One shoe on the side of the road.

By; Opa

My name is Righty, and my story is typical for a shoe. I was made in China, shipped and sold.  No big deal until the day I was purchased by a member of the Sharpsteen family. Specifically, Matilda Sharpsteen, she came into the store with her mom and loved me at first sight. She tried my brother Lefty and me on, loved us and with a swipe of the card we joined the Sharpsteen family.

I don’t mean to be sexist.  She was just a little girl. I thought we would do tea parties, plays and maybe dance classes. I was not prepared for rugby, kickboxing and rock climbing. We were kicked, stomped, muddied and bloodied not what I expected at all. But, damn, was it fun!

Then, my great life turned into a nightmare. I had a feeling of weightlessness and wind. In that moment, I had these really crazy thoughts: Korean sitcoms, streets full of water, sleep nazis, should I still be in a conventional mutual fund or ETFs, and Pirate’s fans.  And, then it was blacktop, tumbling and then nothing. (Which is really amazing that all that was going on when you think about it because I don’t have a brain.  A tongue, heal, toes, eye(lets), and a sole, but no brain). I know folks out in Oregon are working really hard on the smart shoe, but Sam, I don’t think we can say it’ll have a brain!!!

When I awoke, I was alone on the side of the road. I think—again amazing—It was Matilda’s little brother, Skip, who threw me out of the car.  You see Skip is allergic to bee stings, and a bumblebee had flown into the car.  So, he threw me at the bumblebee, and out the window I went.

So, as I’m laying along side of the road for I don’t know a year?  It happened.  Adopt-A-Highway (AAH) day.  An ordinary group of  NYers put on neon vests and hard hats and pick up trash along the highway putting it in orange trash bags for the NYDOT to pickup. One lady with the AAH picked me up, and instead of putting me in the orange trash bag, she stuffed me in her backpack. In the total darkness of the pack, I think—I know amazing—now what? It so happened that this lady was an abstract artist, and she saw art in me!

A couple days or years later who knows, in her studio she takes me and mounts me on a four by four section of blacktop.  She then frames the section with 2×6’s and pours clear acrylic on top of me and the blacktop, covering us completely. She threw a couple legs under us and called us a coffee table. Get this she named us: “One shoe on the side of the road”.

On a Saturday, she loaded me into a minivan and down the road we went. We arrived at a show or flea market, I wasn’t sure which.  I was very confused—I know amazing—about what was happening. She had setup a booth with other artsy items and she was trying to sell us.  As I said earlier, I’m not real smart, but who in holy hell is going to buy a shoe on a slab of blacktop? What the HELL! Someone’s buying me.  I guess I just don’t know art. But the real twist to this story is who bought me?

Abigail Sharpsteen, Matilda’s mom. Unbelievable right, you couldn’t write this ending any better than if you were me, and you wrote it like me!!!!

In conclusion, most stories have a tale or fable or hidden meaning. Well, they should, but if they stink, they might not. But, this one does, and it’s this: “Just because some kid throws you out of a car doesn’t mean your life is over. Because you could become an acrylic coffee table.”

One thought on “One shoe on the side of the road.

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