Hole

Today I realized that I have a hole in my shoe.

    It’s a fairly unassuming hole, about half an inch wide and raggedy, just above my index toe on my left foot, the one with the large freckle I’ve nicknamed Ted, after my next door neighbor from fifth grade who just so happens to be a podiatric dermatologist, which, believe it or not, is a doctor who specializes in the skin of the foot, which is exactly where my freckle is.  I named Ted in seventh grade, so I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m some sort of psychic. Ted is just an example of my powers. For other examples, I need only to look to instances where I can cross a busy street during rush hour (I say rush hour, though in St. George the rush consists of the 15 minutes after the last class lets out when everybody rushes home in their cheap college kid cars to play slap-ass and drink beer) without even looking, getting mangled, or breaking a sweat; I can do this even on hot days, which is incredible seeing as I’m quite a moist individual. When you weigh as much as I do, the sun is not your friend.
    Sometimes, I can even tell what my breath is going to taste and/or smell like in the morning. It’s a slightly unnerving situation when I wake up and get a flash of odor, gag wildly for around ten seconds, and then experience fresh relief as my breath returns to normal. Then I just roll my eyes, chuckle softly to myself, and go back to bed as if nothing happened, though I know that, not for the first time in my life, something momentous has occurred.
    My potential is frightening, but I don’t know how to develop my talent. My uncle, Lars, once knew a guy who could move stacks of cards (but only cards) with his mind, and I think I could do that if I had the proper training and experience. But Uncle Lars lost touch with the man after they had a violent clash over a crust of moldy bread in a POW camp several dozen years ago, before I was born, which is a pity, because I really think I could thrive under that man’s tutelage. As it is, no one knows my secret, and I keep it to myself, like the books I keep hidden under my mattress. If my roommates ever found my stash of Emily Dickenson poems, they’d never let me hear the end of it.

    Anyway, getting back to the subject of the hole in my shoe, I first noticed it when I was riding the bus to my noon class after having slept through classes one, two, and three. I never liked the city buses. They’re old, and they whine and shudder like my grandma when she had a kidney stone during my thirteenth birthday. She passed that kidney stone, but not until after I had my cake. There was no way she was going to ruin the funfettiest moment of my life. I wonder how Grandma is doing now that Grandpa’s gone? I haven’t talked to her in a while except when my mom forces me to. My mom’s always telling me to do things I don’t want to do, even though she’s five hours of driving away. I think it’s because she sends me a care package each week of cookies and brownies and sticker packets, which I especially love. A man can do a lot with a packet of Mario Bros stickers and double-chocolate-fudge-chip-swirl brownies microwaved for twelve seconds on medium heat and then sprinkled with powdered sugar and cheese. Why cheese? My bones are kind of brittle since I fell out of a rather short tree in sixth grade and broke my leg, so I like to get my share of calcium and dairy products, which is sometimes hard when you’re a professional gamer like I am. There just aren’t enough hours in the day, you know?1

    Hole. Right. So, I noticed it on the bus when the door psshed open and I felt a queer draft run over Ted. The draft was queer because generally one does not feel drafts on their index toes, not because it took sexual pleasure from drafts of the same gender. Anyway, I looked down, and there it was, staring back at me, and it was all woe on the downhill ride from there. I just bought these shoes for $36.99 at Shoe Ship a couple of months ago when my dad came up and noticed that I had nothing but a pair of sandals to prepare me from the traditionally cruel Minnesota winter. My dad always likes to plan ahead, and that’s why I got brand-new waterproof shoes in the middle of summer. He began saving up for his first car when he was ten years old, so that by the time he was 16 he had around $35,000 in the bank and he was able to buy a svelte automobile. He never really told me how he made that much money in six years as an un-employable teenager, but I believe him. Of course, I believed him when he told me that he once wrestled a puma during Vietnam. Said it snuck up on him during ambush duty and he killed it using only his bare hands and a hunting knife, because the other guy that was with him was asleep and there’s no way to reach your gun when there’s a 600-pound puma on top of you trying to rip your guts out. It was only later that I found out that there are no pumas in Vietnam. Can you believe that?

    What? No, the hole didn’t do anything. I have to go get it fixed tomorrow. How do people fix holes, anyway? And for that matter, what happens to the material that used to be where the hole is? Maybe there’s a black hole somewhere filled with little bits of cloth from scissors cuts and tears and canvas shoe material. I wonder if there’s alternate universes in black holes and if I—what’s that? Where do you have to go? Class? No, I don’t need to go to class. I get all my work done here and then go take the tests. It’s too much work to walk all the way out there. I hear that if you sweat too much, you can freeze to death, because when sweat evaporates it cools your skin, so if you do it in moderation it’s fine, but don’t go overboard with it, if you know what I mean. I had a cousin once who…....2