Gotta Have Shoes by Cheryl E. Cudmore

“Thanks so much for stopping for me,” the out-of-breath woman panted as she stumbled up the steps of the bus, one shoe gripped in her hand, the other still on her foot. “It’s not starting off to be a great day,” she said as she flashed her bus pass.

“I can see that,” the bus driver chuckled, “but you’re in luck now. There’s still a couple of seats left so maybe things are starting to look up.”

Her eyes darted around, scanning the passengers and the available seats. She hobbled down the aisle and plopped herself into a spot next to that quiet young lady. You know, the one that’s usually at the bus stop fifteen minutes early every morning and always looking so smartly put together.

“I bet you never have mornings like this, do you?” the woman asked. Without giving her seatmate a chance to respond, the woman rushed on, “Jeez, it was bad before I even got out of bed this morning and now look at this!” She shook her shoe in the air. “Damn heel broke off as I was running to catch the bus. What am I supposed to do, for gawd sakes? I can’t go back home ‘cause the boss said if I’m late one more time, I’m fired! I’m not even sure that I left a spare pair at the office. They’ll likely can me for going barefoot all day.”

In a totally un-lady-like manner she raised her leg by the calf and stared at the torn hose. Almost in tears, she moaned, “Now I’ve got runs in my pantyhose, my foot is soaking wet and freezing…I’m probably gonna have to have it amputated after it thaws out and what good will I be with just one foot?”

“Ahh, ya whiner, you. Ya won’t be good for nothin’ with just one foot. Prob’ly be about as useful as me with no-good eyes.”

Stunned into silence, the woman glared at the old man sitting across the aisle from her.

“That ain’t fair, George,” the man beside him spoke up. “Can’t ya hear the lady’s just havin’ a bad day? Lighten up on her, would ya!”

“Ha! Sure. She must be a looker, is she, Hank, for you to be sympathizin’ with her rantin’ and ravin’s. She’s soundin’ like a luni-tick if’n yar askin’ me,” George exclaimed.

“Ya, well, she’s usually a looker, George, but she ain’t much to look at right now. Frazzled to the gills, she is. You know which one she is, George. She takes this bus all the time. The one you always call Flossie.”

The woman snapped out of her shock, shook her head, and roared in anger. “Flossie? How the hell did you ever get that name for me? And what do you mean I ain’t much to look at today? If your day was going like this, you’d both look a bit frazzled too, I’d say. You’ve got no right to talk about me like that, and as if I wasn’t even here!”

“See, there she goes again,” George declared, waving his hands in the air. “Luni-tick, I tell ya!”

Hank leaned around George and looked across the aisle at the distraught woman. “Well ma’am, ya kinda do look like a Flossie today, what with your hair all teased out like ya never took a comb to it this mornin’ an’ all. Gotta tell ya, I have seen ya lookin’ better. Sorry, don’t mean to be rude or nothin’. Just callin’ it as I see it.”

A horrified look flashed in her eyes as she patted her hair with her hands. Oh, no! Can this get any worse? She doubted not. With her arms wrapped around her waist, the poor woman burst into a wild fit of laughter. Her body rocked back and forth with her uncontrollable hysterics. Tears streamed down her face. George, Hank, and the quiet lady beside her just stared, wide-eyed, as did everyone else on the bus, wondering what was wrong with her.

“I think she’s really losing it, George. Stress o’ the day musta got to her,” Hank said.

Between laughs the woman tried to speak, her voice coming in choking little sounds. “You’ve gotta point, Hank,” she squeaked, as she wiped the moisture from her eyes. “I did forget to take a comb to my hair this morning.”

Relief hit them all and the bus was filled with a chorus of uninhibited laughter. Even the bus driver, who had been watching and listening, was bent over the steering wheel, in stitches.

As the laughter died down, George asked, “If ya don’t care much for the name Flossie that I gave ya, what’s yer real name?”

“My real name is Maddie, Maddie Mason, but George, if you want to call me Flossie, you go right ahead. And, by the way George, you don’t look very useless to me, even without any good eyes. You always seem to know where to get off the bus without asking anyone. So, if worse did come to worse, and I lost a foot, I suppose it won’t be the end of the world, now would it. But that doesn’t solve my immediate problem. My boss will have a fit. What do I do about these damn shoes?”

A quiet voice beside her spoke up. “Hi Maddie Mason. I’m Kate. If you wear a size seven, I can help you out.”

“Size seven--actually I do. How do you mean, you can help me out?”

“Well, I sometimes have days like you’re having and I like to be prepared. That’s why I carry a spare pair of shoes. Borrow them while you take yours to the repair shop and return them to me on the bus next week.”

Maddie accepted the shoes with gratitude and shook hands with her new friend. “I’ve seen you on this bus almost everyday for what, about a year or so now? I’m glad to finally meet you.”

The bus began to slow down and pull over.

“Well, this is my stop,” George announced, as he rose and guided himself down the aisle with his white stick.

“That’s amazing George,” Maddie exclaimed. “How did you know it was your stop when you can’t see?”

With a glance backward, he smiled and winked his no-good eye. “Shoes, Flossie. My shoes know when it’s time to move. Gotta have ‘em!” he laughed as the door closed behind him.