After
Henry’s grandfather died and the will was read, Henry was upset to learn that
all that had been bequeathed to him were the dead man’s shoes. Not just any of
his shoes – the very ones he had died in.
“I
knew granddad never liked me,” groused Henry to his cousin, who had fared much
better – she had gotten an automobile.
“Nonsense,”
his cousin had said. “I think it’s rather touching.”
“Wanna
swap bequests?” Henry asked.
His
cousin said no. “It’s not like they would fit.”
It
was true. They were so large, they wouldn’t fit anyone but Henry. Still, they
made Henry quite angry. When he got home he took the old patent-leather
wingtips and threw them in a corner of his closest and forgot about them.
Sometime
later Henry was invited to a fancy dress party. He rented a tuxedo complete
with cummerbund, clip-tie, and fancy shirt. He even rented shoes. But when he
tried them on, they bit so horribly into his ankles that he could barely walk.
Mincing around his apartment in agony, he finally kicked them off and went
hunting in his own closet for something decent to replace them. Naturally he
found his grandfather’s shoes. After a little polishing he decided that they
would suit him fine.
Slipping
them on, he found they were very comfortable. He went to the party and danced
the night away. He felt very light on his feet, and never grew tired.
He
began wearing the shoes everywhere. Naturally he felt silly wearing nice
leather shoes with his jeans and t-shirts, so he began to invest in better
clothes. His friends remarked upon his change of attire, lightly ribbing him,
but he didn’t mind. He felt good in his clothes. Looking at his friends, they
seemed slovenly, unkempt, even ludicrous. If the clothes make the man, he
thought, then I am a better man than all my friends.
And
their music! Things he had listened to with them, even the music he’d grown up
with, all now seemed piercing and shrill and undignified. He started listening
to music that had more swing, more rhythm, more soul. It’s a shame they didn’t
make music like that anymore, Henry thought.
He
started spending more time alone. He preferred the comfort of his own armchair
to the loud and busy bars and restaurants he used to frequent. He stopped
exercising. He found himself yelling at the television. He had a cutting remark
for everyone at work.
Then
Henry died. Alone. Unhappy. Nearly forgotten.
It’s
said to know a man, you have to walk a mile in his shoes. But that advice
should bear this warning: before you slip the shoes on, make sure you like
where the previous owner ended up.
