New Shoes In The Barrio

Percy, who was somewhat hard of hearing, didn’t know much about the metric system

New Shoes In The Barrio

One day a cop was strolling through the barrio and asked in a shout voice if anyone needed to go to jail. It was standard ritual, a here to help you greeting. A young guy name of Perez approached him.

Do you swear the truth cop?

Whole? asked the cop.

At least halfway, said Perez, as long as we meet in the middle and carve up the rest.

That’s when Percy Shoes, named by accident of birth no doubt but also because he was a shoe salesman, stumbled along with his shoe boxes. Percy Shoes, he said. Four for the price of three.

Marketing stuff. Everybody does it these days, even Percy, but meanwhile the cop was sprouting some chili from his throat about the need to tell the truth, even half, and Perez, which sounded a lot like Percy, found himself in the verbal crossfire as the situation muddled louder and people came out of doorways.

Half block down, Padre stepped out from the church with a frowned face and a cross in his hand. He held the cross aloft like a heraldic flag for a moment and then, seeing himself outnumbered, tossed it in a burn barrel.

That’s when Mrs. Adams, who owns the lizard store, told the whole damn neighborhood about the new rules over her bullhorn.

No fighting! she said.

Percy, who was somewhat hard of hearing, didn’t know much about the metric system and took the proclamations as suggestions. Plus, he was a little timid and could imagine the middle of a forest when it goes boom.

Could double it for the streets of Chicago or L.A. And multiply to find the number of silly skeletons in his sock drawer.

And all this time, while the cop argued with Perez, and Mrs. Adams took it upon herself to cure the neighborhood of its dislike of rules, Percy simply wanted to sell shoes. His father had sold them. His grandfather had invented the grand idea. Anyone can reach the top of their soles.

It wasn’t the best slogan, but Percy liked it. He was the third horseshoed child and loved to walk.

One time he walked from West Virginia to Kansas City. Another, from a train station to a cheap hotel.

And to understand the real tragedy, to see through the eyes of the barefoot and those with no toes, Percy once sat alone on a mountain for ninety seven days. And although he had them off most of the time, he loved boots. But nobody bought them in the barrio.

The cop who had asked if anyone needed some jail time told the crowd to take their complaints to the mayor. He was an accident of birth, too.

But the crowd didn’t move. That is until Percy cried out as he stumbled on a crack pipe and almost dropped his shoe boxes. Everyone stopped griping the cop and turned to watch Percy with gomer movie eyes.

But Percy recovered his composure, and asked the crowd, who now looked at him through scratched lenses of skepticism, if he could please explain the function of shoes.

Naturally, with lenses of skepticism, a skeptic laugh erupted, but it was mild. They were tolerant of eccentric inmates.

Shoes, Percy said.

You need them. Want them. Have them all along the border.

They are the final cushion. Between you and the devil.

Wife whispers to her man: that’s just shoesales talk for the hot pavement.

Now let’s get real, said Percy. He raised his shoe boxes.

Before you buy, I’m just asking you to be careful of the stuff you think you need.

A few folks reached for their money, but before they could count it, Perez got up from his knees where he had fallen in his victory prayer. His wounds left no stain. And he was in no mood for shoes.

What are you doing here? asked Perez. He poked a finger towards Percy in the chest.

I come in peace to help you with your soles, said Percy.

That’s not funny, somebody shouted.

But I’ll tell you what is, said Perez. A shoes salesman who thinks he knows us.

Now we were in for it. Between the eruption of shout and the similar names, the surveillance audio never proved a damn thing. Someone threw a lost lug nut. Mrs. Adams turned up the volume on her horn.

But before things got too out of hand, the cop fired his pistol into the air. The crowd quieted. A bird fell.

Percy took the opportunity to speak.

Look, he said. I know I’m new here. In fact I’m just passing through. But we’ve all got the same needs. We need food, shelter, and protection from broken glass. We need good cops with guns and bullies without them. We need love.

How tall are you? someone asked.

We need to remember our past, continued Percy. But not be consumed by it.

Can you give us a discount? asked the cop.

Percy set his boxes down. Here, he said. Take them. I’m going back up a mountain and nurture my humanity.

Everyone, including Perez, came forward for footwear, but without rush or fear that someone would get a better color. There were kid sizes, too.

Things calmed. Barbeques resumed.

Everyone thanked Percy without going through a lawyer.

They laughed and danced on the bricks with their new shoes.

Two weeks later, Perez won a seat on the city council.

— — —

Okay, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Thanks for reading Dynamic Creed!

Victor David

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