The Shoe Hospital
Jan. 15th, 2011 05:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolI picked up a pair of my wife’s shoes down at the Shoe Hospital yesterday. I’ve been going to the same place for years. It has a single long formica counter with cubicles full of shoeboxes behind it; plenty of scuffed up chairs for waiting; a small fitting and measuring area. It’s as unpretentious a shoe repair joint as you can imagine, but they do good work, don’t charge a lot, and they have things ready on time.
There was a short line. When I got to the front I presented my claim ticket. The counterman took it, looked at the numbers on the rows of shoeboxes behind him, and frowned. “Let me check in the back, sir,” he said, and pushed though the swinging doors to the back of the shop. A few minutes later he came back. He looked worried.
“Sir,” he said, “there’s a small complication with your shoes.”
“Really?” I asked. “I mean, it was just a simple resoling job.”
“I know, sir, but there are a few issues we should probably discuss.”
I folded my arms. “Okay, let’s discuss them.”
The counterman licked his lips and glanced over my shoulder. The line behind me was several people deep. The shopman leaned in and pitched his voice low.
“Sir,” he said, “we have a policy to protect the privacy of our patients.”
“We’re still talking about shoes, aren’t we?” I stage-whispered.
“Yes, sir, we are.” The man appeared very, very serious. He straightened up.
“If you’ll just accompany me into the back, sir,” he said smoothly, “we can have all this sorted out in a jiffy.”
“That would be fine,” I said, meaning the opposite. A piece of the counter hinged upward, and the counterman held it up for me and then led the way through the swinging door.
The watts per square foot of lighting on the other side of the door more than doubled. I found myself in a sterile, brightly lit corridor with washable floors and pastel walls. Women in scrubs were having urgent conversations in small clumps. Somebody wearing booties pushed a cart past. Two men in surgical whites were examining some X-rays on a wall-mounted lightbox. It was clearly a photo of some kind of a mule; the ghostly outlines of the leather parts threw the embedded nail into sharp relief.
“We’ll cut through the emergency center,” the counterman told me, leading me into a side corridor. Coming around the corner we were almost run over by a gurney being pushed by a very stressed medic. Lying in the middle of the gurney was a Jimmy Choo, a glossy peep toe in a fuchsia snake pattern. Its heel had been entirely broken off. Trailing the medic was a lady wearing furs; she was on the brink of losing it.
“Oh, please tell me it can be reattached,” she begged. The medic ignored her, and we pushed past.
The Emergency Center was an absolute zoo. A fawn Louboutin sling was being triaged at a table; it had clearly been chewed up by a dog. “I’m losing it, I’m losing it!” shouted a doctor, waving frantically for the paddles. In another corner, a Diego Dolchini boot with an obscenely high heel had given way all along one of its seams and the diagnostic machine it was attached to had flatlined; its owner held it and sobbed while the doctors grimly recited the time.
We passed by several treatment rooms. In one of them a Carlos Santana pump had an empty Coke bottle irretrievably wedged into it. The shoe nurse practicioner stared accusingly at the fratboy who had brought it in, who smiled embarrassedly and shrugged. “Hey,” he mumbled, “we were, you know, just playing around.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” said the counterman, pulling me out into a much quieter hall. “This wing is pediatrics; there should be much less drama here.”
We walked down a line of rooms with shoes propped up on small beds in front of the television. In one of them, a kind-looking nurse in floral scrubs was patiently explaining to a tiny Chuck Taylor that they were going to remove its laces and replace them with some that were much, much better. I hated to see the rooms with the Keds that looked totally healthy, except that their treads were completely bald. I nudged the counterman.
“Hey,” I said, “where’s the labor and delivery wing?”
He laughed and favored me with a recriminatory look. “You do know that’s not how shoes are made, right?”
“Hey, I just thought….”
“You just thought what?”
I shrugged. “I…I don’t know.”
“Okay.” He plucked my sleeve. “Okay, now look, we’re passing by the morgue. Be respectful.”
It was a very cold room full of rows and rows of shoes. All of them had a pricetag on the toe.
“Ha ha, toe-tag, I get it,” I muttered. The counterman grabbed my arm.
“I said respectful,” he hissed.
“What? It’s not like I made a joke about their tongues hanging out.”
The counterman rolled his eyes. “We are *so* not going by Pathology,” he said.
And then we were in the intensive shoe care ward. My guide waited discreetly at the door. A nurse signed me in, then led me to the bed where my wife’s shoes were being cared for. They were Giuseppe Zanotti pumps, iridescent, very delicate. Today they looked wan and very small, attached to a variety of hoses and wires, with a drip bag hanging overhead. The shoe doctor joined me at bedside.
“Your shoes,” he told me solemnly, “are very gravely ill.”
“Doctor, don’t spare my feelings,” I told him, trying to be brave. “Will my wife’s shoes live?”
The doctor made a noncommittal expression. “One of the straps is torn,” he informed me. “If your wife were to put it on, it would simply fall off her foot.”
“How can this be?” I buried my face in my hands. “Yesterday they were fine, just fine!”
The doctor put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Do not blame yourself,” he said kindly. “Nobody knows why these things happen. But know this: you have brought your shoes to the proper place. Here they will receive the very best care. We will work around the clock to repair your wife’s shoes, and I am hopeful that after surgery they will be back on her feet, good as new.”
“Surgery?” I looked up. “Doctor, is the surgery serious?”
“It is a difficult, complicated procedure,” the doctor conceded.
I firmed up my resolve. “In that case, doctor,” I said, “we want a second opinion. Come along, shoes; we’re going home.” Over the protests of the doctor and nursing staff, I disconnected the Zanottis from the machinery, stuffed them back in their shoebox, and pushed my way to the rear exit of the shoe hospital.
Working my way around the outside of the building and back to my car, I came across a dumpster.
**
I returned home. My wife looked up, hopeful.
“The shoes?” she asked. “Are they all right?”
“Oh, darling,” I said, holding my arms open. “I have some very bad news.”
I held her tight.
There was a short line. When I got to the front I presented my claim ticket. The counterman took it, looked at the numbers on the rows of shoeboxes behind him, and frowned. “Let me check in the back, sir,” he said, and pushed though the swinging doors to the back of the shop. A few minutes later he came back. He looked worried.
“Sir,” he said, “there’s a small complication with your shoes.”
“Really?” I asked. “I mean, it was just a simple resoling job.”
“I know, sir, but there are a few issues we should probably discuss.”
I folded my arms. “Okay, let’s discuss them.”
The counterman licked his lips and glanced over my shoulder. The line behind me was several people deep. The shopman leaned in and pitched his voice low.
“Sir,” he said, “we have a policy to protect the privacy of our patients.”
“We’re still talking about shoes, aren’t we?” I stage-whispered.
“Yes, sir, we are.” The man appeared very, very serious. He straightened up.
“If you’ll just accompany me into the back, sir,” he said smoothly, “we can have all this sorted out in a jiffy.”
“That would be fine,” I said, meaning the opposite. A piece of the counter hinged upward, and the counterman held it up for me and then led the way through the swinging door.
The watts per square foot of lighting on the other side of the door more than doubled. I found myself in a sterile, brightly lit corridor with washable floors and pastel walls. Women in scrubs were having urgent conversations in small clumps. Somebody wearing booties pushed a cart past. Two men in surgical whites were examining some X-rays on a wall-mounted lightbox. It was clearly a photo of some kind of a mule; the ghostly outlines of the leather parts threw the embedded nail into sharp relief.
“We’ll cut through the emergency center,” the counterman told me, leading me into a side corridor. Coming around the corner we were almost run over by a gurney being pushed by a very stressed medic. Lying in the middle of the gurney was a Jimmy Choo, a glossy peep toe in a fuchsia snake pattern. Its heel had been entirely broken off. Trailing the medic was a lady wearing furs; she was on the brink of losing it.
“Oh, please tell me it can be reattached,” she begged. The medic ignored her, and we pushed past.
The Emergency Center was an absolute zoo. A fawn Louboutin sling was being triaged at a table; it had clearly been chewed up by a dog. “I’m losing it, I’m losing it!” shouted a doctor, waving frantically for the paddles. In another corner, a Diego Dolchini boot with an obscenely high heel had given way all along one of its seams and the diagnostic machine it was attached to had flatlined; its owner held it and sobbed while the doctors grimly recited the time.
We passed by several treatment rooms. In one of them a Carlos Santana pump had an empty Coke bottle irretrievably wedged into it. The shoe nurse practicioner stared accusingly at the fratboy who had brought it in, who smiled embarrassedly and shrugged. “Hey,” he mumbled, “we were, you know, just playing around.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” said the counterman, pulling me out into a much quieter hall. “This wing is pediatrics; there should be much less drama here.”
We walked down a line of rooms with shoes propped up on small beds in front of the television. In one of them, a kind-looking nurse in floral scrubs was patiently explaining to a tiny Chuck Taylor that they were going to remove its laces and replace them with some that were much, much better. I hated to see the rooms with the Keds that looked totally healthy, except that their treads were completely bald. I nudged the counterman.
“Hey,” I said, “where’s the labor and delivery wing?”
He laughed and favored me with a recriminatory look. “You do know that’s not how shoes are made, right?”
“Hey, I just thought….”
“You just thought what?”
I shrugged. “I…I don’t know.”
“Okay.” He plucked my sleeve. “Okay, now look, we’re passing by the morgue. Be respectful.”
It was a very cold room full of rows and rows of shoes. All of them had a pricetag on the toe.
“Ha ha, toe-tag, I get it,” I muttered. The counterman grabbed my arm.
“I said respectful,” he hissed.
“What? It’s not like I made a joke about their tongues hanging out.”
The counterman rolled his eyes. “We are *so* not going by Pathology,” he said.
And then we were in the intensive shoe care ward. My guide waited discreetly at the door. A nurse signed me in, then led me to the bed where my wife’s shoes were being cared for. They were Giuseppe Zanotti pumps, iridescent, very delicate. Today they looked wan and very small, attached to a variety of hoses and wires, with a drip bag hanging overhead. The shoe doctor joined me at bedside.
“Your shoes,” he told me solemnly, “are very gravely ill.”
“Doctor, don’t spare my feelings,” I told him, trying to be brave. “Will my wife’s shoes live?”
The doctor made a noncommittal expression. “One of the straps is torn,” he informed me. “If your wife were to put it on, it would simply fall off her foot.”
“How can this be?” I buried my face in my hands. “Yesterday they were fine, just fine!”
The doctor put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Do not blame yourself,” he said kindly. “Nobody knows why these things happen. But know this: you have brought your shoes to the proper place. Here they will receive the very best care. We will work around the clock to repair your wife’s shoes, and I am hopeful that after surgery they will be back on her feet, good as new.”
“Surgery?” I looked up. “Doctor, is the surgery serious?”
“It is a difficult, complicated procedure,” the doctor conceded.
I firmed up my resolve. “In that case, doctor,” I said, “we want a second opinion. Come along, shoes; we’re going home.” Over the protests of the doctor and nursing staff, I disconnected the Zanottis from the machinery, stuffed them back in their shoebox, and pushed my way to the rear exit of the shoe hospital.
Working my way around the outside of the building and back to my car, I came across a dumpster.
**
I returned home. My wife looked up, hopeful.
“The shoes?” she asked. “Are they all right?”
“Oh, darling,” I said, holding my arms open. “I have some very bad news.”
I held her tight.
