Monday, March 07, 2005
Shoelace Noose Considerations
Saturday night. Chicago was quiet and still on the north side. I wandered into a party shortly after eleven with four friends in tow. At the door the hostess asked several people to remove their shoes. I was one of them. She was tipsy and distracted. Therefore about half of the attendees were still clad in footwear. She said something about dogshit and white carpet between the hugs and greetings.
Three steps into the house and I landed in a wet spot. Thankfully it was not brown or mushy. It was the beginning of a bad night for my feet.
The crowd varied. Many were former suburbanites who had migrated to the big city in search of cartwheeling pygmies, twitchy hobos with cardboard, and highfalutin fashion. Things unique to urban life. Since I declined to attend high school none of them were known to me despite our common geographical origins.
Lots of deafening rap was played, and lots of white people threw their hands in the air like they just didn't care. I really wanted to tell them "Yeeah, boyee!" is no longer used, but I didn't have the heart. Watching people desperately clutch at an identity they'll never attain is embarrassing and nauseating. I guarded the keg furthest from the stereo.
The party was fun. People drank, stumbled, laughed, conversed, and stepped on my feet. My socks didn't match, and after about five minutes they were soaked.
Shortly after two I decided to depart. I went to the front door. Lo and behold, only one of my shoes was to be found. It sat dejected and forlorn under a heap of cleaner, more expensive shoes.
I searched. I lifted couches, scanned the front yard, and quizzed bystanders. Most shrugged. Finally the hostess and her boyfriend accompanied me out front to peer up and down sidewalks. The boyfriend confessed that he had indeed witnessed the shoe lying lonely on the front stoop when he'd returned with the second keg. Due to the carrying strain and the impending tapping, he'd completely forgotten about it.
My friends, meanwhile, had progressed from standing around saying "Who would do that? It makes no sense!" to pointing and laughing. Among them was my roommate. I was furious and decided to share it.
"If you like having teeth, shut your fucking trap!" He muttered something and I ignored his unhelpful useless ass.
I decided that some chuckling shinyhaired fratboy scumfuck had picked it up and thrown it as far as his failed quarterback's arm could launch it.
The hostess' boyfriend said "I'm sorry about this man. Whoever did this, I hope his mother dies."
At least I was in good company. I replied "It's not your fault. Thanks for helping me search."
Twenty minutes passed as I stomped up and down Bell Street peeking under vehicles and down sewer grates. My friends stood in the middle of the street giggling and telling me to give it up.
"Dude, it's gone. Let's go. We're cold. You're not going to find it. This is pathetic. Go get new shoes tomorrow. Give me your keys and we'll bring the car here to pick you up." And so forth.
As I strode past a rusted red minivan I saw a familiar white toe peeking from underneath the front end. "Ha! There it is!" I slithered between the van and the shit ugly Ford Escort bumping bumpers with it. I sprinted out into the middle of the street and waved my shoe at my friends.
"Fuck you! Fuck all of you! I found it!" I was literally jumping up and down, apoplectic and ornery. We left.
I went back after dropping them off. I wanted to personally thank the hostess and her boyfriend for their help and sympathy. I also wanted to find two friends I'd left behind. They didn't want to leave when I did and I just knew they were begging for rides by this time. Bernie had already left. Wherefore art thou Bernie, oh transportation forsaken one? Steve was snoring and drooling on the couch. He was one of three guests left. I woke him and dragged him away to the Burrito House on Addison where we gobbled massive burritos stuffed with low quality overcooked steak droplets. Steve ate his burrito, a plate of nachos, and my uneaten portion. I'm sure he shit a football on Sunday.
My friends made almost no effort to help me. Three strangers did. The one I haven't mentioned so far is a beauty. When she heard about my shoe problem she wordlessly left her quiet corner and searched the closet and the house. She's cute and apparently single. I should've made an effort to thank her and ask her out, but I was enveloped in a murderous seething rage at the time. I am still kicking myself over that one. Regret struck about halfway through the burrito.
My family doesn't get Christmas or birthday cards from me. Yet I am seriously considering sending thank you notes to those three people. I know where to find them. 9:28 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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