If The Shoe Fits

Martin Clark paused outside the shoe shop. The tiny store must have been new. He couldn’t recall seeing the place the last time he was in the city centre. Mind you, the high street changed so rapidly these days. One week a hip new restaurant popped up, and the next it was gone, to be replaced by a coffee shop or a trendy bar. The name of the shop was written in swirling black letters on a deep red background. If The Shoe Fits.

The display in the window showed a real mix of shoes. This clearly wasn’t your generic store selling whatever fashions were in this month. In the window was all kinds of footwear from brown brogues to baseball boots. It looked to be a quirky little place. Martin couldn’t resist going in to see what else they had to offer.

As he entered the bell above the door jangled. Martin looked around in awe. This place had every type of shoe you could think off. Crammed on each shelf, were all kinds of shoes. All the shoes looked brand new, but the styles and type of footwear was so eclectic. 

A man appeared behind the counter. He gave Martin a welcoming smile. 

‘Good morning, sir. Thanks for stopping by. Please, take a look around. Try on any pair you fancy, any pair at all.’ He said. 

Martin nodded, thanks and perused the shelves. There seemed to be whatever type of footwear you could imagine. From ballet shoes to sandals, from boxing boots to tap dancing shoes. This was quite the shop. His gaze was drawn to a pair of cowboy boots. The light-brown leather boots looked like something from a Clint Eastwood film. 

The shop keeper was beside him.

‘Would sir like to try these on? I think they’d really suit you.’

‘I’m not buying a pair of cowboy boots. I’d look ridiculous walking around like I’ve just finished my line-dancing class.’ Martin said. 

‘There’s no obligation to buy at all. I’d be happy if you tried on a selection of my wares and didn’t buy a thing. You won’t find the hard sell here.’ He said, the smile never leaving his face.

‘Go on then.’ Martin said. ‘They look so cool.’

While Martin slipped out of his trainers, the store-keeper picked up the boots and handed them to him.

When he slipped his feet inside the boots, something strange happened. The world around him, the store with its array of footwear, faded away. He was no longer in the shoe store dimly lit shoe shop. Bright sunlight startled his eyes. He raised a hand to shield his vision. There was noisy activity all around him. A moment later, his eyes adjusted and he took in the scene around him.

He was standing in the middle of a dusty street in the Old West. Cowboys on horseback trotted by, a horse drawn carriage rattled down the street. Martin looked around in awe. Here he was in the Wild West. Men with six-shooter pistols on their hips walked down the raised wooden boardwalk. Some of the women wore long dresses that reached the dusty floor beneath. The wooden buildings had sign painted out front, in thick, bold lettering, bank, barber shop, general store. 

His gaze was drawn to the saloon. Just like in the movies, the saloon doors were short partial-height swinging doors. Marten didn’t know where he was, or how it all worked, but if the films were anything to go by, then the saloon was the place to be. 

The saloon room was a large space with a bar running down one side. The room was filled with tables. Customers huddled at the round tables, or leaned against the bar, sipping whiskey and glasses of beer. A man wearing a collar-less shirt and braces was sitting at an upright piano in the corner. The jangly piano music mixed with the chatter.  

Martin headed to the bar. The counter was crammed with people either ordering or enjoying their drinks. He squeezed in a spot at the bar. The barman, a thickset man with thinning hair and a napkin over his shoulder, pointed at him.

‘What’ll it be?’

Trying to channel his inner Clint Eastwood, Martin ordered a whiskey in a low, gruff, voice. The bar tender poured a glass of whiskey and slid it towards him.

‘That’s a dime.’ 

Martin didn’t have any money on him, let alone any American currency. He rummaged in his pockets. As he searched for anything to pay for the drink, he nudged the man standing next to him, causing the man to spill the beer he was swigging.

The guy slammed his now half-empty beer glass down and turned to face him.

‘You better buy me another drink.’ He snarled.

‘Actually, I’m not sure I can pay for my own drink.’ Martin stammered, backing away from the bar.

‘You got some sand, coming into a saloon with no money to pay for a drink. A feller could get in trouble real quick, acting like that.’ The guy said, stepping forward to face him.

Before he could protest, the man swung a fist. The blow connected with the side of Martin’s head. He lost his balance and fell backwards. As he tumbled, his boots came loose. He landed on the floor hard. 

He was about to call out for help, when he realised he was back in the shoe shop, the cowboy boots having slipped from his feet. That was crazy. When he had placed the boots on, he had been transported to the Wild West, and when he’d taken the boots off, he had returned back to the store. He looked around at the weird and wonderful items of footwear stacked on the shelves. Would this work again? Would another pair of shoes work the same magic?

He placed the boots back on the shelf and eyed the other shoes with interest. There was one pair that seemed to stand out. The shoes were leather lace-ups, with black on the toe area and white on the bridge. The label inside the shoe said they were Two-Tone Oxfords. Wondering if these would have the same effect, Martin slipped his feet into the smart shoes.

Once again, the world around him drifted away, changing like a theatre backdrop at the start of a new scene. The first thing he noticed was the smell, the distinct aroma of cigarette and cigar smoke. Rather than a bright Western street, Martin found he was in the smoky interior of a nightclub. The club was filled with revellers, all dressed in what appeared to the fashions of a century ago. There were sharp pinstripe suits, fedora hats, and dresses that swished and swayed as they danced in time with the jazzy music. On stage, the jazz quintet played their hearts out while the singer crooned about the blues in the night, her sultry tones blending perfectly with the instruments. 

At the tables around the edge of the dance-floor, the clientele sipped fancy cocktails from v-shaped martini glasses. A guy threw his arm around Martin as he passed. 

‘Geez, you’d never know there was Prohibition, would ya?’ He said, almost shouting to be heard above the music. 

Before Martin could think of an appropriate reply, the man staggered away towards the bar for another drink. Martin sensed movement across the room. He turned to see what was happening. Half-expecting a cabaret dance act to be making their way to the stage, he was shocked to see men dressed in dark overcoats and hats. Each of the five men held a Thompson sub-machine gun, levelled at the room. Martin recognised the retro weapon from films set in the period. The Tommy gun, also known as the Chicago typewriter, was the weapon of choice of the Prohibition-era gangster. 

As the others noticed the gunmen, there were screams and shrieks of panic. The band members dashed from the stage. The gunmen opened fire. Thump-thump-thump. As the bullets hit home there were cries of terror and pain. The crowd that had been blissfully dancing and drinking moments before, now scurried to make their escape, some taking shelter behind tables. 

Martin dropped to the floor and crawled away from the gunshots. He kicked at his shoes, tugging at the heels. He knew he had to get the shoes off. He knew that if he removed his shoes, he’d go back to the shoe shop once more.

As the footwear fell from his feet, Martin returned to the shoe shop. He was back in the store, the fancy shoes on the floor next to him. He laughed in delight. Here they were, all these different shoes, each pair would take him off to a strange place. He rubbed his hands together as he walked up and down in front of the racks of shoes. Where to next? 

Over the next few hours Martin went on a crazy adventure, with each pair of shoes whisking him off to another wonderful place. A pair of sandals placed him on a perfect sandy beach, surrounded by clear blue sea, under a cloudless sky. The football boots transported him to the pitch, playing in a Cup Final match in front of a cheering crowd. A pair of black biker boots placed him on a speeding motorcycle with a leather-clad gang all around him. He didn’t know how to ride a motorbike in real life, but in this strange world, that didn’t seem to matter. He revved the engine and swerved left and right, with the gang all riding with him. As the gang pulled into a service station, Martin slipped his feet from the boots.

Once more, he was back in the shop. As fun as it had been, he was ready to leave. Maybe he’d come back and visit the strange store at some point in the future. He would put his own shoes back on and leave. He looked around for his faded blue trainers. Where were they? He could see the shoes he’d tried on, but not his own trainers. He rummaged around, even checking behind the counter, but there was no sign. 

He decided to leave without his shoes. He needed some new trainers anyway. He would leave in his socks, and maybe even stop off on the way home for new trainers. He’d stop at a normal trainer shop, not a strange shoe store that hadn’t been there previously. It was definitely time to leave this weird little shop. He headed to the door. The bell above the door jangled as he opened it. He stepped outside. 

As he stepped over the threshold where his foot should be hitting the pavement outside, he found he was back in the shop. He should be outside, out there, but as soon as he went through the door, he was back in the shop, standing on the far side of the store, near the counter. He shook his head. That just didn’t make sense. 

He tried again. He went to the door, and with a determination, in his stride, he stepped through the door. And again, he was back in the creepy shop. Rather than being outside, he was on the other side of the room. He tried to ignore the waves of panic washing over him. He opened the door wide and shuffled back away from the doorway. He set off at a run, like an athlete from the starting blocks. He charged through the open doorway. 

And he reappeared back in the shop, almost colliding with the counter. 

Then something occurred to him. There was no sign of the shopkeeper. The guy had vanished as soon as Martin had tried the first pair of shoes on and handed over his trainers. As he tried to stay calm, a terrifying realisation hit home. He knew that he was unable to leave the store as he didn’t have the shoes on his feet. Whatever spell was working on the shoes in the shop, he needed his own pair, an ordinary pair, to be able to step outside. No wonder the shop keeper was so welcoming, and so eager for him to try on a pair of shoes. He had needed Martin’s shoes to be able to leave. And now Martin was in the same situation. 

Unsure quite what else to do, Martin tidied the shoes away back on the shelves and waited for a customer.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom