The Child's shoe incident

I was sitting in the smoking gallery of a small pub in

Houston with an old friend who I hadn't seen in many
years, when the conversation fell onto coincidences. At the
time he was working in the banking sector, in risk
management, four nights a week. If you close your eyes
and picture the atypical computer whizzkid, he was the
opposite of that, and though I would never say it to his
face, I think it was exactly that impression he was going
for. He was a burly man, classically burly like few men
these days are. Stout, pale as the head of a pint, with
broad muscular shoulders. On the heavier side for sure,
but I'd known him long enough, been on enough nights
out to know he could handle himself. No love in his life,
focussing on the things that make a man materially
wealthy, and he was doing a good job in that respect. If
anything, he was cooly logical. Never the kind of guy that
would turn around and tell you he'd seen a ghost, or a
UFO. Never the guy to tell you they definitively couldn't
exist without hard evidence. With him, either the Jury was
in, or still at trial, waiting patiently for the next exhibit
entered into evidence. Which made this particular catch-
up, the unusual pensive air he carried from the moment
he stood up to greet me, so at odds with his casual,
upbeat demeanour, that I knew almost immediately
something was bothering him. By this point we'd ordered
pints, had our usual shallow catch-up on the state-of-
play; the career ladder, romantic prospects, reminiscing
on the fonder days, when he said:
"I suppose there are things in life that you can't explain."
He was standing up. Cradling a cigar between 2 fingers
like I would a normal cigarette, watching up towards the
War memorial lone cars passed by on the back-road to
town. "It's tired," He said. "But it's true. Something as
simple as humming a song right before it plays in the
supermarket you're shopping in. Thinking of a person and
then they call. Or having a dream about them and a week
later they're dead. Freak anomalies. Forgettable events
most of the time, except those rare events. Where the
coincidence leads to a change, unexpected, life-changing
conclusion."
He sat back down and that's when I noticed the intensity
in his eyes. His eyes totally at odds with the rest of his
body, were small with long eyelashes. It gave him a
surprising feminine look despite the rest of his mass. He
could tell I wasn't following the point too well, and I could
tell he was passionate for some reason he had yet to
disclose. It had come out of nowhere.
"Coincidences?" I said. "Like what?"
"Like -- like the chances of bumping into someone on the
street you'll eventually fall in love with. Always one or two
of those in the seventy or so years, right? If you're lucky
enough to make it that far. You can concede that much."
I shrugged. Coincidences weren't something I had thought
much about, and I told him as much.
"Sure," I said. "I get what you're saying. Strange things
happen, odd things happen. This a religious question;
Coincidence versus Fate."
He was taking a long drink while I spoke, nodding over his
glass, cigar still burning slowly.
"Yes. Of course it is. I'm not talking about that though.
Call it Fate if you want. Coincidence, it's the same either
way."
Just then a blackbird flew over our heads. They were a
staple of Houston, their nests lining all the trees. You
couldn't be raised there without fond memories of being
dive-bombed as child during the incubation period. A
protected species, no-one could do anything to displace or
rehome them. The sight of it drew both our attentions for a
moment, before my muscular friend spoke again.
"Yes, either way it doesn't matter. What I'm trying to say
is, things that don't normally happen. That shouldn't
happen, sometimes do. The net effect can be positive or
negative depending on the outcome, or it can be entirely
irrelevant, like the supermarket analogy. A quirk. You see
it in code all the time. Patterns, impossible coincidences.
You see it in the stock-market and in nature. The
Fibonacci sequence, where every number is the sum of the
2 proceeding integers building to the Golden Ratio of 1.68,
which is everywhere." He took another drink of his beer
and emptied it flat, wiped his mouth and placed the
remaining half of the cigar in the ashtray. I took a drink
myself, surprised to find I still had a little under half left.
How fast was he drinking?
"Excuse me," He said, standing up. "I'm going to get
another. I'll get the next round. The same?"
I nodded.
"Thanks."
He made to smile and retreated inside, the empty beer-
glass cradled in his massive grip. I didn't watch, but took
up the cigar and had a draw myself. It was harsh,
pleasantly dry on the end he'd been smoking. What was
clear to me, in the tension of his delivery, to the sudden
retreat, was that he was building up to whatever it was he
wanted to tell me, and that he didn't want to lose his
composure while doing so. All of it was very strange, I
admit, a little unsettling. Never before had our catch-ups
been anything more than light-hearted, occassionally
raucous affairs. There wasn't time in either of our
schedules to blether and drink away our afternoons as we
did towards the end of High School, or during our
University years.
Call it an unspoken principle, but in such relationships, in
the borderline between once-friendship and now-
acquaintance, a Head's-Up is required before things get
serious. A text message will do. 'Hey, I'm not feeling myself
at the minute,' He could say. 'Mind if we talk?' Not that my
friend and I had ever had that kind of relationship. For the
most part he was a jovial drinker, knew how to hold it,
knew when to stop, how to act. At 17, 18 years old, more
often than not, despite drinking the same amount as the
rest of us, the night would end and he'd be slugging one of
us over his shoulder like it was nothing. And nothing ever
bothered him...
All these half-thoughts and memories were swirling
around my mind. Trying to piece it together. To predict in
advance what the coincidence was from the examples he
gave. Coming up with nothing.
I took another drink and checked my phone. Text Andrea,
my girlfriend, and let her know I'd gotten there safely. By
the time the message was sent the back entrance was
knocking on its hinges, him carrying three tall pints
clasped together in both hands. Set them down on the
table. Pushed one over to me.
"Coincidences," He said, picking up where he left off.
Then stopped. Took a drink.
 "You experienced a coincidence. Am I right?"
"Right," He said, placing the pint back down. Golden light
refracting through the glass - or was it the glass reflecting
through the pint? - in the cold, summer air, tracing onto
the walls. Blinding like the head of a watch.
"Only," He said. "I don't know if I'd call it a coincidence,
per se." He rubbed his hands along the width of the glass,
fixed his back as if he were settling in for a long-flight.
"It happened the other week, when I was out on a run. I
don't run often. Two, three times a week. Aerobic excercise
is great for your heart and lungs, but it has the
unfortunate side-effect of deteriorating muscle mass. It's
for this reason I don't run more, and even then, I only run
outside during the Summer months, and if it suits,
Autumn. Only ever along the cycle track between here and
Kilmacolm. The rest of the time, I run on the treadmill at
the gym before a workout, but safe to say its not the same.
You know the stretch well enough. It's all green fields for
miles inbetween villages. Grazing fields for cows and
sheep-- it's nice running out there in the hotter months
when the calves are being born. Though I've never had
children myself, I'm fascinated by their general
development. Doesn't matter if they're human or animal,
it's the rapid rate of change all the same. And running the
same track, two times a week say, since I was 22. That's
roughly 50 runs a year out there on the cycle track, and
over the weeks and months you get to know every square
inch of a place. You've never run, have you?"
I shook my head. "Not seriously, anyway. I have
occassionally moved at pace."
He took another drink and lay it back down. The cigar lay
in the ashtray, half-smoked and unlit, dry and forgotten.
"A weird thing happens when you run a certain
distance," He said. "It's different for different runners. The
kind of runs you do, the intensity and distance. I do
medium sized runs. Five or ten miles, but I know people
who never even bother with that kind of distance, that
only do sprints. And it's the same in the other direction. I
know lots of people who don't bother unless it's marathon
length, or half. Seeing as its my workout-- as I said, I'm
not trying to lose muscle, this stretch between Houston
and Kilmacolm is the perfect distance for me, and it only
takes me a couple miles before any thought consisting of
me," He touched his chest, "Me-- is completely evaporated.
My body's moving consistently, building up this notion of
automaticity, and you no longer have any time for
thought, or for ego. After a certain point in the run, and its
different for everybody, you hit this stride where the you
slips away and all you are is a sack of meat and skin
breathing and pumping along. A man-machine, or a
woman-machine, but no machine specifically. You could
be anybody, is what I'm saying. It's a state-of-mind you get
to, and its not easy-- a lot of people will just as easily feel
that tightening in the chest, the exhaustion of the mental
you, and think that's their body telling them to call it
quits. Or, maybe that's what they want to believe their
body is telling them. They feel this wall coming up in front
of them, mistaking it for their physical limit. An
insurmountable obstacle, of course. You can't beat your
body, after-all. But, it's not a wall at all. Rather, it's a
barrier. If you manage to push through it, what you find
instead of total exhaustion is a surprising renewal in
energy that's not being used up on pointless thoughts or
concerns or dramas, and you can go for miles afterwards.
That's what I experience roughly about halfway through
the first quarter of the run, two or three miles in, coming
up to the turn-off towards Quarriers Village. Crossing that
path and carrying on, more often than not, signals the
quieting of me and the total control of my body instead. I
won't lie, it's a strange feeling, invigorating. There's not
many times in my life, if ever, outside of running that I
ever feel so thoroughly detached from me and my
concerns. The features that makes up the rooms of your
life, the good and the bad. You can just put them aside.
It's why I try and run right before I'm lifting weights. I'm
unburdening myself of ego, and in doing so, better setting
myself up for success.
"And as I say, running at the same time multiple times a
week, you get to know the busy stretches, the quieter
times. Usually closer to town there's a little more traffic.
The further you go out into the fields, I find, the less
people can be bothered venturing out there with you, and
soon I have the whole pavement to myself. I don't run with
earphones in, mind, in case there a bicycles coming up
behind me. So, I'm along, me and not me, listening to my
breathing, to the wind, the cows in the field, birds. Not
detached-- my empirical senses are picking up on
everything going on around me. More likely than not, more
than they normally would, I call it Fight or Flight Mode.
And along the track there are these bins dotted along
every half mile or so, for cigarette butts and dog-poo bags
and the like. Dark green, mossy, like the natural
byproduct of the trees overhanging the path, but not so
much to prevent the sunlight breaking through. Not
overtly thick. Not suffocating. So after a while, caught up
in the motion of running, it's just me working the
pavement, using these bins as markers of my progress..."
He sits up, as if awoken from a trance. Whilst he was
speaking stooping lower and lower towards the table. I
almost started with a jump at the sudden movement.
"It was Tuesday," He said. Not looking at me, but in my
chest, to the wall behind me, as if peering at some secret
screen of memory through which no organ or instrument
could impede. "That Tuesday there, I was out for a run.
The same one as always. Leaving my house at Houston,
following the country road through Crosslee to the Cycle
Track on the wrong side of Bridge of Weir, before following
it through to Kilmacolm. Earlier than usual. I'd had a
Manhattan the night before, at the suggestion of a friend,
having been having trouble sleeping for a week or so, an
unusual problem for me. Anyway, the night-cap worked a
treat and I had the first good sleep in days, but as alcohol
does, it was cut short. And I have a rule, no matter how
tired I am, barring illness, I exercise. It's about getting the
body into a routine, and it's a mental fatigue more than
anything. The mind doesn't want the body to be worked,
perhaps because it knows it has to take the backseat. At
least, that's the conclusion I've drawn over the years.
Perception only, sense, no me. On these runs I'm nowhere
to be found, and after a certain point, neither is anyone
else, and only then, at one of these green bins, do I allow
myself a rest for a minute or two."
His eyes flickered back to me and I hesitated to look away
for the passion in them. I'd been staring at him the whole
time he was telling this story. Confused by where it was
going, but oddly intrigued. I followed his lead and took a
drink. Still a nice icey fog on the exterior of my new pint,
nestled away from direct light by the slant of the shadow
of the roof. It was a nice pub; high-end for its locale.
Chilling the glasses to sub-zero temperatures was one of
the little perks one could look forward to.
"Only," He said. "There was something unusual about the
bin that I'd decided to stop at. I don't know how to
describe it. Something subtle, like a play of the light, the
way the foliage grew out from behind it, thick and
sprawling but low. I never noticed it when I was slowing to
a stop, maybe I never looked at it at all. Like a deep
shadow blocking out all the light behind it. Impossibly
dark, thinking back to it. Nothing that could have
normally occurred in nature. As black as a hole at
midnight, but not the bin itself. It was like the shadow of
the brush was pushing out over it. But as I said, stopping,
I never noticed. It was only when I was catching my
breath, perking up, seeing this thing, still not myself, in
this sense of selflessness, I immediately feel a coldness
running up my spine. I'm an animal. I'm on edge, and--
and--"
I watched him clench his left fist until it was hairy and
pink with tension, before relaxing it and carefully
relighting his cigar. Taking a deep inhale.
"and there was a child's shoe sitting on top of the bin
where there hadn't been. Not ten seconds before. A red
and white sneaker with the little velcro straps. Made for a
toddler. Too small to tie."
He shuddered. With his free hand he took a drink.
"But I swear, ten seconds. And there was only one. Dirty,
like it had been lost somehow, slipped off in a ditch or a
puddle, although you could still tell they were new by the
brightness of the material. I saw it--and immediately I
found myself concerned by it. Confused. Who leaves a
child's shoe all the way out here, in the middle of
nowhere? And why only the one? It was dark, as I said,
around the bin. Unnaturally dark, to be honest. That's
how it felt-- but I hesitate to describe it like that. Safe to
say, my breathing hadn't exactly returned to normal. My
senses, in the not-me state, could sense a presence in the
air that there had suddenly arrived alongside the shoe.
Not that it was the shoe itself. What, coupled with the
darkness, the single child's sneaker, there was this
palpable sense that I wasn't alone. Something emerging
from the darkness behind the bin, the only place the
child's shoe could have come from. And I know what
you're thinking: I could have simply missed it sitting on
top as I approached the bin to stop. But, and this is why I
asked if you were a runner-- if you knew what it was like
to set eyes on the finish line, even if it's only a temporary
one, you lock on from hundreds of metres away. Using up
all of the energy you can muster to keep your legs moving.
To concentrate your eyes on the spot where you're to ease
up. On the way in I studied every square inch of that bin
and the surrounding space, and there was no
overwhelming darkness, there was no shoe.
"Despite being nervous, I couldn't help but feel attracted
to the shoe somehow. It was sitting at a slight angle,
facing forward at a tilt, the white front facing out towards
me. Small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. I don't
know why, but I found myself wanting to pick it up. To
hold it, to take it, and that's when I heard the voice.
 "'It's a nice shoe, isn't it?' the Voice said. I started to look
around, but I knew there wasn't any point to doing so. I
was absolutely alone on the cycle track, looking over my
shoulder by instinct more than anything else. That Fight
or Flight. There was no doubt that the voice, leering, with
an almost comical tone to it, could only be coming from
one place. Behind the bin. My suspicions, my terror, was
confirmed when I turned back around to see two bright
green eyes. Staring at me through the darkness. No form,
no idea as to its size or shape. It appeared, this pair of
eyes, separate, like body from mind, like eyes from body,
separate from anyone or anything. Just hovering there in
the darkness behind the bin, behind the shoe, looking at
me. By now I was everything short of faint. I was running,
as I say, on sense, not self. Self having been abandoned
that morning, the night before with the Manhattan night-
cap, there was no capacity for reasoning or logic, real or
unreal, normal or abnormal. Rational or irrational. I was
experiencing without bias or pre-formed thought this
randomly occuring child's shoe, this overwhelming
darkness, and this--voice.
"'I didn't mean to startle you,' the Voice said. 'I could see
you coming along the way, knew you'd set yourself up for
a rest in a little while at this spot here. The last thing I
want is to upset anyone.' I stepped forward, trying to get a
better look through the darkness. The eyes were set in one
spot, wide and unblinking, but the voice hovered in the
air. Humming and unbound, as if the two were
disconnected from each other.
"'Hello,' I said. 'I'm afraid I can't see you.'
"'Sure you can. You're looking right at me. But, it's not
about me, is it. It's about that.' The green eyes glanced
down toward the little red and white muddy sneaker on
top of the bin. Most unusual, the shoes. The closer I got to
them, the more appealing they looked to me. The notion of
picking it up, of holding it, possessing it-- think of it, me,
wanting a children's shoe in the middle of my run! As I
say, at the time there was nothing irrational at all about
this sudden desire. It seemed like the most natural thing
in the world. I was even sizing up my pockets to see if
they'd fit.
"'They're a nice design, aren't they?' the Voice said, and I
nodded. Neither of us taking our eyes off the item. 'A fancy
sportswear brand,' the Voice carried on. 'One of the
popular ones. You know what parents are like these days.
Dressing their children up to the latest trends, this and
that. It never makes sense to me at that age. You find
yourself spending considerable sums on shoes that, all
going well, you're child will only fit for half a year at most
before sizing up again. It's ludicrous! Or, they get lost.
Come off, as children's shoes are want to do. Their little
limbs fighting against anything they don't recognise. In
this case, the soles under their feet. Tear them right off
when they get the chance. Threw them away in this
particular instance, when the parents weren't looking.'
"I was standing right over the bin now-- over the shoes.
All the wind had stopped. It was only later I realised how
silent the world had become while all this was taking
place. 'Take it,' the Voice said. 'Don't be shy, you can pick
it up. No-one's judging you for taking an interest in a
shoe, after-all. For all they know it could be your own
child's. Missing for the longest time, and you've found it
suddenly and very unexpectedly.'
"Suddenly and very unexpectedly indeed. But, however
he knew, the Voice, I couldn't hide my curiosity any
longer. I simply had to pick it up. It was even smaller in
my hand that I'd first thought. Maybe 7 inches in length, 3
wide. Small enough to tuck it away without anyone
noticing if I passed. The mud only lightly caking the sides,
the shoe itself largely unaffected, like the mud lay on an
exterior layer of film that could be swept off. The
perception of dirt, rather than the real thing. And yet,
when I rubbed my thumb along the side, no mud came off
at all. It wasn't dry, flaky, or wet. It wasn't muddy in the
slightest to the touch, only in appearance. I looked up at
the green eyes and noticed a slight narrowing in them. The
figure had noticed alright my confusion.
"'The mud, I assure you, is wholly superficial', the Voice
said. I glanced back down at the child's sneaker in my
hand and tried scratching at one piece of dirt with my nail
that was hanging off. Sure enough, like an optical illusion,
an impression of light, my fingers could find no trace of
the mud along the shoe to grab at. 'The idea of them being
dirty,' the Voice continued, 'can be much more powerful
than their dirtiness in actuality. Why, this is a perfectly
good shoe. I was lucky to catch it before it landed in
anything worse. Before it became wholly submerged in
grime. Yes! Well, that would be a different situation
entirely, wouldn't it?' At this the Voice sighed. I placed the
shoe back down on top of the bin. 'Yes,' the Voice carried
on. 'You'd be surprised at the wealth of high-end goods I
come across out here. Abandoned, left to rot. Obviously,
not everything. In many cases what people throw away
they absolutely mean to, though in far from the correct
manner, I'm afraid at times left at their feet. And I do what
I can, placing things away in their proper place. Other
times, I come across items of value. Items imbued with
certain qualities unlike anything else. To this end, a single
child's shoe is one of the strongest.'
"'A child's shoe?' I said. The green eyes closed and
opened again, and while I couldn't see a body, it gave the
impression it had nodded.
"'A child's shoe, yes. More powerful than almost
anything, given the correct circumstances. I find more of
them than you'd think reasonable left along the path, or
caught up in the brambles. Children truly are messy
animals indeed.'
 "'You have more more shoes?' I said. Again, the eyes
disappeared in the idea of a nod.
"'I have other shoes, yes. But many I give away. People I
encounter, each on their little pit-stops, find my shoes
very valuable. Just the other day I gave away an infant's
black boot. Fake fur lining all up the inside. The two ladies
I was speaking to then, older than yourself, not quite as
physically fit. Oh no! They were quite taken by it,
reminded by it of their own children. Sure, despite the
condition of it being quite sound I assure you (I do not
offer gifts of a subpar quality, stitching, colouring and so
on, preferring to keep these for myself), that this was the
very same shoe one of her own children had lost on the
same stretch of cycle track over 45 years before! Can you
imagine my surprise at that!'
"I told the green eyes that that was very surprising, and
again, whilst talking, found myself glancing down towards
this most current shoe. Unable to make anything of it,
being not-me, which, by this time, having stopped running
for several minutes, should have returned by now but
hadn't. I was running purely on what I'd call sense and
instinct. And that, for everything that was going on, the
additional creeping notion that perhaps I wasn't unwilling
but unable to recall reason to my deck of cards. As if the
Voice itself, green eyes and the shadows were preventing
it. Replaced by this singular desire to take the red and
white sneaker into my own possession.
 "'Which is most natural,' the Voice said, as if answering
my own thoughts. 'I am, after all, saying in a roundabout
way that this shoe is very much yours to possess should
you decide to you want it. I am not a tease. What a nasty
piece of business I would be to showcase it to you and
then withhold it considering your interest. When I first
saw you coming along the track, I'll admit, I was struggling
to pick which shoe I thought best suited you.'
"'Best suited me?' I said. To this, the Voice seemed to
chuckle.
"'Why, of course! What use is it, am I, to offer gifts that
recipients don't want. We have all experienced what that
feels like. At Christmasses and Birthdays, deeply
unpleasant. You have to smile and thank them even if you
didn't want it. Even if the gift is so poor it makes you
question how well this person could possibly know you.
You have experienced this, yes?'

"Again, I nodded, and the green eyes impressed brightly

through the dark thicket.
"'Exactly! To this end, you know exactly how it feels to be
left feeling disappointed and confused with a gift. And, to
this same end, knowing this to be an almost universal
feeling, seeing you coming along the track, I hesitated
greatly in deciding which shoe to present to you. The
wrong shoe, after all, would not contain the essence with
which you will feel a connection. In the eyes of the
beholder, the shoes such as I present, the wrong one for
instance, should appear irreconcilably ruined! Trash!
Garbage! They would, without thought, perhaps even
thinking themselves do-gooders, throw my presented shoe
in the trash. A shoe being just one example, I have many
things to give. It could be many things.'
"The Voice quited for a moment. Then came a sound,
from no particular where, of items being tossed aside,
moved around in search for something specific. I looked
down the lengths of the cycle track both ways and saw no-
one either way. I wasn't afraid. Not of this Voice, of the
sudden apparition of the shoes, the darkening trees. More
than a threat, it felt like camouflage. Hiding. Understand
my surprise then when, from nowhere, a Harmonica
appears to be sitting snuggly inside the child's shoe!
Poking out, having been set up against the back arch of
the shoe.
"'Many things," the Voice continued. 'But, as I say,
children's shoes possess, no question, the most
magnetising properties of any other item I can provide.
Take the Harmonica for example. I couldn't find it for a
moment there. Such a tool is embodied with soul and
character and life. It creates music! It is rusted, sure, it is
dirty. But it will still produce a sound. And to the average
passer-by, to be accustomed to logic, would suggest a
Harmonica would always be more valuable than a single
child's shoe. You would agree?'
 "'Yes,' I said. 'Although, as you say, it is dirty and rusted.
As a mouth instrument, it is--'
"'Ruined!' the Voice interjected. 'Not simply dirty, no no
no, but irreconceivably tarred beyond playing. It is a
mouth instrument, as you say. Would you play this
instrument?'
"I shook my head at the eyes, No. They were piercing, like
those of a leopard, or an owl. Bulging out from the
darkness.
"'It is a matter of principle not to put such a thing, even
after cleaning it beyond every necessay measure, near
one's mouth,' the Voice said. 'There are risks of infection,
of course. Medical problems. You do not know, to use the
parlance, where this item has been. Much more than the
child's shoe then, it is useless. For, one does not repulse
like the other.'
"Repulse. It was curious. The moment the Voice said it I
knew it was this feeling, repulsion, that I was feeling in my
stomach towards the Harmonica sat there in the child's
shoe. Like a curdling. A reaction, primal, to the rusted,
caked in mud instrument. Totally unexplainable. Unlike
the child's shoe it was clear to see the beauty had long left
the instrument. Sapped away through neglect--
"'And for all intensive purposes, not a Harmonica at all,'
the Voice said. It was gone from the shoe when I looked
back down. 'A Harmonica, to be a Harmonica truly, would
need to be able to serve its primary function: to produce
music. Without this purpose, if no-one is willing or able to
play the instrument in any condition, it is no Harmonica
at all. Despite looking, to all effects and purposes, much
like that selfsame instrument.'
"'That isn't right,' I said. 'It is still a Harmonica. It was
one before it was lost or thrown away, after all.'
"'And I do not disagree with you on that front. It was
indeed a Harmonica prior to having been lost. In fact, I
had the pleasure of hearing it be played by its former
owner before circumstances lead to their loss of it. An
undeniably beautiful instrument, the player had clearly
practiced, and there is a tragedy in that. Now, even its
original owner would struggle to love this same instrument
upon rediscovery. If they happen along this path in the
future, and I have nothing more worthy to offer, only then
would I present it as a gift. And I would be awfully
embarrassed doing so.'
"'You could tell them it was their own Harmonica. Recite
to them the circumstances under which they lost it.'
"'No no no,' the Voice said. 'That would make a person
terribly afraid. Even yourself, sir. Would it not startle you
to think that, unbeknownst to you, I had been watching
every time you ran along this path? That I knew you
stopped just past the slip-road to Quarrier's Village and
that it was, more often than not, this same bin now you
rest at. Is this not news that would upset you?'
 "'I suppose it would,' I said. What an unusual thing to
say? 'But, I suppose it is exactly what you have been
doing--'
"'It is besides the point,' said the Voice hurriedly. 'In
much the same way, a runner is a person who runs, such
as yourself. A person who ran is not a runner, but was
formerly.'
"'And it is formerly a harmonica?'
"'This is the point I am making,' the Voice said. I pointed
to the tiny red and white sneaker.
"'Whereas the shoe can still be used. It is clean, but it
still has purpose.'
"'It is exactly this, yes,' the Voice said. 'Although, it is not
only practical qualities, functions, that objects must
possess. Even ruined items, such as our Harmonica,
totally ruined, would, to the right someone, become a
treasure. Practical qualities, paradoxically, can sometimes
be altogether irrelevant.'
"'Like the architect and the Grecian bowl,' I said.
"'Very much like this, though, it is no longer a Grecian
Bowl in practicality, but an artefact. Worth is not only
practical, you see. Love, for example, stems from very little
in the way of practical. To this end the worth is emotional
and personal, economically practical if anything, yet
predominately imbued with intrinsic properties. And it is
these intrinsic properties which make a person take the
leap of faith. From 'why' to 'why not.'' The Voice seemed to
clear its throat. An odd sound, coming from everywhere,
the lungs of the green eyes grunted and spluttered as
though they had origins in my ears themselves. 'And it is
this overwhelming why not, bolstered by the
presuppositions which are the make-up of unique life,
preference that I try to tap into with my gifts. That I try to
see. It is my gift! Surely, as you well know, a child's shoe
to yourself, much the same as the older ladies whom I
spoke of earlier, the mistaken 45 year old missing shoe, is
hardly a shoe that can be used practically!' the Voice
laughed. 'It is not a shoe that you will run in, for example,
being too small, and there being only one. No, it is not for
practical functionality at all that I have considered in
selecting this present for you. It is a fortunate byproduct,
if anything. That it presents as dirty, in need of care and
not altogether abandonable. That it is not ruined, to your
eyes, though different to many others who may in fact see
it that way, is why I have chosen this particular children's
shoe.'"
At this, my friend took up his cigar once more and fell to
lighting it. Pausing to let the sound of distant cars, angry
birds, otherwise silence, pass behind us. Grey clouds were
drifting lazily in, hardly intimidating, no reason to move
inside, and I found myself looking at them. I didn't know
what to say. I didn't want to say anything, nor did I want
to look at him, being scrambled as I was. Trying to unpick
the severity of his tone as he recounted his story from the
reality of what it was he was actually telling me. That a
voice, with no body, had offered him a shoe, and was
espousing the virtues of perception. What isn't and what
is? Turning back to him, the cigar and both pints were
finished, and yet he still appeared thoroughly sober.
"So I asked him, 'what is it you think I see?'
"And the green eyes seemed to sparkle at the question,
indicating something like a shrug at the question.
"'I have no idea,' the Voice said. 'A children's shoe can
mean anything. To the older ladies, it was the memory of
something that was. That had been. For you, it might be
something else entirely. It is not my place to say, only to
offer. It is up to you to decide why or why not.'
"So what did you do?" I said finally.
My friend, reaching for his pint glass and finding it empty,
thanked me as I slid mine across the table. Telling his
story seemed to set quite the drouth in him. He knocked
the rest of it back in one gulp and set it back down. Wiped
his face with his forearm, then gave me a look that told me
he was getting the next round, too.
"I didn't know what to do," He said. "I couldn't determine
why on earth I would want a child's shoe. What use I
would get out of it. But I also can't deny how much,
despite that, I wanted to take it into my possession. To
stow it away and label it as mine."
With this, He leaned back in on the bench and gripped the
table. I felt the tilt of the table slope towards him, before
he leaned back in against the wood, rubbed his tongue
around the inside of his mouth. Fishing for words.
"I've always wanted children," He said finally, in a
hushed, almost confessional tone. "I don't know how the
Voice knew, or how it sensed my feelings regarding the
topic, but nonetheless it somehow ascertained that feeling
from me. It's always been my understanding that the best
way to raise a family is to get your house in order before
you start building anyone elses. That's why I've never
pursued romantic interests seriously. Before, I always saw
them as a distraction. Things weren't nearly ready, and as
a result, no matter who they were, or how much I
connected with them, it never felt right. Like the timings
off on a rendition of your favourite song. I wasn't where I
felt I need to be. I wasn't ready."
From his coat, lying beside him on the bench, he dug into
the pockets. I watched as he took out the small red and
white sneaker and placed it in front of me. It was still
dirty. In fact, to my eye, the colour was almost entirely
seeped out. Caked in mud along the sole and sides. He
pushed it towards me and I hesitated to pick it up. The
shoe could have been from anywhere, covered in anything.
Certainly, it wasn't the shoe I had pictured when he
described it to me.
"I had to take it," He said, almost embarrassed. Looking at
the shoe, not at me. "It was right, about the gift.
Something entirely impractical, yes, but it's like it doesn't
matter. I could see the reality I wanted... in them. The
family, the wife, the children. When I look at that shoe, I
feel like I'm looking into the future."
He picked up the shoe and turned them over, as if
showing them off to me, before placing it back down.
"I got the mud off them well enough. Took several cycles
in the washing machine before I was happy with them.
Now, not a lick. It's not like I could show them to you in
the state I found them in."
I stared at the shoes, filthy beyond all reason, and back at
my friend. Was he serious? Between the fantastical story,
the ominous voices, the magic shoes... was he really
saying he couldn't see the grime and dirt still clinging
feverently to all sides? The sincerity in his voice, the
innocent, honestly bemused expressions he demonstrated
throughout his tale, and now, with the shoe in front of us,
the years I'd known him, belied any notion that he was
having-me-on. And yet, sat between us was a matter of
most serious contradiction. I admit, I was concerned,
unsure how to proceed. Hoping, as had been the case all
afternoon, that He would take the lead. Sure enough, a
moment later he was tucking the child's shoe away again
inside his jacket pocket, after which, he drew his hands
together on the bench, dragging his elbows forward,
twiddling his thumbs with something of a contemplative
air. I waited quietly for him to speak.
 "After I took the shoe the eyes went away, the darkness
behind the bin... It was like a concentrated raincloud had
finally parted. I carried on with my run, worked hard to
get back into rhythm, and the whole rest of the way I kept
one hand in my pocket, gripping onto the shoe." He clicked
his tongue and shrugged. "I don't know, I thought I was
losing my mind. That at any second the shoe would
disappear. It had arrived so suddenly, and I wanted to
keep it so badly. I've taken it everywhere with me, just in
case. So I can keep an eye on it. The coincidence--" He
said, leaning towards me over the table, growing very
hushed as if there was someone around us to overhear,
though we were alone outside, "Is that a few nights ago,
Friday, after I got home from work, I got a call from an old
flame of mine. Samantha, you remember her don't you?"
I nodded.
"The blonde?" I said. "She's a lawyer isn't she?"
"Now she is. She was still studying when we were
together. We met on campus. Anyway, she calls me,
completely out of the blue. It's been years, remember, and
neither of us had stoked the flame since. A very beautiful
woman inside and out. Out of nowhere she asks if I'm free
tonight. If I'd like to catch-up."
"Did you show her the shoe?" I said.
My friend gave me a mean glance as if to say, 'don't be
ridiculous'.
 "You're the only person I've told about the incident. I
didn't know who else to tell, frankly. It sounds ridiculous.
It is ridiculous. But somehow I knew you wouldn't judge
me for telling you. That you'd understand in a way."
I wanted to tell him that the shoe was still dirty then. I
don't know why, but more than anything I wanted to know
what Samantha would have seen in the shoe. Would it be
clean, as He saw it, or ruined? Instead, I asked whether he
went out to dinner.
"Of course I did!" He cried in response. "Irregardless of
the incident on the cycle track I would have been inclined
to say yes. But, after that? No question."
He gave me a smile then which told me everything I
needed to know about what happened next between them.
Neither of us were immature enough to engage in a Kiss
and Tell, and I wasn't too stupid not to read the trail of
insinuations he'd left for me. After which, protesting his
intense desire to urinate, my friend stood up for the
second time, collated the empty pints glasses in his hands,
and after shouting down my protestations to pay for the
following round, waving away the handful of notes, He
disappeared inside the back entrance.
While He was away I smoked a cigarette and thought
about everything he'd told me. Why or why not? If it had
been me, I thought, seeing those shoes placed on top of a
bin, coaxed by a mysterious voice into taking them, I
would have thoroughly refused. Why all the way. I would
have ran, in all likelihood, as far away as possible, though
not being a runner, admittedly that wouldn't have been
very far.
When he returned, carrying two pints for each of us, I
posited this very point to him. He sat down, rubbed his
chin, and took up the end of his cigar. Lighting it one final
time.
"I don't think you would have," He said finally. "But
neither do you want children, do you?"
I shook my head, No.
"So you would have seen no worth in the shoe. And the
Voice, sensing this, would have in all likelihood presented
another gift to you instead. The Harmonica, for example,
though a bad one. I don't know all that the Voice possess.
Either way, the shoe is not meant for you, and therefore
you would never have seen it, to put it simply. It's qualities
are lost on you."
I agreed with him that much. I also noticed that, in
saluting one another in the clink of our pints, his spirits
appeared much brighter. To what extent it was the
unburdening of his strange encounter, or the continuing
flow of alcohol, or both, was impossible to tell. Surely
both, I thought. Irregardless, having both grown more
than a little tipsy, the jovial air that flowed through the
iced glasses quickly shifted the conversation away from
the almost confessional air of his story towards the date
itself. How well he and Samantha still got on after all these
years. Houses on fire all over the city. And after several
more rounds, eventually forcing him to concede on its
being my turn to pay, I forgot about the recounting of the
incident entirely, became happily drunk, and in the gauze
of darkness, the two of us stayed until close, deciding
against a taxi and walking each other home.

It was a month or so later that I heard from Him again.

Out of the blue, being on my lunchbreak, I was halfway
through chewing a spicy tuna mayo and spinach sandwich
when I picked up the phone. He sounded panicked, almost
rushed. I couldn't make out a word he was saying and told
him as much, though ironically, he levelled the same
accusation at me. And that, anyways, it was besides the
point.
"Samantha's pregnant," He said.
The silence hung in the static between the phone line. The
incident with the child's shoe, which had, since that night
at the pub, been lost in the jumbled pieces of memory at
the bottom of pint glasses since, came back to me in its
entirety suddenly.
"She's what?" I managed.
"Pregnant. One month. Definitely mine," He said.
I could hear his excitement over the line. The giddy,
almost childlike deliverance of the news.
"Congratulations!" I told him. And the necessary thank-
you thank-you's that followed.
 "It's crazy," He said. "But I swear I knew, somehow.
Despite taking all necessary precautions, if you know what
I mean, having just started back up again. And she wants
to keep it. Samantha wants to get married."
Again, I congratulated him. It was all so much, so quickly,
that I was struggling to really take in what he was saying.
That the perennial bachelor was to be a Father and
Husband, in one fell stroke, was too much to comprehend.
I kept congratulating him, not knowing what to say,
pressing for pointless details like a leeching gossip.
"I showed her the shoe," He said finally, catching a lull in
our conversation. "As you suggested, of course. I've only
got you to thank for that. I worried what she was going to
think at first, but when she saw it, she instantly fell in
love. Kept playing with it. Fondling it as if it were a toy, or
a child itself. And now this! I think it's part of why she
wants to keep it, to be honest. Why she wants to stick
around."
"I could have told her she had a keeper if that's what you
were worried about."
"I don't doubt you would have," He said, laughing. "But
it's not that I wanted to call about. I've been thinking... I
think you should go and see it for yourself."
He didn't have to say what 'it' was. I knew just fine he
meant the cycle track. The spot by the bin. Still, as
amazed as I was, I hesitated to say that I would.
Something still unsettled me about the story, and
everything after, as happy as He was, gave off the
impression it was all a little too clean-cut, too easy. I told
him as much.
"Of course!" He said, as if he had been anticipating that
very response. "It makes perfect sense that you don't want
to. If I'd known, I'm not sure I would have went, either. We
fear what we don't understand. It's Fight or Flight!"
"And perhaps," I added. "There'll be nothing at all waiting
for me. No gift, no Voice. It might not possess anything it
thinks I'll find valuable. It might not show itself at all."
"There is that," my friend replied. "Although, I'm not so
sure. Coincidence or fate, make it religious if you want,
either way you're connected to this too, now. Call it a gut
instinct."
"A gut instinct?" I said.
He even offered to go with me, though he was concerned
that his presence would prevent the encounter from taking
place, having already had his own encounter. In a way, his
self would jar with its, his return. One gift per person, it
seemed. One conversation. And additionally, he said,
crucially, was that he had been running at the time, and
in that process had shed himself of conscious thoughts.
"Without that, I'm not sure it would have appeared to me,
either. If I'm honest."
And like all Lunch-breaks, mines ended. I haven't seen
him in about 6 months since then. The life of my friend
has, no doubt, become hectic in every conceivable manner.
He sold his apartment to put down a deposite on a bigger
house in a new housing estate in Brookfield, a couple
miles East. Working weekends - the times we'd usually
meet - to save cash for the baby's arrival. Not that he
needed it, but he was truly selfless. Wanting to provide for
his incoming child above and beyond. Layed off the
drinking, too.
I haven't visited the cycle track yet, and in truth, I'm not
sure if I ever will. When it occurred to me one day to write
this story down, the first thing I did was ask his
permission to do so. A true friend, he had no problem with
the idea. He only asked I not ruin his life using the same
poorly veiled pseudonyms I always choose for the real-life
inspirations to my stories. When none of my suggestions
worked, I decided to eschew names entirely.
And I asked him one more thing on that phone-call. One
thing that had been bugging me ever since that first day at
the pub when he told that story.
"Considering how it's all went down since, do you really
think what happened out there was a coincidence?"
The static gave his silence a vacuum. Somehow, it was
clear he was earnestly deliberating.
"It comes back to the Fibonacci sequence," He said. "That
patterns occur in nature. Is it pre-ordained or perfect
happenstance."
"The pocket watch in the woods," I offered.
 "Exactly! To answer your question, I think it's a process
of accumulation. If enough positive coincidences
accumulate in your direction, you're more inclined to
believe in the idea that there is a destiny waiting for you,
right? In the other direction, however, if there are too
many negative coincidences, the meaning seems only to be
pain."
"I don't know if I agree with you," I said. "Religion
permeates across wealth, rich and poor. Some of the most
devoutly religious are the most deprived on the planet."
"It's like the Voice said," my friend answered, suddenly
adopting a hush tone. Likely so that whoever was around
him couldn't hear. "The child's shoe held no practical
value. For all the money in the world I wouldn't be as
happy as I am now without Samantha and the baby. I
wouldn't trade it for a billion pounds. There are other
things in life."

I think that's where I'll leave it.