The First

by Scott Nicholson

  He didn't think about the chain letter that would be in his box, cajoling and threatening him. He could always ignore it, or tear it up. It was only paper. It held no magic power over him.

  He opened the mailbox. Only bills.

  "At least there's no chain letter," he said to the high clouds in the sky. The smell of freshly-mown grass drifted down the street. Two yuppie housewives jogged past, sleek muscles churning, barely breathing hard. Amman watched their feminine attributes quivering under taut nylon. Maybe life wasn't all gloom and doom. He closed the mailbox.

  It fell open with a soft click.

  "Hey, old pal," it said.

  Amman glanced up and down the street. No one was watching, no one to testify that he'd gone certifiably insane.

  "Thought I'd skip the letters, you sheet-shirted sandsucker. Subtlety's completely wasted on you," the mailbox said.

  Amman trembled in rage and fear.

  "Eight stamps, some nickels for Xeroxing, a few envelopes. It's soooo easy. Don't fight it, friend."

  "No" said Amman, quietly and firmly.

  "All you gotta do is believe. And good things will come your way. Do yourself a favor. Listen to a concerned friend."

  Amman started to walk away.

  "Wait, wait, man. Just hear me out."

  Amman spun, anger sparking his black eyes. "I've heard enough. My life's gone to hell, my house is a mess, I don't have a car or a job, my love life would make a monk weep with pride, and now my goddamned mailbox is talking to me. And you ask me to believe?"

  The mailbox gaped silently.

  "You think it's all a matter of luck?" Amman growled, leveling his finger at the mailbox. They waited, holding their respective breaths. A dog barked down the street.

  "Okay," the mailbox said finally, sighing in resignation. "Okay. Point taken. I've been playing hardball. Came on a little too strong. And I'm sorry."

  Amman glowered, his dark eyebrows furrowed. It was his "noble suffering" look, the one he liked to use on women.

  "But, hey, pal, you don't know what it's like," the mailbox said, now on the defensive. "I've got thousands of these little jobs going, and I can't be everywhere at once. And the pressure's just incredible. You know, upstairs, downstairs, good, evil, everybody wants a little favor, you know what I'm saying?"

  "My heart bleeds," Amman said, crossing his arms.

  "Okay. I'll level with you, friend to friend. This could go on forever, back and forth, give and take, me bugging you, you wasting my valuable time. Let's just cut to the chase, draw a line in the sand—"

  Amman raised a finger. "First off, you quit the racist stuff."

  "Hey. Nothing personal. A fella picks up some bad habits in this line of work. I apologize."

  "Okay. Now lay out your cards."

  "Final offer, friend. You get back everything you lost. Just send the letters."

  Amman shook his head. "No dice. I need compensation for pain and suffering."

  The mailbox sighed again. "Sheesh."

  Amman turned away, smiling.

  "All right, all right," the mailbox said. "Double or nothing. Just lick the stamps, friend."

  "Deal," Amman said, then went into the house. He knew he had a book of stamps laying around somewhere.

  Amman whistled on the way to the mailbox. His Fiat sat in the driveway, next to his new cherry red Maserati. His old boss had called, pleading for Amman to come back. Amman enjoyed having a Vice President's nameplate on his desk. He was shooting for CEO in three years, tops. And he had a nice new widescreen television, with a satellite dish to boot.

  He opened the mailbox and poked around the stack of letters, then opened a fat brown envelope. "What do you know? I did win the sweepstakes," he said to no one in particular.

  He fanned the letters out like a deck of cards. Money knew how to find him these days. He sniffed the gum and ink and wood pulp.

  "You sound surprised,” said the mailbox.

  "Ah, one in seventeen million. Sucker's odds."

  "Well, pal, thanks for sending the letters. Stirred up a lot more work for me, though. You remember LaVonda D.?"

  "Of Prospect Plains, New Jersey?"

  "That's the one. Seems she disregarded the letter you sent to her, Amman. Tossed it in her coupon drawer."

  "She of little faith, huh?"

  "I'm going to have a talk with that woman."

  "Give her hell. Say, did I tell you Samantha's back?""You're joshing. You old studmeister, you."

  Amman beamed and straightened the collar of his Brooks Brothers jacket. "You gotta believe, right?"

  "You got it, friend. See you tomorrow?"

  "Sure, pal, sure,

  Amman whistled his way back to the house, where Samantha was waiting in the hot tub with a bottle of iced champagne. Samantha had brought along her former college roomie as well, the double-or-nothing part of the deal that was blonde, brown-eyed, and didn't particularly care for sleeping.

  Amman didn't need faith. He didn't need to believe in luck. And hard work wasn't the only road to success. He always knew the finer things would come his way.

  He'd just needed the right opportunity, that's all.

  Amman opened the door that led to the rest of his life.

  ###

  WHEN YOU WEAR THESE SHOES

  When you wear these shoes, you go places.

  Oxford shoes, these are. Sure, that may sound fancy, but take a look. Just plain shoes, really.

  Scuffed all across the top of the toe box, heels about worn down to the tacks, tongues hanging out like a hound dog's on a hot August day. Insoles nearly worn through, meeting up with my skin where the holes in my socks are.

  But my feet never blister, nosiree. Never had a corn or bunion one. And I've put many a mile on them. Tens of thousands, if you can believe it. But I see you don't.

  I'm just getting these shoes broke in, in fact. You take a new shoe. It's hard and stiff as a brick and the leather smells like it's still got cow inside. You got to pry it on with a metal shoe horn, then squeak around with miserable toes for a few months. Strings are brittle, too, won't hardly stay tied. You end up doing more bending over than walking.

  And walking's what it's really all about, ain't it? Racking up miles, one shoe in front of the other. That's what brings our kind out to these hiking trails. Ain't it funny how they have to set aside places where you can walk these days? You can't just up and hoof around any old place.

  And in country like this, out in the middle of nowhere with the sun long gone, not many people would let a stranger even so much as speak to them. But I reckon a strapping young fellow like you don't scare easy.

  I can tell you're a traveler, same as me. You with your backpack and two hundred dollar boots with cleats so deep you can walk on marbles. Them boots are designed by computer, I hear, what is it they call that brand? Oh, yeah, "a unique combination of comfort and durability." Them words add about eighty bucks to the cost, I'd imagine.

  Now, don't look at me like that. I read things. I may not seem like much, just like these old shoes don't seem like much. But you ought not judge a book by its cover. Since you don't mind me sitting here and sharing your fire, I might just open up this old book. Meaning my story, that is. Or more rightly, the story of the shoes.

  Ah, there we go. I still like to rest my feet a little now and then. Something to eat? Why, yes, thank you kindly, that would hit the spot. Tuna fish is good energy food. Only, don't mind me if I slip up and talk with my mouth full now and again.

  I was about your age, more or less, when I walked into the little town of Seymour, Indiana. I worked the fields, a harvest hand, moving from crop to crop with the seasons. It was a good, carefree life for a young man back then. A lot of my old school chums went straight into business, bought vests with shiny black buttons and pairs of fancy Florsheims. But I never had that sort of ambition.

  I wanted to poke about, see the world a little, sleep under the stars at night. Now, in all the miles I've walked, all
the different places I've been, those stars are the same as the ones that are starting to wink on up there right now. It's comforting to me, lying down with the earth snug at my back and knowing those stars will be the same day after day and mile after mile.

  It was in Seymour that I bought these shoes. I was flush, had a pocketful of green from a good corn haul, and it was burning a hole in my pocket. I wasn't the reckless sort, I never got much joy out of blowing two weeks of work on a night at the happy house. Now, I'm not against a drink now and then, or a little professional companionship, but I like to make my memories stretch out, same as my walking legs.

  If I was careful, I could make a payday last me a few weeks, weeks I wouldn't have to sweat under the Midwestern sun with chaff cutting at the back of my neck. There was this little second-hand store in Seymour, the kind of place where you can pick up a few goods on the cheap. I found a couple of pairs of denim jeans, which wear out fast doing farm work, let me tell you. I suspect you've never done much farm work, have you?

  Now, you can take that look off your face. If a man's smart enough to get out of bone-wearing work, I say more power to him.

  Anyway, I got those jeans and a cotton shirt that had only one elbow patched, and I found a good wide-brimmed hat. I figured that was about all I could fit in my rucksack. I liked to travel light then, same as I do now. I was going up to the counter to pay when I saw the shoes.

  I wasn't crazy about shoes back then. I thought one pair was pretty much like any other. And that black mud of Indiana found ways into any kind of shoe, let me tell you. If you didn't have a hole between the toes, it would work through the string-holes and down the tongue until it found skin to bother. If you had on boots, it would squish up and climb your leg, then sneak on down from there.

  Anyway, I saw these shoes, sitting on the floor beside a pasteboard box full of rotted harness parts. They were kind of off by themselves, away from the rest of the footwear, almost like they got up and walked there. I stooped over and picked them up, and as soon as I ran my fingers over their dusty stitches, I knew I had to have them.

  You ever had that kind of feeling? Like you suddenly want something you could live very well without, but it's almost like it's choosing you instead of the other way around? Then you have to have it, no matter the cost in money, pain, or pride? I expect a lot of bad marriages are made in just that fashion.

  But this was just an old pair of shoes, and the price was right, or so I thought. The clod-hoppers I was wearing at the time were more hole than shoe anyway, so I went out and sat down on the old wooden porch of that store and took them off. I shucked my socks and let my toes see a little sunshine for a change. They were blanched white and kind of wrinkly, like they'd been in the water too long. But a breeze came down from Dakota-ways and perked them right up.

  When my feet were feeling refreshed, I put on my other change of socks. Then I tossed them old clod-hoppers under the porch for the mice to nest in. I picked up that pair of shoes I had bought, kind of like you pick up a kitten, and held them up to the sun. They were solid, built to last, the way things were made back then.

  I slipped on the right one first. It was like that shoe sucked my foot inside the way it went on so easy. You know how some shoes will squeeze your toes together so the toenail cuts into the toe beside it, all the way down the line? Well, these had plenty of wiggling room, and the shank curved up just right under my arch—now you're giving me that look again. Well, I've studied up on shoes, let me tell you. Call it a hobby of mine.

  Then I tied the string, and it was almost like it tied itself, it looped together so easy. I put the other one on the same way. Another snug fit. I don't know if you know it or not, but a lot of people's feet are different sizes from each other. And a shoe don't always match up perfect with its mate. But these were lucky shoes.

  As soon as I got them on and stood up, I felt like a teenager again. I mean, my feet felt young. I could have danced for a month of Sundays. Out of the blue, I got a notion to walk up and see Lake Erie. I had the money and, Lord knows, I had the time. I gathered up my things and balled them up in my rucksack and I was on my way.

  I walked days, not stopping at all. At night, I'd lay down and sleep, take off my shoes so both them and my feet could air out a little. Food was easy to come by, it was the tail end of the harvest season, and back then practically everybody had a garden out back of the house. Who would notice if a cabbage head or acorn squash walked off in the night? And, of course, thanks to that other famous traveler, Johnny Appleseed, there was always apples.

  Johnny Appleseed's a made-up story, you say? Well, I used to think so myself, only now I'm not so sure.

  I made about forty miles a day. Yeah, that's a lot, but the miles roll on by when your feet keep working, when your shoes are putting one in front of the other right steady. As soon as the sun went down, I could rest, although I wasn't ever really tired for some reason. It was almost like the shoes had charged up my feet, given them fresh energy.

  Well, I reached Erie in four days, and I looked out across that blue sparkly water while that fishy smell played around in my nose. You been there? Yeah, it's brownish now, kind of scummy-looking last time I saw it, but it was blue back then. Anyway, I thought I'd better find a little work there, maybe loading barges, to keep a little coin coming in. But I got the urge to walk on around the lake, up to the canals, then over to Niagara Falls. Now, there's a pretty place. I wish I could have stood there forever, watching that old water roaring down in a billion silver streaks and that cool mist settling on my skin.

  But I didn't stay. I had to get to the Adirondacks, because the leaves were just starting to change over for autumn. Did you know Adirondack is a Mohawk word that means "they eat trees"? When you get around, you learn things. Well, I dogged around up in them old worn mountains that looked like they were covered with a quilt, there was so many patches of red, purple, and gold. I went down through the Catskills, then over to New York City to see the Statue of Liberty. That's one beautiful lady, that is. Symbol of freedom.

  I like freedom and all the things that stand for it. So I went down to Philadelphia to see the Liberty Bell, and it really was cracked just like I'd heard. Then it was a hop, skip, and a jump over to D.C. with all its monuments and historic places. Walking days, sleeping nights, not working, but somehow never going hungry. Seems like food just kept coming my way. Like that tuna fish you gave me.

  So I kept on down the coast. With winter coming on and all, I figured it would be best to make for the Gulf of Mexico. I hoofed through these here Appalachian Mountains, oh, yes, I've been through them three times now, only back then there wasn't one long trail like there is now. You kind of had to make up your way where you found it. But the shoes didn't seem to mind.

  I went down through Atlanta, followed Sherman's tracks for a while,, then veered on over to Mobile and New Orleans. I spent the winter between Beaumont and Lubbock by way of San Antone, just walking under those wide open skies with the smell of cattle and trail dust in my nose, acres and acres of sun-scorched mesquite and tumbleweed with barely a soul to bother me. I covered some of those old pioneer trails, you could still see where the wagon wheels had carved ruts in the red clay.

  I saw the sun sparkling fire off the snowcaps of the Sangre Cristo Range and I threaded up through the Rockies following the Rio Grande and the Gunnison. Boy, my toes just about froze off. It was like these shoes had two dead tree-stumps in them. But the shoes just kept on, one in front of the other, except at night, like I said.

  Let me stop here for a minute and slip off these shoes. Here, see how easy they slide off, smooth as kid gloves, I tell you. I invite you to hold them, rub your hands over them, smell the leather, no, not the inside, I'm not that mean. Just soak in their history and all the places they've been, all the dirt they've kicked up.

  Now, go ahead, try them on, just so's you can get a real feel for them. Go ahead. Don't be shy. They won't nip at you.

  See? See how easy they
go on? Never felt something so comfortable, have you? Not even your fancy boots match up. Go on, wiggle your toes some, so you can explore their history a little. Because all the miles have touched them, and changed them, and become a part of them.

  Thought they would be too small, did you? Well, I'm not surprised they fit even your big old feet. They got a way of stretching out and making themselves at home, no matter what feet they're wrapped around.

  Now where was I? Oh, yeah, then it was over to the Great Salt Lake and around the desert, which was like a lake, only holding yellow and white sand in its banks instead of water. My feet burned like I was walking on the hot coals of hell, but the shoes never quit. On up north to the Matterhorn and Walla Walla, then along the Columbia River over to the foggy Oregon coast. I followed those stormy Pacific cliffs down into California.

  At that point I'd been walking for nearly two years, ran, shine, snow, or sleet, like a mailman only without the pay. Every single day I was putting one shoe in front of the other. Every night I took them off and rested, wondering if I really wanted to walk anymore, if it was time to settle down and grow some roots. But in the morning it would be up with the sun and back on with the shoes, and more miles of country laid out in front of me.

  I rubbed up against a world of natural wonders along the way, plus lots of things that will never be wrote down in books. And I've met many a fine person along the way, too. Maybe that kind of traveling ain't as romantic as a rich man's with his jet planes and yachts and all, but it gets you more in touch with the salt of the earth.

  So I went through California down to the Baja and then back out to the Midwest to hit the corners of the country I'd missed the first time around. And I just kept on and on, all these years.

  I see I'm losing you now, you're thinking maybe I'm crazy after all. Well, you see, the walking wasn't my doing. I was just the flesh, the legs and feet. I was just the means of transportation, same as a car or boat.

  What it was, was the shoes. The shoes wanted to go places. The shoes made me keep walking, putting one foot in front of the other every single day. The shoes that got themselves on my feet every morning at daybreak and wouldn't let me walk away from them at night.