Her feet are long and skinny.
When you don’t like someone,
it’s funny how you don’t like their feet, either.
This is my existential observation.
LIKE A GANGSTER
“Get me an insert!” My mother’s nasal voice
is an accusation.
“Of course!” Ernest replies, as if her request
has made him happy!
He flees toward the back room.
I trail him again.
The guys are making bets as to how long
it’ll take for my mother to go completely bonkers.
Ernest sighs, winks as he passes me
on the way back to her.
She slips the pad in.
“The insole is wrong for me!”
She orders another style.
He finally says, “I don’t think
you’re going to like
how that one will feel, either.
The last is cut wide.”
“Who the hell asked you?”
She barks like a gangster.
He stiffens a bit, returns to the storeroom,
balancing all the boxes.
My mother smiles.
She loves shopping for shoes,
but she hates spending money.
FIND THE MANAGER!
She rifles through everything.
“I don’t like these! Find the manager!”
She gives me a look that would go well with a gun.
Ernest uses a soothing voice
that probably works with children.
“The manager can only tell you
what I already explained: I’m real sorry,
but we don’t have this style in narrow.
Why don’t I bring out a shoe
that would be beautiful and comfortable for you?”
Ernest gives her a strained grin,
which shows off those perfect teeth.
WHAT’S SO FUNNY?
Another salesman appears.
“Is Ernest giving you any problems,
madam?” he asks gravely.
“He’s trying to help,” I offer.
“He’s not helping me,” Judith pouts.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, all soft and solicitous.
What is this guy up to?
“You know what, lady?”
He kneels down.
“Call me Judith,” she corrects.
“Miss Judith, you know what?
I have just the solution.
I’m going to fire Ernest’s skinny black ass.”
My mother’s voice rises.
“This has nothing to do with the color of his skin!”
Judith is a lot of things.
But
she’s no racist.
Now, from the back room,
another guy appears and cracks up.
“What’s so funny?” Judith barks.
“Maybe you could lighten up, lady,”
says Benny.
“Where I come from, people would be thrilled
to be busting their brains over which pair
of seventy-five-dollar shoes to buy
and put on their smelly, dog-ugly feet.”
IRONIC
My mother bolts up,
slides into her pumps,
heads for the door.
In the back, the guys slap one another’s backs.
I hear one of them say,
“Heck, from now on,
we should all just share commissions!”
I think how ironic it is that my nasty mother
and her bad attitude
brought the sales team together.
MAP OF THE WORLD
As Judith stomps toward the escalator,
I spot Richie!
He’s in the boys’ section,
studying a sweater
as if it were a map of the world.
“Don’t you want to look at the scarves, Mom?”
I ask, trying to direct her away from Richie.
“Scarves are fifties, not sixties, right, Davy?!”
she says disdainfully,
as if, somehow, my brother is her fashion consultant.
She points at Richie.
“Isn’t that your friend?”
she asks, but the word friend sounds like ax murderer
on her lips.
“Oh! Yes! But he’s shy, Mom.
I can see him later.”
I will her to keep walking.
“Richie!” she commands.
Behind her, I wave meekly,
trying to transmit “run, Richie, run,”
but he walks over, unsuspecting.
Who I see is a smart guy
who speaks French,
quotes James Joyce,
is trying to survive his father’s wrath;
who has plans for his future
and lifts boxes
in the freezing back rooms of the Safeway.
Who likes me.
My mother sees a skinny kid
wearing threadbare clothes.
A shabby haircut and a hesitant, self-effacing manner.
“Hi, Mrs. Meyers,”
Richie says, holding a hanger
with a navy vest.
“Let me see what you’re buying, son,”
she says in her most beguiling voice.
Uh-oh.
MAPLE SYRUP
I wish I could warn him: This is a trap!
As he hands the vest over,
I wait for her to come in for the kill.
“You have good taste.” She smiles.
“I need your opinion, young man.
You and Maisie are tight.
So is she a royal pain in the ass
to you, too?”
Richie sort of hops backward as if he were pushed.
I see his eyebrows coming together in effort.
His chin juts forward just a bit.
Guileless, he looks directly at my mother.
“If I had to characterize Maisie”—
he winks at me—
“I’d say she’s more of a rebel.
That is one of the things I like best
about her, Mrs. Meyers.”
“Then you’re an idiot, Richie.”
“Mother!” I sputter. “Stop it!”
She laughs. Well, cackles.
I hiss and roll my eyes.
She catches me in the act.
“Don’t you dare give me that face!”
Her arm springs out and shoves me back
into a clothes rack.
I frantically grab on to something, a jacket,
thus bringing a bundle of new clothes down
with me as I tumble to the floor.
“Look at your idiot sister, Davy!”
Judith grabs my brother
and drags him toward the elevator.
She throws Richie the navy vest.
“Ugly! Go home, kid!”
“Maisie, Maisie…,” Richie calls;
his maple syrup voice floods me
with hope.
EXCEPT IF YOU’RE A CAT
When I get home,
I call Rachel and refashion my story.
The version I tell her has me on the floor,
covered in designer labels, the only way
I’ll ever get close to Emilio Pucci, ha ha …
my mother tapping her foot in her old, not new pumps …
Rachel jumps in: “I get it.
My entire family is crazy, too,
except I’m not sure about the dog.
Well, come to think of it, the dog is nutty also,
mostly in an interesting way.
Except if you’re a cat.”