Buying A Pair Of Shoes

My father has over 20 pairs of cowboy boots. He’d love nothing more than to shove one of his Tony Lama alligator, ostrich, hippo, lizard, or rhino boots up your ass. He has 5 or 6 Stetson hats that are blocked to perfection. All of this makes sense since he was born and raised in Teaneck, New Jersey.

My father loves clothing. He is what he terms a, “clothes horse,” although he wouldn’t call himself that. He appreciates footwear the most. Years ago he found a pair of cow hide clogs, during his clog phase. Not sure if he ever wore them but after the divorce my mother threw them out in the trash, I happened to grab em and still have them today.

New Jersey is the 6th borough of New York City. It houses over 2 million flat footers. The masses that work in the city, that trudge the pavement. My father was destined to mass with the masses in the city and become a flat footing commuter, working in an office doing office things. But somehow he wound up in the middle of the country at Offutt air force base, met my mother and began to raise a family. He got into his cowboy look when he was riding the rails selling credit life insurance to banks across the prairie. One night after dinner and drinks, around 2am, this cadre of businessmen and bankers suggested it was time for my father to own a proper cowboy hat. One of the men at the table owned the large western wear store in the town and at 2am, the men played dress up. They had selected a fine Angus granite 4x fur felt Stetson for him. My father looked great in it, he looked strong, like an American. This hat led to more hats and boots, and more boots and long rider trench coats and that was about it…no bolo ties as far as I can recollect.

In 1980 I was graduating high school and my father thought it was time I owned a suit. We picked out a nice blue pin stripe, a couple dress shirts, ties. And then it came to the shoes. He insisted I have a nice pair of Florsheim Wing Tips. He bought be a pair of the classic black Carleton’s. I wore them always. They became my favorite shoe and I had them resoled countless times.

In 1986 I moved to New York City and within the first few weeks of being there I took my coveted Florsheim’s into a shoe repair place on 1st Avenue just below 51st street. I asked them to be resoled, cleaned and shined. “Day after tomorrow,” the man said. That night the woman I moved in with got drunk and mad and kicked me out. I found a pal to crash with in Tribeca on Reade Street and after a few months I moved to the upper west side where a 2 bedroom sublet became available.

I met my wife on the upper west side. She and I lived across the street from each other at 90th and Columbus and later moved in together cross-town at 90th between 3rd and Lexington. We had a glorious time together in the city as young people do in their late 20’s; we dined, danced and dreamed of owning a nice Murray Hill Townhouse…but then moved to Los Angeles.

This past fall I was back in the city on the east side to give a speech at the United Nations. As we motored up the FDR, I smiled about the city and thought about how it never really changes. After the speech a few of us gathered for lunch near the Roosevelt Tram and then after lunch I took a stroll down 1st Avenue. The neighborhood seemed familiar and then, out of nowhere I felt a shock run through my feet, up my spine and into my ears, I somehow remembered my wingtips. I looked to my right and there was the same storefront that had existed 25 years earlier. I entered, an electronic signal echoed in the shop and a small man came to the counter to greet me.
“Picking up -dropping off?” The man asked abruptly.
“Uh…hello… this may seem strange, and I’m just going to take a shot here, I was in a long, long time ago and had dropped off a pair of shoes to get resoled, again this was about 25--“
The man cut me off.
--“Black wingtips?”
“YES!”
--“Size 12? Leather resoles?”
“YES!”
--“Day after tomorrow.”