AUGUST 8, 2022 – (Cont.) Seventh grade took me to Anoka Junior High on the other side of town and a block south of the most happening part of Main Street. Boys who’d attended Lincoln Elementary added a whole new dimension to “cool”—manifest in their . . . shoes: English walkers, English “boots,” Clark suede “desert boots,” high-end loafers, and naturally, Jack Purcell “blue-tip” sneakers.
Mom wasn’t swayed by any part of my argument that to be certifiably popular, I required at least one pair of cool shoes. In her impenetrable mind, saving for college in my distant future was more important than my immediate need for acceptable footwear. Not-cool-me had to settle for cheap, Thom Mcan, burgundy shells—the only shoes in my line-up. I wasn’t about to embarrass myself in the fake blue-tips that Mother bought “on clearance” at S & L and hauled home one day for me “to try on.”
For grades nine through 12, I was sent off to far-away boarding schools, where, surprisingly, I discovered that much more important than the “show” of appearance was the actual “tell” of performance. A polished paper assumed priority over well-shined, stylish shoes.
Over the years following my formal education, however, I re-examined appearances. Upon meeting any new guy in a business or professional context, I’d take a quick look at his shoes to see if he was a contender. Often, the treads needed a shine, or worse, they weren’t even shoes meant to be shined; they’d have rubber soles or horribly worn-down heels. Silently, I’d say, “Your [argument; proposed draft; proposition, etc.] would be far more impressive if you’d pop for a decent pair of shoes.”
When our younger son entered the world of finance, I noticed he went “sartorially serious.” I was as impressed by his selection of shoes as I was by his command of leverage ratios. By style and quality, his shoes made an unmistakable statement about him: a man of confidence, achievement, integrity. Show me a man who wears a good pair of shoes, I thought, and I’ll show you a man who can run with the money.
My own shoes? When necessary back in the day, I tried to look like I knew what I was doing. On such occasions I’d pull out my 20-game-winner-suit, power tie, and best pair of shoes—shells or wingtips with leather soles; shoes that crunched on fragmenting concrete; shoes with shoe-trees; shoes that were well-shined.
Early in my career, I had my shoes shined professionally by “Bill,” the shoe-shine guy at the St. Paul Athletic Club, from which I ran my noontime workouts. I became good friends with Bill, and he, in turn, took good care of my shoes.
In the time of Covid . . . and Zoom, however, shoes no longer “make the man.” I haven’t yet participated in a video-conference preceded by the prompt, “Preview Shoes.” Other attributes must be relied upon to size-up a man, such as his choice of video screen background. But I like to think that if, for an in-person meeting, I pulled from the closet my best pair of shoes, shined them up, and laced them on, I could still “run with the money.”
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
