the poet by Paul Maliszewski
When it came to the shoes, however, his wife had insisted. Shoes are not a luxury, she told him. The poet stood in front of the store displays and assessed his options, trying to find something he might wear. Each shoe glowed, lit up like a movie star by a small spot lamp. While the poet browsed, his wife watched the baby. She carried him around, showing him shoes, talking to him sweetly, telling him what Daddy was up to. The baby started to fuss a bit, and the poet heard, but he didn’t turn to see what was wrong. The baby was his wife’s problem for now. The poet found a couple of shoes that he thought might work, and then he flagged down a salesman and said he’d like to see them in a 12, if they had it. The baby, by then, was really going at it, his cries louder and more pained. That was, it seemed, the way of their child: He was either fine or else he was bearing witness to the end of the world. By then, the poet’s family was on the other side of the department, but he could hear them still, quite clearly. The baby yelled and screamed, and his wife tried to calm him and soothe him and let him know that everything was going to be all right. It was as if they carried one of the poet’s ears wherever they went and, no matter how far they wandered, he heard them and knew what was happening. The poet glanced in their direction. There was his baby, red-faced and grimacing. The poet’s wife struggled to hold him in her arms, he was wriggling and writhing so. The boy was getting too heavy for her, the poet thought. He started toward them, but then he thought, It’s fine, it’ll be fine. He took a seat and just waited for his shoes. From his chair, the poet continued to survey the selection on the wall. Was there perhaps one he missed? He looked at each shelf and then he fixed his attention on an odd pair of dress shoes—dress boots, really—made of red, white, and blue leather. Were they part of some promotion, for display purposes only? Was anyone seriously expected to buy them? The poet didn’t know. He liked sitting there, that much he knew. He liked the feeling of not having a thing to do. He even liked having a guy go fetch shoes for him. Because who would not, honestly? The poet took his old shoes off and tucked them under his chair, turning them so that the toes would face away from the salesman when he returned. Then he straightened his socks and relaxed back into the chair. The poet’s wife came over to where he was waiting. She sat down beside him and sighed. The baby scrambled over the arms of the chairs to reach the poet. Dada, the baby said. Dada. Come here, the poet said. He hefted the baby up to his shoulder. What a big lug you are, he said. In the time that his wife and boy were away, he had forgotten how heavy he had grown. It had been only minutes, if that, but the weight in his hands felt new somehow. He could appreciate it. The salesman emerged from the storeroom,
carrying seven or eight shoeboxes balanced in two stacks. The poet’s wife scooped the baby up and said they’d be around. She kissed the poet on the cheek and told him to pick out something nice. The salesman explained that he had taken the liberty of selecting some other shoes he believed the poet was certain to like. He spoke about these shoes, the ones he had picked, as if they were finely made cigars or an exceptional vintage of some wine. There’s a big sales event coming up, the salesman said. Had anyone mentioned this to the poet? The poet shook his head. Was somebody supposed to? In the background, over his left shoulder, he thought he heard his baby cry. We don’t have many sales, the salesman said, but the sales we do have are quite good. The poet nodded and took in all the shoeboxes the salesman had arrayed around them. He was surrounded. From the top box, the salesman removed one shiny black dress shoe. He laced it up quickly, efficiently, and then, holding it in both hands, pronounced it a very fine shoe. He handed it to the poet to admire. Classic design, the salesman said. Perfect for the office. The poet turned the shoe over in his hands. It seemed slightly strange to him, like an artifact in some museum exhibition about a tribe of people he had only ever read about in school. It’s a really nice shoe, the poet said. The salesman told him how much the shoes would be, on sale, and how much they were originally. I unfortunately don’t have much need for dress shoes these days, the poet said. He handed the shoe back to the salesman. I’m sorry, he added. Mind if I ask what you do for a living? the salesman said. Right now? the poet asked. He spoke it like a question, as if the salesman were inquiring about his rich history of work. I stay at home right now, the poet said. I take care of our baby. He gestured vaguely behind him, toward where he had last heard the baby crying. Well, that’s a good job to do, the salesman said. He packed up the shoe and then moved aside all the other pairs that he had planned to show the poet. The poet watched him work. It sounds like a real good sale, he said. I’m just sorry I don’t need any dress shoes. The salesman said there was no problem at all. They are nice shoes, the poet said. The salesman said he should keep them in mind, for future reference. He then found the shoes the poet had asked for and removed them from the boxes. The poet tried them on and, after deliberating a bit and looking at his feet reflected in a mirror, he settled at last on a pair of running shoes, mostly brown with a touch of lime green that ordinarily would have been enough to frighten him off.
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