Television Shoes
by Vincent Sakowski
One grey afternoon I found the television shoes in the window of Ye Olde Wonkey Shoppe,
owned and operated by the obese tabby. At the time I was wearing my radio eyes, and they
happened to be tuned to the same frequency somehow. Anyway, there was some kind of
attraction, or an alert. Maybe my eyes simply heard the future, as I'd been hoping to
trade them in for quite awhile already. No one else I knew even had a pair anymore.
Although, few people had much of anything these days. My eyes were the only technology I
possessed--obsolete or not-- and that gave me something to bargain with. I traded in my
own eyes to get them, and a whole lot more besides, so I definitely still needed them
until something better came along.
Most of the time all I got was dead air, and a headache from all of the static, as only
the occasional mistuned station came through. There were almost no radio waves to be found
anywhere anymore, at least as far as my eyes could tell. Navigation was OK, but not as
sharp as it once was when I first bartered for them. Up close everything was still pretty
clear, but anything out of sight, so to speak, well, that was another story. Until passing
the tabby's store that day though, I hadn't found anything to properly replace my radio
eyes.
The obese tabby was cordial as always, lounging on the front counter, its eyes glazed over
somewhat. Nearby was a bowl of catnip, and a large, stainless steel cup with a straw
poking out.
"And how are you today, my fine young man?"
"Doing alright, I suppose. Yourself?"
The obese tabby's lips parted slightly-- a small grin-- and just large enough to fit the
straw between. The tabby took a long, slow pull on its milk shake. Stepping closer, I
could smell the licorice from the cup, and on the cat's breath. Finally, it answered:
"A day much like any other, except brighter now that you are here, of course."
It took another pull on the straw. "I noticed you pause in the window. Something
catch your eye?" And its small grin grew knowingly. Cow juice dribbled down its chin,
but the feline paid it no mind.
I saw no point in being evasive-- the obese tabby's prices were usually fair to begin
with, and I knew it enjoyed to haggle if there were any discrepancies.
"The television shoes."
"Ah, but of course. . . A very wise choice. . . Bring them to me."
I nodded and walked around behind the counter, taking in as much of the dimly lit shoppe
as I could, alert for anything else, but knowing that I already found what I was searching
for. There was the odd appliance, instrument, component, or power tool waiting for its
rightful owner. Otherwise most of the worn, wooden shelves were empty, covered in a thick
layer of dust and cobwebs. Still the tabby kept the shoppe open, having something for
everyone, eventually, or so it claimed. It was willing to take the time until the shelves
were entirely bare, and since the obese tabby was the mafia kingpin in charge of this
domain, the cat could do as it pleased.
I wasn't about to complain, in any case, for who was I? An out-of-work teacher who hadn't
taught a thing in years, and who hadn't worked anywhere else in months. Once the Dons took
over the various domains, they saw no reason to have anyone educated. Education was a
threat to them: although, as with most problems, no one spoke of it aloud. The Dons only
wanted distractions like The Carnival, and The Fray, and The Words to keep the masses
occupied, and to keep the trade flowing. It didn't matter too much anyway when the Dons
pulled their support-- no one wanted to learn anything anymore. I only had five students
when they closed down the school, ages six through fourteen. Two were pregnant. One had
cerebral palsy, but liked being with the other kids. Three are dead now, including the
palsy kid. And the others? I've seen them around, but they're worse off than me.
All of that was in my past, and I tried not to think about it too much-- which was part of
the reason I replaced my eyes to begin with. But since my radio eyes were no longer giving
me the distraction I needed, I really wanted to see if I could get these shoes.
The television shoes were well-worn through, but they still had some life and sole left in
them. I bent over the rail to take one in each hand, and I was surprised at their great
weight. I knew they would be heavy, but I actually had trouble lifting them at first,
until I got a better grip. Drawing them up, I caught a whiff of the previous owner, but
there was something more there as well-- beyond mildew and bacteria, beyond chips and
plasticity, beyond metal and glass. In their totality, I knew I finally held my misfortune
in my hands.
As if answering my thoughts, the tabby whispered:
"One size fits all."
I carried the cubes over to the counter, and with an extra surge of strength, I lifted
them and placed them as gently as I could before the cat. It reared back its great bulk
onto its hind legs and ran a paw over the screen of one shoe, clearing a path in the layer
of dust: drawing some pattern, but I did not understand the symbol being created.
My eyes were tuned elsewhere, trying to distract me, or attract me to something else.
Snippets of my favourite songs, commercials, and rare happy pieces of newscasts raced
through my vision. . . a final plea for me eyes' value. . . their importance. . . their
very lives, but they could not draw my attention for long. It was too little too late. But
also, it was not meant to be. . . the television shoes were my future.
The tabby spoke, its voice low and seductive. I needed no sales pitch, but I wasn't about
to deny the feline its privilege.
"Once you put them on, they are yours. The may seem heavy now, but after
they are on your feet, well. . . Any channel you desire. . . They will quickly learn your
preferences, and switch accordingly in an instant. Countless colours, endless lines of
resolution. . . If only our own lives had so much as what these shoes have to offer. . .
They have their own power source-- company secret, of course-- but they do require a
little extra from you. It is shall we say, a symbiotic relationship, but well worth the
price, I believe. . . and you will know that they are truly yours."
I was afraid to ask, but I had to know:
"How much?"
The obese tabby grinned again, and patted the top of a shoe.
"For you. . .? Well, I assume of course you wish to trade in your eyes. . ."
"Yes."
The cat nodded then turned away from me for a moment, and slid a tarnished silver plate
across the counter closer to me.
"And what else do you have to offer?"
My pockets were empty, but I did not attempt to insult the tabby by feigning ignorance and
patting them down. My thoughts raced, and I grew dismayed, but I could think of nothing.
"Nice ears." The obese tabby offered.
I was shocked at first, but I could think of no alternative, and somehow that sacrifice
made sense to me. Before I could have any second thoughts I dug in my dirty fingers and
plucked out my radio eyes. I heard them scream their static at me one last time, while I
screamed along with them. Even the cat leaned away wincing at the high pitched wailing
from us, but only for a moment, as it sat and waited for my ears as well. Remembering the
position of the silver plate, I carefully lowered my hands and placed my glistening eyes
on it. Then I stepped back again as I tried to figure out how I was going to remove my
ears.
Unfortunately, I had nothing to cut them off with, so I was forced to use my filthy and
broken nails. I sawed my fingertips back and forth, slowly tearing off my ears one at a
time. Initially, I felt pretty bad because I was making such a scene: crying out it agony
while blood was flying all over the room; the counter; the cat. But the obese tabby was
making no objections I was aware of, nor did it offer any assistance. So I simply
continued to tear off each ear in turn, and I soon forgot about the horrific scene I was
creating.
Half an hour later with my ragged and bloody ears on the plate beside my eyes, I felt the
obese tabby push the television shoes towards me. I was overjoyed, but aching and
light-headed from all of the pain and blood loss. Swaying, but as reverently as I could, I
took a shoe up in both hands and raised it high, almost like an offering, then placed it
on the floor before me. I pulled off my old runners of leather and rubber and my swiss
cheese socks, and I slid my right foot into the television shoe.
And nothing happened. I reeled as I thought I had been cheated by the obese tabby, but
then the other shoe was moved across the counter even closer to me. The television shoes
worked together as a pair, of course.
With no ceremony this time, I placed the left shoe on the floor, and slipped my foot
inside. Immediately, they moulded around my feet. Gripping me. Comforting me. Then the
pain returned, as wires punctured my skin and worked their way through my feet, replacing
my veins, and travelling up through my body until they reached my brain. I was aware of
every inch they coursed through me, filling me with copper and plastic, light and
electricity. The power came on fully as the wires tapped directly into my brain-- my mind,
along with their original power source, became their new battery.
The pain diminished and my wounds closed over. I ran my hands over my face. No longer did
I have ears, or eyes, and with all of that power flowing through me, I could feel my hair
fall away from my whole body, like a feathery rain. I brushed away what I could, while the
hairs under my clothes tickled and scratched my skin. But I gave that little thought as I
felt my jaw weakening, and a moment later I leaned over and spit out tooth after bloody
tooth. All of them. I should have been in a panic, insane with fear and agony, but all the
while I underwent this transformation, my television shoes comforted me. They were all I
would ever need. . . or so they kept showing me.
Features long forgotten. Actors long dead. Commercials better off forgotten or dead, but
still there was solace in all of them for me. Compared to what I witnessed in my everyday
life, how could there not be?
Soon I was drawn into the scenes myself. Initially, there were only flashes, cameos,
eventually growing into vignettes-- just to give me a taste, prompt and tease me a little.
My shoes wanted to understand exactly what I was looking for, and how best to entertain
me. I sold beer and condoms, and beer-flavoured condoms. I was the shadowy stranger with
answers in the forms of questions. I was host and narrator, critic and colour commentator,
ripe with repartee. With each role and with each scenario I delved deeper into my psyche,
and the television shoes learned more and adjusted accordingly. No longer a simple school
teacher, I was a complex and compelling hero. . . the star every time if I so desired,
which I often did: with a drink in one hand, a beautiful woman in the other, doing
anything and everything I could conceive of without any restraints whatsoever. There were
obstacles and surprises to be sure, but without any challenges life would be dull. So I
met each threat, each opportunity, but eventually I overcame them all in my own way.
I was uncertain how long I stood there in the obese tabby's shoppe, but neither did I
care. I wasn't even aware of my physical body anymore. It was only due to a pause in the
television shoes' programming that allowed the obese tabby to get through to me. The cat
had my payment, and I was leaving quite the mess. So it didn't need me loitering around
its shoppe any longer.
The television shoes gave me a glimpse of the obese tabby as it leaned its great weight
against the door, holding it open for me.
"Enjoy your purchase my fine young man."
". . . Thank. . . you. . . so. . . very. . . much." It was difficult, and
the words were all garbled, but I had to say it. If it wasn't for the obese tabby, I
wouldn't have had those shoes on my feet.
"Think nothing of it." And it waved a paw, gesturing me out the doorway.
So it was time for me to go. Time to take my first steps in my television shoes. I
breathed deeply, and raised my right foot. I could feel the weight of the shoe, but
nothing like the initial mass when I lifted them from the display window. My foot came
down a little awkwardly, a little too sharply, but already the shoes were regaining
control-- giving me a vision to carry me forward, easing my nervousness, and starting to
leave my body behind. My left foot went up and down more gently, and with each step my
stride became more confident, until there was no thought of it at all.
As I left the obese tabby and its shoppe behind me, my only concern was for my next
adventure. . . where would my shoes take me next? What did my misfortune have in store for
me?
With a smile growing on what remained of my face, I let my television shoes lead me to
wherever they wanted to go.