by Alex Flinn
Meg makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort.
I glance around. Even the honey squirter is wiped clean, and the sugar shaker actually glitters. “It was not like this last night. Sean and Brendan left it a total mess. I figured you’d flip when you saw.”
“You were here last night when they closed?” Meg asks. When I nod, she says, “And you’re back again by seven?”
“Six. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. You can’t work sixteen-hour days.”
“We need the money.”
Meg nods. She gets it. Summers are tough. During the winter, we usually hire an extra employee, but in the summer, when not as many people stay at the hotel, the bills pile up. It’s summer now, but I’m not going to the beach or sleeping in. What Meg doesn’t know is that my mother took another job, so I’m all alone.
“‘Our incomes are like our shoes; if too small, they gall and pinch us, but if too large, they cause us to stumble and to trip,’” Meg says. “John Locke said that.”
“I think I could handle a too-large income right about now.” I look down. “There was a puddle of milk under that table.”
“Mopped it.”
“Before, you said it was clean when you came in.”
“I was lying. I didn’t want you to know that I’m a cleaning genius. If it gets around, they might want to hire me as a chambermaid, and I’d miss the glamorous world of coffee. Now, can we drop it?”
“If we can drop talking about how I shouldn’t work double shifts.”
Meg frowns and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I just . . . wish I could help.”
I shake off her hand. “You could give me an espresso.”
“Got it.” She gets out a cup.
I head for my counter and start working on the sole of the shoe I left. It’s not that I don’t agree with Meg. But I need to work here. We can’t afford what someone else with my skills would cost, so I have to. Losing our family business would be too much of a blow for my mother to take.
At least I did most of the repairs last night. Maybe after this one, I can work on what’s in my secret box, the one I keep under the past-due bills.
I take it out for a second, just to look. Inside is a prototype for a ladies’ high-heel kelly green sandal, skeletal structure, hidden platform for comfort as well as style. I made it.
Most of our customers are businessmen in town for meetings. They travel so much they don’t notice that their seven-hundred-dollar Esquivel loafer is wearing thin until the day of a big meeting. Since they’re desperate, we can charge fifty and up for a rush job. They can afford it.
I hardly ever get ladies’ shoes. The kind of women who stay here throw out shoes if a strap breaks, even if they’ve only been worn once. But sometimes, a maid or au pair will bring in one of her employer’s trashed Giuseppe Zanottis or Donald Pliners, hoping to make it over for herself. That’s how I learned that those strappy sandals can sell for hundreds of dollars.
And the thing is, it would be fun to make them. They come in every color and texture and style. The really good ones are like art. I know shoes, and if I had the materials, I could make shoes just as good as those expensive ones. Better.
So that’s my dream, to become an internationally known shoe designer, instead of just a shoe boy in a hotel. I may repair soles right now, but in my soul, I know I can do more.
It would be nice if I could go to college to learn to market what I design. But, for now, we need to keep the rent mostly paid.
“That’s hot.” Meg comes up behind me with the coffee. “Where’d you get it? Some rich lady?”
I slam the box shut. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. It’s gorgeous. You made it, didn’t you?” She inches her hand over to the box. “Come on. I’ve seen you drawing shoes and stuff when you think no one’s looking. I, of all people, won’t make fun of you.”
I relent. She’s right. I know all her secrets, like this one time when we were twelve and she had a crush on a lifeguard. She went to the pool after work, her bikini top stuffed with cotton balls, only to forget about them when she jumped into the water.
I was the one who alerted her, let her walk behind me until we were out of the sun god’s sight, and went back and explained to him that the cotton balls he was picking out of the drain trap were mine, for a bunion.
No, Meg wouldn’t make fun of me. I slide the sandal toward her and walk over to the auto-soler with the loafer.
“I love it.” She traces the strap with her finger. “Can I try it on?”
I did make it in a size six, Meg’s size. So, on some subconscious level, I was probably looking for a model. Still, the idea of someone, some actual person, wearing them is scary.
“Please. My feet are really pretty. I’ve been told I could be a foot model.”
“Right.” I laugh.
“True. Someday, you’ll see an ad for toenail fungus cream, and it’ll be me.” She holds up the shoe. “I love this design. I want to wear it.”
“You can’t afford it. This is going to be a five-hundred-dollar pair of shoes.”
“Oh, at least a thousand, I’m sure.”
“Not for people like us who shop at Tar-jay.” But I’m flattered she likes them so much, so I say, “Oh, okay.”
She makes a big deal of taking off her own sandals (Mossimo, store brand of Target, $14.99 in faux leather). She does have cute feet with red nail polish that matches her T-shirt. She slips the shoe onto her foot, then stops to admire it before holding it out to me. She says, all wide-eyed, “‘But you see, I have the other slipper.’”
I know this quote. “Right. Disney’s Cinderella.”
“Any girl would feel like Cinderella in these shoes.” Meg slips on the other shoe. Then, she stands and struts the hallway between our shops, strutting and dancing like a runway model. “Meg is wearing a new design in emerald green by that exciting new designer, Johnny Marco.”
“It’s kelly green.”
“Kelly green. It has a platform and a four-inch heel.”
“Three inches. The platform makes them seem higher.”
“Three inches.” She twirls again. “I love them. But I guess I should take them off.”
“I guess.” But I like looking at them, so I say, “Are they comfortable?”
She uses her announcer voice again. “Like walking on the beach.” She kicks her feet onto my lap. The fluorescent lights glint off the green leather, and it’s magic, just like Victoriana said. “Are there others?”
I reach into the box and hand her the folder at the bottom, the one with all my designs. “Just here.”
She flips through, admiring. “Oh, you have to make this one.”
“That’s the problem. I can’t afford the materials right now. But I have a plan.” I point to the sign that says, ITEMS LEFT MORE THAN 14 DAYS WILL BE DONATED TO CHARITY. “I figured I could put them on eBay, make some money, and still donate part of it to Goodwill. I ended up making a pretty good profit. But sometimes, people leave just a single shoe. I couldn’t sell those or donate them, so they ended up trashed. But then, I got the idea of using them for parts. Open that drawer.” She does and takes out a bag of scrap leather pieces, all different colors. “You know those really expensive handbags that are made from bits and pieces of other expensive handbags? I’m going to do that with shoes.”
Meg claps her hands. “That’s genius. I always knew you were a genius.”
“I have almost enough for another pair.”
“When do you find time for this?” She touches my arm. Her hand is icy cold, and I shiver under it. She sees me flinch and removes it. “I thought you were just staring into space, drooling.”
“Hey, I’m a surprising guy.”
“Excuse me. Who do you have to kill to get some service around here?”
My first customer of the day is a businessman in an Italian suit. A rude one. He’s drumming one set of fingers on the counter. Wit
h the other, he holds a Cole Haan black blucher oxford. Retail: About two hundred dollars, low-end around here. He wiggles the loose heel. “If it’s not too much trouble, maybe you could fix this. I need it right away.”
I reach past Meg for it. “Of course, sir, but I have other jobs ahead of you. I’ll have to charge you for a rush job.” I’m lying.
“Yes. Anything. I have a life-changing meeting in an hour.”
Life-changing. I wish something life changing would happen to me.
I examine the shoe. The heel’s worn down an inch, and it doesn’t look like the original either. This guy bought a pair of expensive shoes years ago and has been using them to try to impress clients ever since. I’m guessing if I examined his suit, it would be going threadbare too. I think about giving him a break on the repair. But then, I remember the bills stacking up, Mom crying over them yesterday. Besides, he was a jerk. “Sixty dollars,” I say.
“Sixty? In St. Louis, I paid—”
“This is South Beach not St. Louis, and you need it in a hurry.” But I relent. “Okay, fifty. I’ll have it done in twenty minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later, I send him on his way. “Good luck!”
As soon as he leaves, Meg’s signaling to me to come over. Between customers, she says, “I had an idea. If you could get Princess Victoriana to wear a pair of your shoes in public, everyone would want them. You could charge a thousand dollars a pair!”
“Yeah, and if a frog had wings . . .”
But then, I think it’s an inspired idea. I’ve been around enough rich people to know that what they really want is to look like richer people.
“‘My shoes are special shoes for discerning feet,’” I quote Manolo Blahnik, the shoe designer. “Maybe you’re right. Who better to wear them than a princess?”
“Who better,” Meg agrees.
“But one problem. How do we get her to wear them?”
“Give her a pair. You said she seemed nice. Maybe when she sees how amazing they are, she’ll wear them. And then, if she gets photographed falling drunk out of a limo, it will be in your shoes. You’ve got to talk to her again.”
Suddenly, I hear a commotion coming from the lobby, a commotion that could only mean another Victoriana sighting. I run to check it out.
Not her. Only her dog. Her dog, three bodyguards, two hotel employees, six swans-a-swimming, and a partridge in a pear tree.
“No luck?” Meg says when I return.
“No luck,” I say, “but I’ll keep trying.”
Chapter 4
All I can think about the rest of the day is Meg’s idea of getting Victoriana to wear my shoes. I’m excited for the first time in, maybe ever. It’s a busy day, not much time to sit and dream, but that’s a good thing too. As I pull off each heel tip, sew each rip, I scheme about how to make it happen. At six, I decide to close for an hour, for dinner. Mom should be home, and I want to tell her about it. Meg’s already left, but her brother Sean says he’ll let customers drop off their repairs at the coffee shop. If we even have any.
It’s raining when I leave. Even so, I bike home feeling totally pumped.
As soon as I reach the apartment, I know something’s wrong. The lights aren’t on, and neither is the air-conditioning. My mother sits on the sofa, fanning herself.
I say, “Hey, you’ll never guess who I saw today.”
“Oh, Johnny.” My mother has on a T-shirt that says, “Love that dog!” It’s from her second job, a hot-dog place. She walks over to the window. “Sorry it’s so hot. They—”
“Turned off the power. Got it.” When she nods, I say, “How much do we owe?”
“Five hundred. It was either that or rent. I got some ice from Mrs. Castano. That should keep the food cold until payday if we don’t open the refrigerator too much.”
I mentally add up today’s repairs. Not even close. Now, I’m sorry I gave that St. Louis guy a ten-dollar break.
But Mom smiles, like she’s used to it. She is used to it. It happened last summer too.
Me, I don’t ever want to get used to it. When I was little, we made it a game, like camping. But now, I know it’s not a game. I wonder how long it will be until we can’t pay any bills and lose the business too.
“So tell me,” Mom says. “Did you see the princess?”
“Yeah.” I try to smile, but suddenly, it doesn’t seem that cool. I mean, what’s a princess anyway? Just someone who won the birth lottery and gets to do nothing and have everything while the rest of us poor slobs sweat. Literally. It’s so hot I’m actually shivering from it.
But Mom wants to hear about it. “How did you see her? Was she beautiful? Was she drunk? Did she have a million servants?”
“Yeah, we—Ryan and I—saw her check in. I thought Farnesworth was going to swallow his tongue. And she had a dog, a bloodhound.”
Mom laughs. “Your father always used to want a bloodhound.” She glances at the bookshelf, at the eight-by-ten wedding photo she keeps there. I glance too. She’s gotten out some candles, the white ones in a jar that they sell at the supermarket during hurricane season. We keep them around for when the power gets shut off. She’s arranged them around my father’s picture, so it looks like a sort of shrine.
My father sounds like a jerk. When I was two, he went out fishing and just never came back. For years, my mother looked for him, hired seedy private investigators to run his driver’s license and Social Security number, see if he’s working anywhere, searched online. Nothing. It’s like this book I saw in a used bookstore once, called How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found. It told you all about how to fake your own death and then assume a new identity.
Unless he actually is dead.
“You know,” I say to Mom. “Someone once told me that you can get a person declared dead if they’ve been missing for seven years. Then you could get Social Security.”
“He isn’t dead.”
We’ve been down this road before. “How do you know that?”
“When we were in high school, he used to bring me flowers every day and braid them in my hair.”
I stare at her. “And that has what to do with this?”
“When someone is your soul mate,” she says, “you know when he’s dead.”
I shake my head. It seems to me like if they had this huge love affair, he wouldn’t just leave. But she won’t listen. “We could really use the Social Security about now. Do you want to lose the business and work at Love That Dog forever?”
“Tell me more about the princess,” she says, obviously wanting to change the subject.
“She’s into shoes. Meg says I should try to get her to wear one of my designs. But I guess it’s stupid.” I didn’t think it was stupid an hour ago, but I wasn’t sweating like this an hour ago either. Now it seems crazy to think someone like Victoriana would want anything to do with someone like me. I mean, sure, she was nice. She’s been trained from birth to be nice. It’s easy to be nice when you have everything handed to you.
But Mom’s thrilled to be talking about something other than how broke we are. “What a wonderful idea. Meg’s right. This, her staying at the hotel, is your chance. It’s meant to be.”
The heat beats on my head until I see red and black spots before my eyes. I want to go back to work where, at least, it’s cold and sterile and quiet.
“How can you believe that . . . fantasy? The reality is, Dad’s never going to come back and I’m never going to see the princess again. Nothing good is ever going to happen. That’s what’s meant to be.”
She doesn’t say anything, just picks up a magazine and fans herself with it, covering her face, and I feel instantly bad. She didn’t ask to be poor. She didn’t ask for my father to leave her. She’s done her best. I want to apologize, but I’m too hot, even to speak.
Finally, she says, “If I didn’t believe, there would be nothing left.”
I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I know. Look, I’m going to go back to the hotel to work. You shou
ld come too. It’s cool there. If we stay until dark, we’ll only have to sleep here. Then the heat won’t be so bad.”
But she shakes her head. “You go. But let me make you some eggs. I can light the gas stove with a match. We should eat the food before it goes bad.”
I nod. So much for magic.
Chapter 5
For the next week, I try to run into Princess Victoriana again. It should be easy, right? Considering she’s staying at a hotel where I spend sixteen hours a day (more than usual, due to the lack of air-conditioning at home), and it’s not like she can keep a low profile. I try to make friends with the paparazzi in the lobby but quickly find that they’re only talking to me ’cause they think I know Victoriana’s schedule.
I don’t. The only thing I know is that every morning at eight, a servant leads the bloodhound down Collins Avenue, and almost every day, the papers carry a photograph of Victoriana, partying the night away at the Mansion, the Opium Garden, or some other SoBe club.
I do find out where the dog goes anyway. The next day, the Herald carries an article with photos of the dog, sniffing around the Port of Miami.
There’s a quote from Victoriana, saying, “Where my staff takes my dog for walks is none of my fault. In Aloria, I can walk him myself, but here, I am hounded by reporters.”
There’s a photograph of the dog, with the caption, “Hounded?” The “People” column carries another shot of Victoriana dancing on a table.
I start sleeping in the shop, slumped over the counter, thinking maybe I can see her when she comes in from one of her benders, but I never do. I swear, sometimes, I wake to see her standing behind the potted palms or even by Meg’s coffee shop after it’s closed for the night. Obviously, sleep deprivation is making me hallucinate.
But one day, she comes to my shop.
Yeah. She really does. And she’s drunk.
That, in and of itself, isn’t a big shocker. The shocker is she’s drunk enough to speak to me.
