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If the Shoe Fits

Wayne J. Gardiner

    Something like this doesn’t happen all at once.
    This disintegration of dreams.
    It’s not like smoke diffusing into the air . . . or ripples from a cast stone receding into the calm surface of a pond.
    It’s not sudden.
    It’s a slow, gradual process.
    This fall from grace.
    When did it happen? Joe Harley wonders.
    He’s looking at himself in the mirror behind the hotel bar, between the bottles of premium vodka and bourbon lined up on the counter.
    He searches the face of the stranger looking back at him, turning to a left profile, the motion confirming that yes . . . it really is Joe Harley, returning his own stare.
    Does anyone know when it happened? Joe asks himself.
    Does anybody care?

    Joe Harley couldn’t see the reflection in the mirror of the man behind him, this man at the far end of the lounge.

    An enormous man.
An unusual looking man.
A man he’d seen earlier in the day.
A man he had spoken with.
    He knew when it had happened.
    He cared.

    Joe Harley decides not to go running the next morning.
When he pulls back the drape of his hotel window, the time and temperature clock atop the Marine Building reads six-fifty-eight.
A half-second later it blinks out the temperature . . . minus fifteen degrees.
The wind howls outside and buffets snow against the big hotel windows.
“No way,” he says aloud.
    He is in the process of crawling back into bed when he sees the shoes.
They are sitting beside the TV set, atop the long narrow dresser across from the foot of the bed.
There is something strangely compelling about them.
Joe Harley doesn’t recall putting them there.
He thought he’d left them in the closet.
But he does remember the peculiar, almost weightless sensation he had experienced when he’d tried them on the night before.
    He listens for another moment to the wind outside.
“I must be nuts,” he says, reaching for the shoes.

    The rather unusual circumstances by which Joe Harley came to own a new pair of red and white running shoes had occurred the previous day.
    It was a mild January day in Milwaukee, with early morning temperatures in the mid-thirties.
Joe Harley had run five hard miles from the Hyatt Regency Hotel to Lake Michigan’s shoreline, through Juneau and McKinley Parks, past Bradford Beach, and back again.
A total of ten miles.
A familiar feeling of elation buoyed him as he slowed to a trot, then walked through the front door of the Hyatt.
To Joe Harley, running provided a sense of accomplishment and well being.
He could run faster and further than anyone he knew that was pushing fifty years.
Faster and further than most men twenty years his junior.
    It was one of few things left in Joe Harley’s life that he did well.
    But even as he savored the moment, the feeling of satisfaction was tempered by the undeniable realization that the high point of the day was behind him.
It would all be downhill from here.
    The electronically operated doors closed behind him and he stepped into a lobby astir with the activity of early morning.
A handful of people stood at the cashier’s counter.
Here and there, others stood singly, or in pairs, checking watches, waiting for companions to join them for breakfast.
They scarcely glanced at Joe Harley.
    Except for one man.
    He sat in a chair by the elevators and stared directly at Joe Harley as Harley walked to the elevator bank and pushed the “up” button.
    Harley looked self-consciously away, then a moment later, glanced back.
The man continued to stare.
Rude bastard, Harley thought.
He decided to stare back.
    Even seated, the bulk of the man in the chair was unmistakable.
He was at least six-foot-six . . . huge in stature without appearing to be overweight.
He was dressed in a very expensive suit that was immaculately tailored.
    He stared openly at Joe Harley with no embarrassment.
Finally Harley looked away, silently cursing his lack of resolve, and at the same time, the elevator, for being so infuriatingly slow.
Harley felt perspiration trickle down his neck as he continued to wait.
He was not entirely certain that the perspiration was a result of his morning run.
    A green light signaling the arrival of the elevator was suddenly illuminated above one of the doors, accompanied by a hollow ring as the door slid open.
    An uncomfortable Joe Harley hurried into the empty elevator, stabbing nervously at the number six.
As the huge man watched with his baleful stare, the door slid shut.

    Joe Harley’s day was predictable.
He wasted his first sales call on someone with no decision-making responsibility.
On the second, he learned that his largest account would be cutting back their order by at least fifty percent in the next year.
To make matters worse, his top competitor would be picking up the lost business.
    Joe Harley adjourned to the nearest tavern to drink away the rest of the day.
He skipped the two-thirty appointment he had scheduled, not bothering to call and tell them he wouldn’t be in.
    He walked back to the Hyatt Regency at four-thirty, an hour he considered appropriate for a respectable out-of-town businessman to have a drink in the second floor lounge.
A few were already gathering at the bar.
Joe Harley took a seat and ordered a bourbon and water.
    While the level of activity around him slowly gained momentum, Joe Harley stared thoughtfully at the bourbon in his glass.
Losing the Trendco business could prove to be the final nail in his career coffin.
Things had been going steadily downhill for over three years.
His volume of business had decreased while industry figures, and those of his associates, were up.
    He couldn’t deny that the opportunity had been there.
Just as it had been in the three jobs before.
But no matter what approach Joe Harley took, he seemed to make a mess of things.
New business didn’t develop.
Old accounts cut back or fell by the wayside.
    He’d muddled up his personal life the same way.
All the elements for a good life had been there . . . an attractive, intelligent wife, two kids, nice house.
    He’d lost them too.
Came home one day and they were gone.
    Joe Harley cursed his luck and ordered another drink.
    Between four-thirty and five the number in the lounge grew steadily.
Ice clinked in glasses and people laughed as the tensions of the day melted away.
A man in a tall chef’s hat brought in a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres and put it at the end of the bar.
    At five o’clock an attractive woman with a soft, lilting voice began to sing.
The combination of music and bourbon soothed Joe Harley.
He turned on the bar stool to watch her.
    As his gaze swept over the lounge, it stopped short of the woman at the microphone.
For there, at a table in the middle of the lounge, sat the hulking man he’d seen earlier in the day, his eyes fixed firmly on Joe Harley.
    Harley swiveled his seat abruptly forward and riveted his attention on the patrons facing him on the other side of the oblong bar.
The feeling of well-being that had finally displaced the despair that had been with him since mid-morning was suddenly gone.
    “Two bourbon,” a voice beside him said.
“Make them Knob Creek.”
    Joe Harley did not have to look to see who had spoken.
Nor did he wonder who the second drink was for.
He turned and looked into the face of the big man.
The malevolent expression that Harley expected had evaporated into one of the most engaging smiles he had ever seen.
    “Mind if I join you?” the big man asked, gracefully hoisting his considerable bulk onto the next bar stool.
    “I was just leaving,” Harley said.
    “What a shame,” said the big man.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a drink for you.”
His tone was as congenial as it could be.
    “Thanks anyway,” said Harley.
“I’m not in the habit of having strangers buy drinks for me.”
He realized it sounded foolish after he said it.
    The big man threw back his head and laughed, a pleasant, deep, infectious laugh.
“Oh, Mr. Harley,” he laughed.
“Please don’t misunderstand me. I noticed your drink was nearly gone when I came up to the bar to freshen my own.
You look as if you may have had a bad day.”
The big man held up his arms in a gesture of helplessness.
“I simply thought you might appreciate a drink.”
    Joe Harley looked suspiciously at the man on the stool beside him.
    “Is something wrong?” the big man asked.
    “How did you know my name?”
    “I was at the desk when you checked in,” the big man said.
    “I didn’t see you.”
It was a challenge.
    “People often don’t,” the big man said.
“Strange as it may seem, I often go unnoticed.”
    Joe Harley made no response.
    The big man shrugged in resignation.
“You seem to be very upset, Mr. Harley.
I thought a drink would be a neighborly gesture.
Perhaps I was wrong.”
The big man seemed about to gather himself to move away from the bar.
    Harley softened a little.
One human being was trying to show kindness to another.
It was not a gesture Joe Harley was accustomed to.
    “Wait a minute,” he said.
“I . . . I’m sorry.
I was out of line.”
He paused for a moment.
“I have been a little out of sorts.”
He laughed a nervous sort of laugh.
“You’re right . . . it has been a hard day.”
    “I understand the feeling.”
    “Are you in sales too?” asked Harley, encouraged by the possibility that he may have found someone to commiserate with.
    “No, I’m in the repossession business.”
The big man lifted his glass.
“Here’s to better times, Mr. Harley.”
    “I’ll drink to that.”
Harley took a long pull on his drink.
“What do you repossess, Mr. . . .?”
    The big man didn’t offer his name.
“Many things, Mr. Harley.
A great variety of things.”
    “Must be a depressing job.”
    “Actually, I enjoy it very much.”
    “But don’t people hate to see you coming?
It can’t be something they look forward to.
I mean . . . you’re there to take something away from them . . . something that was theirs.”
    “Odd as it may seem, Mr. Harley, most of them never see me coming.
You’d expect in their situations they’d know they were going to have to pay the piper sooner or later, but most of those I call on are blissfully ignorant of any consequences that might result from their slovenly lifestyles.
Even when I meet them face to face, it often doesn’t register with them that I’m there to collect.”
    “Seems like a pretty tough gig to me.”
    “You sound as if you feel sorry for them,” Mr. Harley.
    “I guess I do.
I’ve had my own share of bad luck.”
    “Don’t waste your sympathy, Mr. Harley.
If these people had any responsibility, any initiative, any promise at all, I wouldn’t be calling on them.”
    Joe Harley felt a little uncomfortable.
“I still say it seems like a rough job.”
    The big man shrugged.
“As they say,” he said, “somebody’s got to do it.”
    They laughed and Harley finished his drink.
“Thanks for the bourbon,” he said.
“I’m sorry I was so testy earlier.”
    The big man waved away his concern.
“Would you like to do me a favor, Mr. Harley?” he asked.
    Harley became uncertain again.
    “You’re a runner,” the big man went on.
“I saw you come in this morning.”
    “That’s right,” Harley nodded.
“I work pretty hard at it.”
    “What size shoes do you wear, Mr. Harley?”
    “Nine.
Why?”
    “What a coincidence!”
The big man reached into a large valise that sat on the floor beside him and pulled out a pair of running shoes.
They were white with a brilliant deep red trim.
“These are size nine.”
    “Nice looking shoes.”
    “I’d appreciate it if you’d take them off my hands.”
    Harley laughed.
“Don’t tell me you’ve repossessed a pair of shoes.”
    “Actually, they were given to me by a friend.
They’re excellent shoes.
Absolutely the best.
Unfortunately, my knees just won’t allow me to run any more . . . old football injuries.”
    “I don’t know . . . “ said Harley.
    “Please, Mr. Harley,” the big man said.
“If you can use them, by all means, take them.
I’ll never use them myself.”
    And so Joe Harley had gone back to his room with a new pair of running shoes.
He dropped them in the closet and flopped down on the bed to watch TV.

    He awakened a few hours later.
Outside, the wind had picked up.
A movie he had seen several times was playing again on TV.
He had fallen asleep with his clothes on, and he got up now and took his suit off, hanging it in the closet.
    From the corner of his eye, he saw the shoes.
The bright red stripe nearly glowing in the dim light.
Joe Harley picked them up and examined them.
Good thick soles that provided both comfort and support.
The tread on the bottom was a series of flat, flexible, square cleats, each with a slightly indented “X” across it.
He’d never seen any exactly like them.
    He looked for an identifying label and found none.
No Adidas, no Brooks, no Nike. Not even a size number.
    “How the hell could that big guy wear the same size shoe I do?” Joe Harley asked himself.
He hadn’t considered it before.
The possibility seemed ludicrous now that he did.
    He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped the shoes on.
He held his feet up and rotated his ankles, flexed his toes.
“Feels good,” he said.
He laced them up and stood, bending slightly at the knees, shifting his weight.
    A smile swept over his face.
They were the most comfortable shoes he had ever had on.
The fit was perfect.
Joe Harley began to jog in place.
With each strike of his foot, the shoes fairly sprung off the floor.
It was almost as if they were doing the running and Joe Harley was simply along for the ride.
He ran in place for over fifteen minutes.
Fifteen effortless minutes.
Running in place had always bored him.
Now it was exhilarating.
    He stopped reluctantly and took the shoes off.
It was nearly two o’clock.
He put them away in the closet and crawled into bed.

    And now it is the next morning and he is running.
Out the front door of the Milwaukee Hyatt Regency, south on Fourth Street to Michigan Avenue, east across the Milwaukee River, heading toward Lake Michigan.
    He’s running headlong into a bitter wind that whips snow into his face.
He doesn’t notice it.
He runs without effort, without discomfort, the unusual patterned X’s on the soles of his shoes leaving their mark behind him in the soft crunch of the snow.
    There are no other runners out on this day.
Those who braved the street at this early hour scurried purposefully to their destinations, bundled in parkas and hats and scarves, their breath rising above them in wisps of steam, disintegrated by the relentless wind.
    Joe Harley runs on euphorically.
    Ahead, to his left, the Milwaukee County War Memorial and Art Center.
He approaches the intersection of Michigan Avenue and North Lincoln Memorial Drive.
He will veer to the left at the intersection and skirt the west side of the building, then swing back into Juneau Park.
    It is possible to pass the War Memorial on the right side, the east side.
A sidewalk runs for some fifty yards between a low retaining wall that holds back Lake Michigan, and a ten foot high wall that bounds an elevated patio on the east side of the building.
    On a windless day, the route provides a beautiful view of Lake Michigan.
On a windy day, fifteen foot breakers smash with ruthless fury against the concrete wall.
    He will veer left at the intersection.
Ahead of him, the traffic signal blinks to green.
Harley picks up his pace to make the light.
He races through the intersection, straight through, and on down the path that leads to the lake.
    He is surprised that he hadn’t turned.
He had fully intended to.
The realization that he hasn’t seems somehow humorous.
At the same time it is disquieting.
It is as if he’d had no choice.
    He continues down the path in the direction of the lake.
    Two hundred yards further, he turns left, paralleling an asphalt walkway that winds along the edge of the lake.
He takes care to stay a safe distance from the water on his right.
It roils and beats against the bank, throwing sprays of mist into the wind.
It is easy to avoid the water here.
The open space at his left provides him all the room he requires.
    He looks ahead.
It is a different situation up there.
The narrow strip of sidewalk threads its way between the lake and the War Memorial.
Huge, angry waves crash against the concrete walls.
He will turn left at the parking lot on the south side of the Memorial—skirt the building on the west side, then swing back into Juneau Park.
He will veer left at the parking lot.
    And then he notices the footprints in the snow ahead of him.
He is startled by them.
There have been no footprints preceding him on this run.
Who else would be out running on a day like this?
    But the footprints stand out distinctly and stretch into the distance ahead.
He makes a hitch in his stride and checks the length of the other runner’s stride against his own.
It is an exact match.
He runs further, staring down with fascination as he continues on his way.
The pattern with which his feet strike—toes pointed slightly outward, the depth of the indentation in the snow—appears to be identical to the tracks that accompany him.
It even looks as if it is the same size shoe.
    He moves over slightly on the path as he runs and brings his left foot down onto the track in the snow.

    Then his right.

    It is a perfect fit.

    He looks over his shoulder.
There is only one set of footprints behind him.
Footprint for footprint . . . cleat-mark for cleat-mark.
    He turns his attention back to the front.
Beads of perspiration have formed on his forehead and are beginning to freeze in the wind.

    Still the footprints precede him.
    There is something else about them . . . something he cannot quite bring to mind.
He looks more closely.
There is a flutter within his stomach as he recognizes what it is.
    The pattern on the bottom of the shoe is a series of flat, square cleats, each with a slightly indented “X” across it.
    It is the exact pattern of the shoes he is wearing!
    His thoughts are broken by the sound of waves crashing into the wall, now less than fifty yards to his front.
    In a near panic he tries to veer left, toward safety.
To his horror, he continues straight ahead.
    He makes a great, final effort to wrench himself free, but a force stronger than his will places one foot after the other, meshing exactly with the tracks that lead into the crashing swirl of water, now only ten yards ahead.
    Joe Harley screams.
The explosion of water against the wall and the howl of the wind swallow his cry.
    Helplessly, he watches the tracks ahead of him disappear into a raging wall of water.
    He runs, full speed, into the midst of it.
    Churning water slaps against concrete and rushes back off the sidewalk and over the retaining wall, pulling at Joe Harley with an unholy force.
    He knows now what he must do.
He reaches down and tears a shoe from his foot.
As it slips free, he feels the bitter cold of the water grip him for the first time.
Brutally driven by the wind, it threatens to freeze him where he stands.
    Sobbing in terror, Harley throws the shoe into the frothing lake. He reaches for the other, grasping at ice covered laces, his fingers numb, useless stubs.
    At that moment, a wave catches Joe Harley, and like a giant hand, smashes him head-first against the wall.
As the water recedes, it takes with it, the lifeless body of Joe Harley.

    Sergeant Harry Nelson, reporting for duty on the night shift, enters the squad room, looking back over his left shoulder.
His partner, who typically reports a half hour earlier than Harry, is sorting through a bag that contains the personal effects of a man named Joe Harley.
    “Did you see the size on that guy?” Harry asks.
    “What guy?”
Still rummaging through the bag.
    “What guy?
The guy that’s big as a house!
The guy right there in the hall . . . “
    They both turn to look, but there’s no one in the hall.
    “Must move pretty quick for a big guy,” Harry’s partner says.
    “He was right there,” Harry says.
“Huge guy!
Sharp suit.
Called me by name too . . . like he knew me . . . kind of a strange look in his eye.”
    “Never saw him.”
Back to the bag.
    Harry Nelson is on his third assignment of the past two years, each move a demotion from the previous one.
“Lacking initiative,” they’d said in his review.
“Little imagination . . . unenthusiastic . . . doesn’t relate well to others.”
What the hell, Harry Nelson had thought.
You need to be Dale Carnegie to be a cop?
    Harry Nelson takes another look down the hallway, shrugs, and turns his attention to the suitcase on the floor.
“What you got there?”
    “Weird case,” says Harry’s partner.
“Guy was staying at the Hyatt.
Went for a run this morning along the lake.
Apparently decided to jump in.
At the back of the War Memorial.”
    Harry Nelson thinks about it.
He is a runner himself.
He’s run the same route many times.
“How do they know he jumped?
If he was dumb enough to be out running on a morning like we had today, maybe he was dumb enough to try to run through that little space between the Memorial and the retaining wall and got swept off the walk.”
    “They thought about that,” Harry’s partner says.
“But when they got to the scene . . . “
He points to the bag.
“Those running shoes were sitting right on the edge of the retaining wall.
Damnedest thing!
Nobody knows why they didn’t get washed over by a wave . . . or why he took ‘em off in the first place.
But the fact he stopped and took off the shoes makes it seem like he must have jumped.”
    “Why would a guy take off his shoes?
When he’s going to jump into a freezing lake, he stops to take off his shoes?”
    Harry’s partner shrugs.
“Who knows . . . these nuts out there.”
    Harry Nelson pokes around in the bag.
“Nice looking shoes,” he says.
“Wonder if anybody would miss them?”
    “I don’t see how anybody’d ever expect he didn’t have them on.
What size you wear?”
    “Twelve-and-a-half,” says Harry Nelson.
He has already pulled the shoes out of the bag and removed one of his own.
    “Well look at this,” he says, pulling one on and lacing it snug.
“A perfect fit.”

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