The First Hundred Yards

August 4, 2011 at 11:06 am · Filed under Crazy stuff, Mostly true, Stories, Weird stuff ·Tagged author, Charles L. Mashburn, crossing the line, funny, humor, kid pulling a shoe, maybe someone should call the authorities, story, walk a mile with my shoe, Weird stuff, when does weird cross the line, writer

If you missed the first three installments of this whacky ride–er, I mean walk–you messed up! But in case you’re interested, you can go to the links below and catch up:

1. When Does Weird Cross The Line?

2. Walk a Mile With My Shoe

3. Bring it, Scuff Boy!

Now, if all that isn’t enough, I’ve got more, so come on! Part four is here!

When Sherry got home that afternoon, I was in my office, and the shoe was in my big chair in the living room “watching” Jerry Springer re-runs—or at least that’s where it had been last time I checked. Sherry shouted her, “I’m home”, from the foyer then a few seconds later was standing in the hall outside my office with a concerned look on her face. I figured it was about the shoe in my chair, but she caused me to look up with a startled expression when she asked, “Is there a reason the front door was standing wide open?”

I stared at her for what seemed a long time, but was probably mere seconds then bolted from my chair and rushed down the hall as she backed quickly out of the way.

The shoe was not in my chair, and two fat ladies were beating the hell out of a skinny guy with no front teeth on Springer. I almost tripped over the rope that’d been tied around the shoe when I had inherited it. I picked it up and was staring at it when Sherry entered the room. Two big guys in suits were trying to pull the skinny guy’s wife and girlfriend off the poor fella on Springer; I think they were sisters.

“What?” Sherry said. “What’s that for? What’s going on?”

I looked at her—we shared frowns—then said, “Remember the kid with the shoe?” I held the rope up, as an attempt to help explain. “He was pulling the shoe on a rope?”

Sherry moved over to the couch and sat down on the edge of it. “Uh-huh,” she said, glancing at the phone.

I shot a quick look at the phone then waved a hand at her and said, “No no no. I’m okay!” Talking fast, I gave her a condensed version of how I had been “gifted” the gifted shoe, and what had transpired that afternoon prior to her arrival. Her tone and reply was pretty much the same as before as she nodded politely and again said, “Uh-huh.”

“Did you not hear the part about God?” I asked, again holding the rope up for her to see. It seemed like ample proof to me that what I was telling her had really happened.

She cleared her throat, looked down at the carpet then said, “Okay. God—via this little boy—gave you a magic shoe.”

The way she said magic made me blush; maybe even made me a little mad, but I remained calm. Okay… not really, really calm, but I didn’t slam the door that hard as I stormed out of the house.

The shoe was hiding between the two crepe myrtles in the front yard, and as I approached it jumped out, ran a circle around me—on its toe–then rolled onto its back and wagged its heel. Something told me this meant I was supposed to tie the rope around it. I did so, in spite of the darn thing wiggling and squirming like crazy. It was like trying to put mittens on a toddler holding an ice cream cone in one hand and a peanut butter sandwich in the other.

As we started down the street, the shoe bouncing merrily behind me, I turned to see Sherry looking out the partially open door. When she saw me look her way, she quickly shut the door.

One of the old guys who lives next door was standing on his porch, smoking a cigarette. It cracks me up the way he does it; he takes a drag then holds the cigarette in front of his face, and studies it intently, like he’s hypnotized by the cherry. I prayed he wouldn’t look my way, but it was one of those prayers you really don’t expect to be answered in your favor, and it wasn’t.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Goin’ fer a walk?”

I smiled, waved and tried to smart-aleck my way out of it. “No. Just trying to find the owner of this shoe.”

The guy comes walking toward me, and being the polite sort I am, I stopped. The shoe ran into my foot, flopped onto its side then was still.

“Hey!” the old guy said, an excited grin sprouting on one side of his face. “I got a shoe just like that one in the house!”

“Really?” I said, matching his excitement.

“No!” he said, his grin even bigger than before. He hacked a laugh, then bent over and went into a coughing jag I thought sure would kill him. I didn’t know if I should slap him on the back or run, so I just stood there. He wheezed in a gulp of air, hacked again then spit a glob of green stuff onto the driveway. Beautiful.

When he was finished, he cleared his throat and walked back up to his smoking station, where he took a drag and then stared at the cherry on the end of the cigarette.

Me and the shoe went on down the road, the shoe once again bounding and hopping merrily behind me.

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