Shoes
Brian A. Hammar
Published by JenChris Online Ventures, Inc. at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Brian A. Hammar
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SHOES
by
Brian A. Hammar
The huddled man coughed blood past his shaking hands. He wiped his chin with the sleeve of his worn overcoat. A bundle of shivering urban debris in a wet alley between two dumpsters, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. The open lid of the dumpster offered some shelter from the falling rain. A trash fire might dull the teeth of the voracious cold, but everything was too wet to burn and, besides, the cops would probably clear the alley if they saw a fire. There was little to do but huddle and shiver…and die.
Another man watched, peeking from under a piece of scrap plywood. After his friend had not moved for a few minutes, he set his plywood aside, crawled to his friend, and nudged. The huddled man remained still, so he peeled back his friend’s overcoat to expose his feet. Just as he pulled at his friend’s laces, the huddled man kicked and drew back into his corner.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the huddled man said.
“Nothing, I—”
“Oh, it’s you, Freddy.”
“I was just… ahh…”
“After my shoes.”
“You promised, Tom.”
Tom tucked his foot back under his coat. “Yeah, well I’m not dead yet. You can’t have them ’til I’m dead.” He wrapped his arms tightly about his chest and shoulders, coughed another trickle of blood and shut his eyes.
The rain grew heavier. Fred knelt before Tom – watching. Tom opened his eyes and said, “How can I sleep with you watching me like that?”
“I’ll just go back where I belong.” He slowly backed off, feeling his way as he moved, watching Tom.
“Ahh, get your board and come on over here. Maybe we can share some heat…but keep your hands to yourself. I don’t want my shoes accidentally falling off.”
Fred retrieved his plywood, then huddled beside Tom. After adjusting the board over them a few times, the two men sat still. The rain danced over the dumpster lid, down the plywood, and toward a pool in the middle of the alley. Sour, foul-smelling water poured out of the bottom of the dumpster and slowly oozed away from the men.
Tom raised his head. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“The bells…that’s the cathedral. I made it to Christmas.”
“Christmas already went by…a couple months ago.”
“Are you sure, Freddy?”
“Course I’m sure.”
“Then why the bells?”
“I didn’t hear any bells.”
Tom coughed and spit. “Must be weekly services, or something special.” He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out with choking grunts. “I love those bells. It was always special in the cathedral at Christmas time.”
“Not so special for us.”
“Did I ever tell you I used to play the organ there?”
“Only about a million times.”
Tom smirked at Fred. They sat silent. Tom leaned forward, turning his ears side-to-side, straining to hear past the pelting rain. “I want to go there.”
“What?”
“I want to go to the cathedral.”
“You’re crazy. You can’t hardly walk.”
“You could help, Freddy.”
“Crazy.”
They sat quiet again, Tom leaning forward, Fred leaning against the brick wall. The rain slowed and Tom peered from below the dumpster lid. He crawled out and clutched his coat around his neck. He looked back at his friend. “Freddy, I’ve got five bucks in my sock—”
“Where’d you get five bucks?”
“I’ve always had it! I keep it in my sock so I’ll never be completely poor. It’s yours if you’ll take me to the cathedral.”
“Tomorrow…in daylight. Maybe it’ll stop rainin’ by then.”
“No, Freddy. It has to be tonight.”
“It’s too cold.”
Tom shivered and snuggled into his damp coat. “I’ll give you my shoes.”
“You already said I could have ’em.”
“I mean tonight…after you take me to the cathedral. You give me your shoes, and you can have mine.”
Fred leaned forward, staring at Tom’s boots. “You mean you’ll give them up tonight?”
“That’s right.”
“For good?”
“Take me there and the shoes are yours for good.”
Fred leapt up, throwing his board aside and crashing into the corner of the dumpster lid. “Ow!” He rubbed his head. “You got a deal. But I just gotta get you there. If we can’t get inside, it doesn’t matter, right? I got you there and that’s all that matters.”
“Deal.”
Fred leaned down and helped Tom stand. With Tom’s arm wrapped around Fred’s neck, the men stumbled out of the alley, into the chilly, nearly deserted street.
Tom spoke of memories as they walked. “They really do Christmas right in there – colored lights glowing over the painted walls and statues, candles and flowers everywhere.”
“It ain’t Christmas.”
“The smell of incense during Mass, and the organ, that magnificent organ with eight rows of pipes covering the walls in back and on both sides of the choir loft.”
Fred ignored him while watching their footing.
“I can smell the air rushing through the pipes – a little stale, but the sound made it oh so sweet.”
“Anything smells better than the likes of us.”
“Four keyboards, each with perfectly balanced ivory keys, so light to the touch. Brass knobs and levers. Three rows of pedals. The work that went into that organ – nobody does work like that anymore.”
Tom clutched Fred’s neck tightly as he started coughing. He sucked against a vacuous atmosphere, trying to breathe. He coughed again and fell off the curb to the gutter. Fred kept him upright with a stumbling effort. Passersby might have thought them both drunk. Fred directed Tom back to the sidewalk. Just a couple more blocks to the cathedral.
“In the daytime, light came in through the stained glass. It seemed like a hundred colors – only about half a dozen, really, but there was so much of it!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“It was like looking through a kaleidoscope. Same thing at night if you’re looking from outside. And standing on the front walk, looking up at the bell tower, listening to those bells. It takes your breath away.”
They crossed a street and Tom tripped over the far curb. He coughed and spit more blood. Fred led him under a store awning. “Rest here for a few minutes,” Fred said.