We stop at a Phoenix
Goodwill store; my wife
heads one way and I head
for the shoes. My son-in-
law wonders if I have a
shoe fetish. Perhaps, but
mostly, I control myself.
Looking over the beat-up
oxfords, dilapidated, white,
leather shoes tied with
Velcro straps, several pair
of worn heeled, slim soled,
cracked, imitation leather
cowboy boots and what
looks like hundreds of pairs
of flattened flip flops, I
hear one particularly flimsy
flip flop say,“Wa sup, Dude?”
Later we stop at a Scottsdale
nearly and mostly new, top
of the line boutique and again
I head for the shoes only to
meet alligator and lizard
cowboy boots, a few pair
of incredibly long, slim
brushed leather shoes with
hardly worn crepe soles,
French names and lots of
tennis shoes with now retired
tennis legends names and I
hear, “Bonjour, Monsieur‎.
Comment allez-vous?” “Bon-
jour, mercy,” I mumble absent-
mindedly, wondering why I
am talking to French shoes.
I find my wife and say,
“Buenas tardes, mi esposa.
Margaritas para tu? Esta es
ahora la hora contenta,” which
translates roughly as “It’s happy
hour. Want a Margarita, dude?”
Actually, “dude” isn’t there.
With that, we head for the
car and I’m wearing running
shoes that are all the rage
in Spain; they say, “Despacho,
por favor, Senor. Usted es no
pollo joven, pero quizá un
pollo loco,” — again roughly,
“Slow down; you aren’t a spring
chicken, but perhaps a crazy
chicken, dude.” “Oy vey!” I say,
which I learned from two Jewish
widow neighbors who were talking
about their children at the time.
Getting in the car, my wife
asks, “Well, Imelda, no shoes?”
My son-in-law would be proud.
Later, he would tell me so in a
Texas variation of the English
language and a non-verbal
raising of the eyebrows.