Best Foot Forward

by Joan Bauer

  “I got a bucket in case anybody needs to throw up.” Murray joined me, Mrs. Gladstone, and Tanner after we closed the store. I put the CD into my computer.

  Dumb music played.

  A man and a woman on the screen, wearing matching Shoe Warehouse shirts. The woman said stiffly, “How do I sell a pair of shoes, Don? This is my first day.” She looked pretty excited about it.

  Murray gripped my chair.

  “Don’t worry, Suzie,” said Don. “Selling shoes is as easy as one, two, three.”

  Tanner snorted. Mrs. Gladstone sat down. I was already sitting.

  “You see, Suzie, people just want to see a friendly face when they come into a shoe store. That’s the first thing you’ve got to remember.”

  Suzie nodded. “Okay, Don, I think I can remember that.”

  “And the second thing you’ve got to remember is that every foot is a little different.” He held up a foot measurer. “That’s why we have this!”

  Tanner was laughing big time; Murray was praying, “Oh, God . . . oh, God . . .”

  It went on to show Don measuring Suzie’s foot and Suzie getting happier and happier as she saw that any brain-dead moron could sell shoes. You didn’t have to know anything about the brands. You didn’t even have to be breathing—you could be animatronic, like Don.

  Tedious twerp music played as Don walked Suzie through the shoe store, finishing up with point number three. “To find the right fit, check the toe.”

  “What about the width?” Murray screamed. “What about heel placement?”

  But Don didn’t care about that. He shook Suzie’s hand and told her she was ready to begin her exciting new career selling shoes. The CD ended.

  Mrs. Gladstone went into her office and shut the door.

  Murray went into the bathroom.

  Tanner said, “So when am I gonna sell shoes? I can do that.”

  I glared at him until he went downstairs.

  In my own defense, I would like to say that I did not see that stupid guy who was pulling out of the parking lot much too fast, and when I heard the sickening crack of his bumper connecting with my passenger door, I slammed on the brake and jumped out of the car.

  “Okay,” he said, examining my door, “it’s just a scratch.”

  “I just got this car!”

  “You should have been looking!”

  “Give me a break!”

  He was pretty tall and had a long face. He tried to use height over me, but I stood him toe to toe. He checked the front bumper of his van. “I’m not sure I had this dent before.”

  I looked at all the other dents on his van. “How could you tell?”

  He bent down and looked at my door. “It scratched the paint. That’s all.”

  I sputtered, “I think we should call the police.” That’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re in an accident.

  “For this?” He looked at me like I was an overly emotional female, wrote out his name and number on a card, and handed it to me.

  CHARLIE DURAN

  Home: 555-1744

  Work: 555-1600

  The card was from Duran’s Doughnuts. Believe me, doughnuts were the only thing this guy had going for him. I wrote my name on a Gladstone’s card.

  “Good store,” he said. “Look, if you want to call the police, can we call them tomorrow? I’ve got to get to school.”

  It’s seven o’clock at night. What kind of school do you go to?

  He climbed into his van without waiting for my answer and drove off.

  What a jerk.

  I was fuming when I got home and called Opal. She was all a-flutter about this French guy who stopped by the Fotomat booth. “I feel total chemistry with him, Jenna. Complete and utter connection.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “How much it costs to get a roll of fast-speed color film developed. He came back three times. But, believe me, the most important thing was there.”

  Chemistry is high on Opal’s list of relationship necessities. It’s number two, actually, wedged between #1—Undying Devotion, and #3—Blind Loyalty. Sometimes I wonder if Opal should just get a dog.

  I told her about Charlie Duran, Doughnut Dope. Opal jumps to conclusions in her own life much quicker than in mine.

  “Jenna,” she said finally, “if it’s only a scratch, you should probably let it go.”

  “But I feel like he scratched a part of me.”

  “I know, but he didn’t. And your insurance premium would go up if you make a claim and he makes one against you. A scratch isn’t permanent, Jenna; a higher premium is forever.”

  Chapter 11

  Over the next three days, Mrs. Gladstone had an idea that turned into a full-fledged brainstorm.

  “Best foot forward,” she said to me. “What does that mean to you?”

  I smiled. “My grandma used to say that to me every year on the first day of school. She’d tell me to put my best foot forward and try to do my best.”

  “I would have liked your grandmother.”

  “You would have, Mrs. Gladstone. She was a pistol.” I grinned. “Like you.”

  Mrs. Gladstone’s face was flushed with the energy of a new idea.

  “Now this best foot forward, Jenna. I’m thinking that could be the slogan for the merger of our two companies. I’ve been trying to figure out how we pull from the best of what we both offer.” She shuddered. “Not the worst.”

  Our CEO, Ken Woldman, loved the idea and he called the advertising agency, who thought it made a good slogan. Best foot forward was taking hold. My grandmother was getting me ready for this job without either of us knowing it.

  But not everyone was committed to doing their best. Tanner Cobb seemed to think that a one-hour lunch break meant that he could be gone for one and a half hours and no one would notice.

  I confronted him. “Tanner, you can’t be late from lunch every day.”

  “I haven’t got a watch,” he said.

  “Then you’ve got to look for clocks. Chicago has a lot of clocks.”

  “I’m not so good at getting places on time.”

  “There are ways to get better.”

  Just then a tall, pretty girl walked into the store. Her eyes turned to slits when she saw Tanner.

  “Save me, save me,” he whispered to me.

  What was he talking about? She marched toward him.

  He rubbed the scar on his face. “Hi, Denise.”

  “I thought you left town.”

  More rubbing. “I did for a while.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I been working, Baby.”

  She didn’t buy that. Smart girl. “How long you been working?”

  Tanner looked pleadingly at me.

  “I’m new here, Baby, but, you know, work’s intense. It doesn’t let up.”

  He had that right. I said, “We’re going to have to do that work in the back, Tanner.”

  “I’ll call you,” he told her.

  She glared at him.

  Give it up, Denise.

  She stood there as the truth hit and shook her head sadly. “Just forget it.” She headed for the door.

  Tanner shrugged; forgetting it wasn’t hard for him. He did a half spin around like a dancer and headed for the back room.

  Why did my life suddenly feel so crushingly dull?

  “I’m back, everybody! And I’m getting shoes!”

  Webster T. Cobb burst through the door, grinning wide, followed by his grandmother.

  “Good to see you, Webster.”

  “I want tie-ups!”

  “We’ve got those.”

  He headed toward the children’s section; checked the tree to make sure his name was still there; grabbed a squirrel. Mattie shook my hand. “He wouldn’t come anyplace else. He said this was his shoe store.”

  Webster did a half spin like Tanner. “I’ve got awesome feet.”
r />   I laughed. “You sure do. Come on, let me measure you.”

  “I’m three feet tall exact.”

  “Not your height, your feet.”

  Mattie bent closer to me. “We’re going to have to go with the economy brand.”

  “Employees get a discount.” I got Webster to stand still momentarily while I got his size, then found cool tie-ons from the sales rack suitable for awesome feet. I stuck the shoes on Webster. He laced them up himself slowly and ran around the store.

  “You’ve got to give them a good test,” I said. “Run, march, bounce, and jump. It’s the only sure way to tell.”

  Mattie smiled. “I want to thank you for what you’re doing for my grandson.”

  “Webster is a special kid.”

  “Not him,” she said. “Tanner.”

  Tanner?

  “He looks up to you.”

  Most guys do. I’m five-eleven.

  “He says you know what’s what.”

  “He’s a good worker.”

  “He needed this job like a lifeline. I’ve been praying for that boy to get a break, and look where he is. You’re God’s agent. Do you know that?”

  Is she kidding?

  “Oh, yes you are. I got on my knees for that boy and asked the Lord to provide. And he sent you.”

  Webster did a somersault and landed right at our feet. “I want these, Grandma! They’re the best!”

  “How much are they?”

  As God’s agent, I gave her a double discount and threw in two pairs of iridescent laces. Tanner came on the floor as I was ringing them up. Webster marched up to him. “I read two whole books today.”

  “That’s good, little man. You learn any new words?”

  Webster thought hard. “I don’t think so.”

  “I got a new word for you.” Tanner went behind the counter, got a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote out SOLE. “Sole,” he said.

  Webster wasn’t impressed. “I know that one! We say it in church.”

  “It sounds like the church word; that’s spelled S-O-U-L. This one means the bottom of your shoe. That’s the sole. S-O-L-E.”

  Webster took off his new shoes and examined the bottoms. “Sole,” he said.

  Tanner did a full turn and stuck his hands out like a dancer. “And ’cause I work in a shoe store, I’m a sole man!”

  Webster did a half turn and posed. “I’m a sole man, too!”

  Mattie paid for the shoes. “We’ve got to go, honey.”

  Webster was too busy to pay attention. She marched over to him, took his hand.

  “No,” he insisted. “I want to stay.”

  Mattie bent down and said something to him I couldn’t hear. Webster shook his head.

  “We’ve got to go, honey. That’s just how it is.”

  “We live in a basement apartment. The mildew keeps the rent cheap. Webster’s allergic to it. He doesn’t like going back.” Tanner and I stood on the sales floor next to Harry’s memorial.

  “Allergies can be tough,” I said. “I had them pretty bad when I was little, but I grew out of them.” I considered my height and laughed. “I grew out of just about everything.”

  “We had to move fast from our other place ’cause my father’s business associates kept coming by, hassling us.”

  What kind of business were they in?

  “My old man’s in the joint.” He squared his shoulders when he said it.

  “I heard. I’m sorry. Do you mind me asking what he’s in for?”

  “Assault and battery, robbery, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, possession of narcotics, unlawful possession of a firearm ...”

  I think he could have kept going. “Will he be getting out anytime . . . soon?”

  “You mean, is he gonna come visit me at the store?”

  I straightened the cowboy boots on the display. “I was just . . . curious . . .”

  “When he gets out, I’ll probably be thirty. If he behaves himself, which he never does.” Tanner stood there staring at the Lone Star, the unifying symbol of Gladstone Shoes and all of Texas.

  “My dad was in jail, but only for a couple of days.” I gulped, not sure why I said this.

  “What for?”

  “Drunk driving.”

  Tanner snorted.

  “It seemed like a pretty big thing to me.”

  He laughed. “I’m here to remind you there’s always somebody worse off.”

  “You win,” I said. “So, what’s it like for you with your dad? Do you see him?”

  He picked up the photo of Harry Bender. “Nah, I don’t see him.”

  He stood there studying Harry’s face. “You want to know what my old man’s like? The bank’s got a video of him taking money and beating up a guard, and he claims he’s innocent. He’s been in and out of drug clinics for years and he says he’s not hooked.”

  “My dad has trouble with truth, too.”

  “I tell Webster, when you aim at zero, you always hit the mark.” He put the picture back. “I’m learning about aiming better.” He laughed. “Mrs. G’s a good shot.”

  “You mean metaphorically?”

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  That’s when Charlie Duran pushed through the door.

  What was he doing here?

  He looked right at me. “Is it crimson red or burgundy?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He shouldered his book bag. “What color is your car? I got a paint card from the dealer. I’m not sure which red you’ve got.” He held out the card with five squares of different reds. “I’m trying to get the right paint to match your car so I can fix the scratch.”

  It took a minute for that to sink in.

  “I wasn’t looking, either,” he said.

  I stood there.

  Tanner looked at me. “Uh . . . I don’t have my car here today.”

  “Bring it tomorrow and I’ll see if I can match the paint.”

  “I guess.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you.” Charlie Duran looked around. “Nice store,” he said, and headed out. He had broad shoulders—broader than mine, even.

  “Who was that?” Tanner asked.

  I cleared my throat. “A doughnut guy.”

  Tanner nodded like that made perfect sense.

  I went back to what I was doing, but I couldn’t remember what that was.

  There’s not that much difference between crimson red and burgundy. Charlie Duran asked five complete strangers in the parking lot which color they thought was the best match. Crimson won, three to two.

  “I thought that was it.” He took a little bottle of crimson paint and painted over the scratch on my door. “Good as new,” he said.

  “Thanks.” I wasn’t used to looking up at guys when I talked to them.

  I asked him about school—he was just starting at Palmer Junior College, taking night classes in business so he could work days.

  We talked about the rigors of retail—he’d been working in stores since he was a little kid. When he lived in Indiana, his other grandfather owned a White Hen.

  “Okay, so . . . we’ll talk again.” He smiled. Doughnut people are refreshingly straightforward.

  “Sure,” I said casually, tossing my hair and getting some of it in my mouth.

  He handed me four Duran’s Doughnuts coupons and left.

  I called Opal.

  “Okay, Jenna, you’re doing pretty well, but your voice sounds like you’re having trouble breathing.”

  “I am a little. . . .” I mentioned the coupons.

  “Don’t use those coupons,” she said. “Let him come to you.”

  “You’re kidding? These are two for the price of one, Opal!”

  “You’ve got to be casual and distant, Jenna. It’s the only way these days.”

  “What about you and Jacques?”

  “He comes to the Fotomat booth to talk, Jenna. And he’s getting ready to ask me out.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “
He asked me when I got off work in French.”

  I put the doughnut coupons in my pocket and sighed.

  I can’t tell you how much I wanted a raspberry cream.

  Chapter 12

  The puffy foot costume arrived at Gladstone Shoes. I took it out of the box; it was tan colored with prominent toes. It had a head hole and came with tan tights. On the front of it was written, PUT YOUR BEST FOOT FORWARD.

  It’s amazing how an advertising agency can destroy a good idea.

  “I’m not wearing it.” I said this firmly, embracing Al-Anon boundary-setting principles.

  Murray pushed back the two head hairs he had left. “I’m sure not wearing it.”

  Tanner was rushing through the front door, late again. He stared at the costume, felt the puffy material. “You’d get shot wearing this in my neighborhood.”

  The puffy foot costume was part of a big Labor Day Blowout Sales Extravaganza we were going to have at the Shoe Warehouse Corporation’s 498 stores across America: 498 puffy feet were going to march into malls and streets to wave, pass out coupons, and overwhelm America. Getting ready for a big sale wasn’t easy. We’d lugged hundreds of shoes from the stockroom and put them on shelves. We’d hung the Best Foot Forward banner across the ceiling.

  “We could say it didn’t come,” Murray offered.

  I put the costume down. “I signed for the package with UPS.”

  “We could maybe pay my nephew Lyle to wear it,” Murray offered, “but if it’s not hypoallergenic, in ten minutes he’d be spitting up phlegm.”

  “There’s a bonus for whoever wears it,” Mrs. Gladstone added, coming up from behind.

  Tanner stepped forward. “What would my bonus be?”

  Mrs. Gladstone cleared her throat. “A watch—which, young man, you could sorely use—and overtime pay.”

  “I got to wear the tights?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Can I wear my shades?” Tanner put on his mirrored sunglasses, raised his hands like a dancer, and froze.