him a powerful sedative.
    “I just wanted to go for a walk on the embarcadero,” he sobs before lapsing into a deep sleep.
    The man responsible for storing Mr. Higginbotham’s clothes likes the shoes so much he takes them home at the end of the day. “These shoes are the most splendid shoes,” he announces as he puts them under his bed. He is confident they will fit his feet perfectly when he puts them on in the morning.
    That night Lefty says to his mate, “We have a new owner.”
    “So it seems,” agrees Righty.
    The shoes don’t say anything for a while, then Lefty says, “Where do we want to go tomorrow?”

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