A centipede, each of whose hundred tiny feet is shod, is saying to a snail, “I didn’t expect you to get the shoe thing.”
New Yorker cartoon. March 15, 2021
When I put on my Keen sandals, I noticed a tear above the right big toe. When I took them off, I noticed a matching tear above the left. Just the month before I had worn flat the tread on my Day-Glo orange Merrills. My rule, even before I turned 79 and would seem guaranteed to be fading faster than my possessions, had been get rid of two; replace one.
I am not a sandal guy, really. I am not a lace-up shoe guy or a loafer guy and I have three pairs of sneakers (Okay, “Walking shoes”), and Carlos, the Guatamalan at Andronico’s fish counter, had, just that week, praised my “pre-owned” eel skin Montana-brand cowboy boots, the kind, based on two-seasons of Narcos viewing, I’d say nine out of ten Michoacan drug lords prefer. Since I had bought them on eBay, I returned to that bazaar, where, immediately, a pair of gold-and-black snake skin (“pre-owned”) Tony Lamas struck me. They were handsome, distinctive – certainly in Berkeley distinctive – and in the ballpark price-wise, though, with their back pressed against the centerfield wall.
My previous eBay purchases, the skinned eels, a heavy bag which turned out to be a speed reflex bag, and a practically seeped-in-London-fog Harris tweed sport jacket, then-residing in Latvia, its shipping costing more than it, while probably puzzling whatever analytics had been brought to bear upon me, had been simple “Buy Now” purchases. But the boots required bidding. A newbie at the game, I offered one penny over the minimum. Three people, eBay warned, were “watching,” so my confidence was shaky.
xxx</span
When I mentioned this at Facebook, response was a tepid three “Like”s, two of which came from cousins. My “Friends”’ interests lay elsewhere, ranging from the nationally consequential – voter suppression, say – to the, like mine, particularly personal: “What I Had For Dinner,” for example, often coming, as we used to say in the Adult Book trade, “Photo-illustrated.” I, however, remained enthralled by the experience looming before me. What feet, I wondered, had stood where I hoped to? What streets had these boots trod? Into what bars or boudoirs? Had they lain in bed, normally positioned. whilst their wearer departed for happier trails? I could not wait to see what thoughts might follow. What lessons I might learn. What greetings awaited in the café or locker room or from Carlos.
Before the gavel fell, I received an e-mail from a correspondent in NYC to whom I had broached the subject alerting me to one level of potential response. She was, she declared, unremittingly against “Animal skin chic.” I had known this view existed, but my wardrobe already subscribed to the maxim – two-thirds of it, anyway – espoused by a local author-turned-real estate agent, modifying Wallis Simpson, “You can never be too rich, too thin – or have too much black leather.” I now defended myself by stressing the “pre-owned.” Not only, I said, had all flaying already occurred, but by confining my Googling to “Used,” I had precluded other reptiles from being sacrificed to satisfy my cravings. “Besides, we are talking snakes, not pandas; and if they should be Burmese pythons snatched from the ‘Glades, their demise would have been a mitzvah.” (Actually, python boots are way expensive.)
No one raised me. The 12D market in used serpent appeared limited.
However, I did not stop there.
Some blood lust within me seemed to have been loosed.
Some ostrich-skin boots, (also Tony Lama, also pre-owned) had caught my eye. Their asking price was lower by half, but the action was fierce. Several bumps had occurred, though each had been a buck, the least allowed, so they remained bargain basement goods. These raises had come rapidly, one upon the other, suggesting that buyers had authorized eBay to bid for them until their pre-set maximums had been reached. Should I raise by $10 and try to cull the herd of its weakest? Should I set my own ceiling and see whose yielded first? Should I, now that I had my boots, stand aside and let others attain what their hearts – and wallets – were set on?[1]
What’s more, these were brown as were the below-cuff portions of my eels and snakes. Outfit-wise, wouldn’t I be better off with black? Wouldn’t I, for instance, prefer those charcoal grey sharks (pre-owned, Tony Lama), down the page? They were pricier than the ostrich but cheaper than those I had already bagged. So I bid for them too.[2] Then before I could exit, I spied some gorgeous black-with-burgundy-high-lights ostrich boots (pre-owned, Lucchese), going for slightly less than the shark. I bid – and was immediately topped. I re-bid and was re-topped and re-re-bid and was re-re-topped. By now I had reached my self-imposed limit; the other fellow clearly had not; so with a pang of regret – and sigh of relief – I waved an invisible white flag and withdrew from the field of combat.
I know mania when I see it. One of my favorite episodes of Thirty-something found Michael, in the grip of some life-crisis-or-other, entranced by the Shopping Network and, to Hope’s consternation, loading up on ceramic ducks and faux pearl earrings. I, myself, in seeming compensation for a childhood deprived of full-color, 10-cent sex and violence, had, some decades prior, acquired, probably, the world’s largest collection of Poor-to-Fair-conditioned EC horror comics, not one of which I opened before shelving. Had I been on my way to a bestiary of exotic-skinned gunboats spilling out of my closet? Sure, they might stroll me into the café, but what hole was I actually trying to fill? At what cost and for how long would I fling stuff into it? I have often felt I must have an object I know I don’t need but that if I acquire, the wanting of future objects will cease. That this has never happened does not stop this belief from recurring. I was lucky to be out of it.
But that night, I lay awake, considering options, considering futures, considering the true nature of my soul. I weighed shopping strategies and shopping regrets. Excitement bubbled over me like a stream its banks from a glacier’s thaw. The next morning, en route to my pick up daily espresso, I glanced at the front page of the Times and saw that Larry McMurtry had died at 84. Five years, I thought. Then I remembered the fellow at my heart surgery-survivors’ forum who had posted, “Every day’s a gift. So enjoy your present.”
What’s another $25?
I raised my ceiling.
I re-took the lead.
Bidding closed in seven hours.
Then six.
Then five.
Then ten minutes.
Then one.
I lost by $1.00.
The next afternoon, the shark eluded me by $2.50. It stung. They had been the only ones like them on the board.
“I am going to collect used cowboy boots,” I told Adele, with when-the-going-gets-tough resolve. “One of each species.”
She took the news better than Hope. But she said, “What about two-for-one?”
“I have this other rule,” I said. “Each birthday, Chanuka, anniversary, I credit myself with $100 I can spend on anything.” I tapped my pocket notebook. “It’s written down.
She looked like she saw my IRA flying away.
“I won’t spend over $150 a pair.”
That was how I handled the comics. First, $5. Then $10. Then I quit. Rules. Superego. Proper breeding. Sometimes I think they kept me off hard drugs and out of sewers.
“Okay,” she said.
xxx
eBay must have known I was coming.
And delivered a pair of red snake skin boots (Tony Lama, pre-owned). “RARE,” I should say. “RARE,” in fact “exotic” red snake skin boots. Sure, I already had snakes but how could I risk these slithering away into the rocks and weeds? The seller’s minimum was $200, but, unlike most, he provided a “Make Offer” option.
What the hell.
“$150,” I typed. I hoped he’d split the difference and we’d settle.
He accepted.
WOW!
That had worked so well, I decided on the same approach for a pair of $200 Lucchese black snake skins. (I know. I know. But why be rigid? I had no Luccheses and they seemed the Rolls Royce of the cowboy boot world. What kind of collector would I be without them?) “$150,” I said.
“$200,” I heard back.
WTF? Who was I negotiating with? Mitch McConnell?
And suddenly it was over. Not like clouds had gone before the sun. There was still sun. It was still warm and pleasant. I just wasn’t giddy from the heat.
Rabbi Nachman of Breslov said, “If you are not going to be better tomorrow than you are today, what is the point of tomorrow.” True, that might need a trigger warning before you hung it on the wall of a Suicide Prevention Center, but it seemed a good maxim for now.
I had gone 2 – 4 and I had snakes and eels.
I did not need Shoppers Anonymous.
I needed boot polish.
Possibly pre-owned.
Notes
[1]. These boots went, 14 bids and six days later, for 250% of their original asking price, though still in double figures.
[2]. I might have gone, instead, for black cherry goat skin (used, Lucchese), but sellers at eBay are either generous with photographs – or required to be – and these, on side view, revealed a tear at the pull strap which was a turn-off.