The Loss and Reclamation of My Boat Shoes

14 Oct
kyleboatshoe

The miracle of birth.

Yep. That’s me. That’s me giving birth to my boat shoes. My boat shoes, I’d privy to say, are perhaps the single most important article of clothing I have ever owned. They class me up. They stud me out. They make me look like different things to different people. To some, they make me look like a wily youth. To some, an ardent, yet unpretentious intellectual. To others, a hobo. No matter who you are, though, you cannot underestimate their power and beauty.

Recently, I had the scare of my life.

I lost my boat shoes.

You have to understand, wearing my boat shoes in public can easily be likened to wearing two, tiny, foot-size Aston-Martins that can also become two full-size Aston-Martins if you want them to be.

Different Ashton-Martin

Ashton-Martin

The point is that I couldn’t completely rule out the possibility that someone had stolen my boat shoes. It’s a distinct possibility. I went to the Waxahachie Police Department to file a report.

—-

The offices are in downtown Waxahachie across from some trees and stuff. I walk in. There’s one central desk, closest to the front door. Behind it is a bullpen with probably a dozen more desks separated by small partitions. I wonder where they keep the box of guns. I’ll ask in a little bit.

“Hello, sir.”

“Hello.”

“I’d like to report a missing person–well, persons.”

“Persons? Hm. Well all right, have the persons been missing more than forty-eight hours?”

“Probably. I just started looking for them this morning, but I’ve been wearing my other shoes for the past three or four days, so they could have been missing for like…a hundred hours.” I stand with my hands clasped together, nervous. The officer looks slightly confused.

“I’m sorry, what does your choice in footwear have to do with these missing people?”

“I can only wear one pair of shoes at a time. Listen, all I’m saying is that maybe they got their feelings hurt that I was wearing my Nikes all the time, maybe they’ve run away or something. You j–”

“Wait.” He holds his hand up. “Let me stop you right there. Are these people that are missing, or shoes?”

“Neither.”

“Neither.”

“Yea, they’re boat shoes, so they’re more than shoes, but less than people. But also more than people because they don’t judge you.”

“Get out.”

—-

I wear these shoes all the time. If I lost those boat shoes, I don’t know where I’d put my feet. I have other pair(s) of shoes, but they’re just not the same. See, my Nikes are like Marion Barber and my boat shoes are like Felix J…no, that doesn’t work. See, I’m like Doc Holiday, and my Nikes are like my one gun and my boat shoes are like my other gun that I like a little more.

—-

I looked under my couch, under my love seat, under every single cat, and under my bed. I stood in my living room thinking, Where the Hell are those sh… Oh God. Could my shoes be in Hell? I would travel to Hell to find see if my shoes are there.

How does one get to hell? Since I asked Jesus to live in my right ventricle while I was in High School, I knew I’d have to really find some divine-loop hole if I wanted to go to Hell when I died. The gospel says that when you ask Jesus into your heart, he’s there forever, no matter what you do or say. I decided that if I wanted to go to hell, I’d have to remove my heart, then die.

I sit in my bathroom with a large steak knife and a heart shaped outline around the left side of my chest.

“Here I come, Phinnaes and Daxaus (the names for my boat shoes), here comes mama.” I put the blade to my chest. “Ow,” I said. “God, that hurts. I’m not doing this anymore.” I got up and made a sandwich.

I went to creeks, overpasses, boat stores. I even went to a dock and roughed up a couple of the guys I found there. I thought maybe my boat shoes felt jipped because they had never really been on a boat. Maybe they hated me. Oh god…*shiver*

I burst out into the night, screaming, weeping for my shoes.

“WHAT HAVE I DONE?! WHAT HAVE I DONE TO BETRAY YOU?!”

At this moment a sharp crack, deeper than any thunder I had ever heard, resonated in the heavens. It was immediately followed by a high-pitched “HOO!” then what sounded like an exasperated sigh. I looked up and saw Truth.

“My god. It’s you. You are real!” When Wesley and I were children, we would often lay on the grass at night, trying our best to avoid all the syringes, and talk about the universe and the stars. One night I asked Wesley what the stars were. He said that they were all the great shoes of the past. I told him he was an idiot and threw a dirty needle at him. Then we shared a bottle of Nyquil and fell asleep on my roof.

What was looking down on me was the great Boat Shoe Mother–and Michael Jackson’s head. Apparently he lives in space, too.

“I Am the great Boat Shoe Mother. Hello.”

God, it's full of stars.

My God, it's full of stars.

“Hello, I said. Do you know where m–”

“I’m Michael,” Michael Jackson interrupted, almost whispering.

“Hello, Michael. I went to your viewing. It was very nice.”

“Oh, did you? That’s sweet, that’s sweet. Do you know if they put my head in a jar or not? Because I j–”

“Michael? I’d really like to solve one problem at a time. I’ll solve your head thing next. Let me get my shoes back.”

“Oh, OK,” he said, sounding slightly dejected.

“KYLE,” Shoe Mother said.

“Yes?” I fell to my knees.

“You have forgotten who you are, and therefore forgotten me. Until you remember, your shoes are all but lost.”

“But, but how will I discover who I am? How will I know?

“You will know.”

“Please! Please you don’t know what it’s like! PLEASE!” I step forward on my knees, reaching my hands into the heavens. “I need you! I need your help! I’m…I’m lost.”

“Remember.”

“I’m so…”

“Remember,” then Shoe Mother vanished. I sat on my front yard, weeping in silence, my hands resting limply on my thighs.

“My turn now?” Michael Jackson’s ethereal head asked. I looked up.

“Michael, I’m pretty sure they just buried your head.”

“How can you be sure?” He sounded afraid. I sighed, glanced to the ground, and then back to the sky.

“Because I was at your viewing. Your head was clearly in the coffin. Nobody stole your head.”

“That makes me feel so much better. Thank you, Kyle. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Jackson. Have a good afterlife.”

“You too,” he said, nodding toward me.

“I’m still alive, though.”

“Oh, well. I feel like I need to repay you.”

“No, really, it isn’t necessary.”

“No, it is. Please. Would you like me to sing you a song?”

“To be honest, a floating, disembodied pop-star singing to me from beyond the grave would probably just frighten me.”

“How ’bout this? I can tell you where yo shoes are! I saw them with my GHOST EYES!” His eyes turned a ghastly white. “WOOOOOH!” He giggled in ecstasy. I’m pretty sure I peed myself a little bit.

“Where are they?”

“Your closet! Your GHOST closet!” I was fairly positive he just meant my regular closet.

“Thanks, Michael!”

“You’re welcome. Goodbye!”

“Bye!”

I ran into my house, threw open my door, dug under some towels and old clothes and there they were. My boat shoes. We were reunited.

Best friends.

Best friends.

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2 Responses to “The Loss and Reclamation of My Boat Shoes”

  1. Lanny October 14, 2009 at 10:54 pm #

    +3 Gimp Skills.

    5 more Gimp skills and you unlock “Master at Layering!” ability.

    • Kyle Irion October 14, 2009 at 11:27 pm #

      The picture of me holding my shoe is actually five layers. I’m getting those points.

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