My nephew Joshua is a good kid; he’s had a turbulent home life ripped from the archives of the Jerry Springer Show, but to me he seems like a normal 16 year-old and I always enjoy seeing him.
Joshua lives upstate and until this week I had not seen him since last Christmas when he spent the week with my sister, his grandmother. When I walked into my sister’s house for Christmas dinner he came to say hello and the first thing I noticed was his shoes: they were the kind of fashion-forward sneakers that all the kids wear with one notable exception: their color.
To say these shoes were fire engine red is an understatement because no fire engine was ever this shade of red. To give you some idea of just how red these shoes were, imagine Dorothy’s ruby slippers and then multiply by a power of four .
For an instant I was speechless. “Those are some snazzy shoes there, Josh,” I finally said.
“Did you notice them?” he asked, beaming, and I nodded, not mentioning that I could have seen them from outer space.
“My dad got them for me,” he said shyly. Then he dropped his voice, looked furtively around the room and told me what they cost. “Don’t tell Gran,” he said. “She wouldn’t understand.”
I nodded, speechless again, because I didn’t understand; the cost of the shoes was more than my monthly car payment. But I didn’t want to burst his bubble. “Those are great shoes,” I said and, unwisely, added, “I wish I had a pair just like them,” which was blatantly untrue.
“Would you really wear them, Uncle Guy?” he asked, and I could see my “cool” factor rising in his eyes.
“I would,” I lied, “But I could never afford them. I’m a working man.” And Josh nodded, embarrassed.
That was a nice Christmas and as I was leaving my sister pulled me aside. “What size shoes do you wear?” she asked.
“Eleven,” I said, “why?” but she had already walked away.
Joshua was down visiting my sister again last week and I saw him at dinner. The kid had grown about a foot since last Christmas and after dinner he came into the kitchen where I was chatting with my sister and shoved a bag into my arms. “These are for you,” he said, blushing a deep red before he exited.
Wondering, I opened the bag and found Josh’s red shoes, cleaned and buffed and, impossibly, even redder than I imagined. “What the…” I asked.
My sister sighed. “Josh outgrew them,” she said. “And he wanted you to have them. He felt bad when you said you couldn’t afford them.”
At this point I was holding the shoes at arms’ length as though afraid they would blind me if they came too close. “They won’t fit,” I said, grasping at straws. “I wear an 11.” .
“Those are elevens,” said my sister. “Josh is a 12 now.”
I nodded, miserably. “I can’t wear red shoes,” I said.
“You have to,” she said. “It will crush him if you don’t.” And I knew she was right.
My red shoes were definitely a conversation starter and everyone had a witty remark ready, but I wore them. At one point I caught Josh’s eye across the room and I gave him a thumbs up and he smiled shyly.
Later that evening Josh came out of his room wearing a brand new pair of neon green sneakers that reminded me of radioactive Kermit the frog. “Do you like my new sneakers?” he asked.