Noodles, Hot-Dogs, and the case of the Purloined Sneakers
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I dreamt of my shoes. Last summer I was destitute. I was a sad pauper. With my last ten dollars I purchased a value-pack of 60 hot dogs, and a box of 24 packages of instant noodles. I have never loved noodles so much. When they're the only thing to soothe the pangs of hunger in your belly, noodles become a special friend. Every time you drop them into that bubbly, boiling water, you wave good-bye to a comrade. They bravely give their lives in the war against emaciation. You always try and play a bit of pretend. You'll add as many spices as you can. Some cayenne here, some sea-salt there. You're a great chef, creating an even greater feast. Mmm-mm, if you close your eyes it's even easier. Once it's mush in your mouth it could have been anything. After a while I really was enjoying a grand feast. Hot summer days, nothing but noodles, dementia is the best spice. The hot-dogs were more difficult. Chewing those I began to picture ever runny pig snout I'd ever seen. Pig lips, pig intestines, pig ears. Oh well, meat is meat when you're hungry. No lovely facade to cover it up. I made do. I even had enough change from my ten dollars to buy a package of hot-dog buns. Six buns, sixty hot-dogs. I could have rationed them, given myself a treat every ten hot-dogs, but I was greedy. So, about the shoes. Back in those days I had a lot of bad habbits. If I required a new pair of shoes I would simply make my way to the local Zellers, try on a pair that suited my fancy, rip the tags off, and quickly leave. It seemed amusingly easy. Why pay for shoes? Why pay for anything? All it takes is a hero. One minimum-wage, pimpled hero, and maybe a huge black taxi-driver, to end the fantasy. It wasn't even shoes that time, but some tender steaks. So, the gig was up, I'd been caught red-handed. That's a different story, but the point is that once you've been caught, even if you've done it a million times, you start to get paranoid. You're weary, and it's harder to convince yourself that you can pull it off. So, as a result, my shoes suffered. The backs became worn and frayed. Soon that plastic piece at the back began to dig into me with every step. Oh woe. Most days I'd walk across town, peppering the local businesses with resumes. I pictured myself as a gangster in the 1920's. I had a tommy-gun and a slick hat. My name is Jacob Moffatt and I worked in tech support, rata-tat-tat. It would usually take me about two and a half hours to walk to one side of town, and the same amount of time back. My feet began to rebel. It was a mutiny aboard the S.S. Jakester. The demands were simple, some comfy kicks, and a brothel of busty women. I pleaded with my feet. and we eventually agreed that if I could produce the shoes the situation would be settled. I was living at my friend Lee's house that summer. It'd seen a lot of tenants come and go, and I knew there was bound to be some stray shoes hanging around. I found some very fashionable black heels that I pranced in briefly, but decided they weren't the best bet. After more searching I found a lovely pair of Nike Airs. They'd belonged to my friend Lee's brother, and were two sizes too large, but they were awfully comfortable. I haggled with Lee for a bit, and out of friendship, or perhaps pity, he allowed me to claim the shoes. From then on I would flop around town in my large shoes, walking on a cloud. My dream last night was trivial, and the only reason I told the story was because I wanted to relate, to you, this freshened memory. That summer was amazingly fun. I fell farther than I ever have, literally and figuratively. Damn roofs; soft and wonderful grass. There is no damn point to this. To be honest, those shoes stunk so terribly I can understand why they were left behind the couch. It took a Navajo spirit man and the sacrifice of a baby squirrel to cleanse the smell, well, almost. That reminds me of this transvestite I used to work with, haha, oh well. Adieu.