While on his lunch break, Brent decided to buy a new pair of shoes. On the scale of shoe fussiness, he rated average, so after about 10 minutes he’d picked a style, tried them on, paid for them and walked out of the store.
He was no sooner out of the shoe store than he noticed his new shoes were squeaking.
Initially he thought it was not a big deal. He remembered his dad used to repeat one of those old world French Canadian adages: “When your shoes squeak, it means you didn’t pay for them.”
“Well, Dad,” thought Brent. “I definitely paid for them. Just ask Mastercard.”
But he noticed that as he got closer to his workplace, the squeaking was attracting a little unwanted attention.
A dog snarled at him as he walked by.
The hot-dog vendor narrowed his eyes and watched him walk by disapprovingly.
An old Italian lady, draped in black mourning clothes for her dead husband on 20 years, sneered at him disapprovingly.
A woman with a small child gasped at him and covered her child’s ears. He couldn’t figure out why a little loud shoe squeak was garnering such negative attention.
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He got back to his desk and sat down. His boss Joe leaned out of his office. “Brent,” he said. “Can I see you in here for a second?”
“Sure thing,” said Brent. As he got up and walked past his workmates, he heard his shoe squeak. “Fuck you, Linda, fuck you, Tyler, fuck you, Brian, fuck you, Helen, fuck you, Nancy…”
He stopped dead in his tracks. Linda, Tyler, Brian, Helen and Nancy’s heads popped up over their open concept cubicles and glared at him, narrow-eyed. “New shoes,” he said, lamely, and then walked a little more softly, to see if that would help.
“… fuck… fuck… fuck…” said the shoes. Had his shoes been insulting people all the way to work?
He got to Joe’s office and walked in. “Fuck you, Joe” said his shoes as he sat down. Joe stared at him.
“I’m so sorry,” said Brent. “New shoes.”
“You’re fired,” said Joe’s cravat.
