The Case of the Missing Shoes

Arriving at work one otherwise unremarkable day about a week ago, I was greeted with the completely puzzling discovery that my work shoes were gone. They were neither where I had left them nor anywhere else in sight. They just... weren’t there.

Imagine returning home one day after work to discover your house is absent - not destroyed, just missing - and you'll have an idea of my befuddlement. While I periodically change styles, I have left my work shoes in precisely the same place for over seven years without incident. My current pair is – or was – nondescript black and beginning to show the signs of a year’s worth of near daily use. Bought on the cheap at Payless, these were not exactly the pricey, stylish type of footwear that might whet the covetous appetite of some brazen work shoe bandit, yet neither were they so dilapidated that someone would confuse them for junk – not that anyone would single them out in the first place. We all have our shoe storage locations, and everyone adheres to the system. And while my coworkers are a satchel of characters that would likely be rejected as too unbelievable were they ever collectively pitched as a potential TV sitcom cast, I just couldn’t bring myself to consider theft as a plausible explanation.

Being the victim of a prank orchestrated by my friend Alex was another story. I’m always dousing the lights in areas he will subsequently have to traverse in the dark. My preferred location is the vast, intimidating boiler room. Buzzing with the din of machinery and freighted with danger, this area is not one you want to navigate without the benefit of sight. I get a good chuckle after my shift, thinking about Alex inching through the inky blackness with his tentatively outstretched hands, cursing my name while hoping the next thing he touches isn’t 5,000 degrees. You can call it juvenile - and you'll be right - but that’s our brand of humor.

So I began searching the break room, hopeful that I'd imminently find my missing shoes lodged somewhere nearby, have a laugh, and begin plotting my revenge. Yet I became increasingly discouraged by my lack of success.

What the hell…?

Staring blankly at the wall (an activity in which I am well-practiced), I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and a moment later Floyd appeared. While not exactly my supervisor Floyd does outrank me, both in terms of status and seniority. Fortunately he’s not the kind of person who throws his weight around, but he does brandish the three Bs of intimidation: Blackness, Baldness, and Brawniness.

“Hey Mark,” Floyd greeted me happily, his shaven head gleaming beneath the fluorescent break room lights. We’ve worked together for over seven years, yet Floyd has never learned how to correctly spell my name.

“What’s up Floyd,” I said. “Hey, this is weird, but- well, I can’t find…” I started, my voice trailing off as my eyes dropped to Floyd’s feet, which were positioned squarely in my shoes.

“What…?” he asked, confused.

“Hmm. Do you…” What do you mean, ‘What’? You know ‘what’! “Um… nothing… forget it.”

“Okay.”

Floyd then began talking about this and that as he changed out of his uniform. No explanation or even a mention of the shoes was offered. Instead, I watched with a combination of bewilderment and horror as, one by one, he extracted his big smelly feet from the confines of my shoes. Judging by the sound made when his socks slopped onto the floor, I gathered his feet had been soaking wet.

Saturated, rancid Floyd feet had spent eight hours in my shoes.

Predictably, I was deeply disturbed and on several levels. I’m not the kind of person who hits the ceiling when somebody borrows a clothing item, but I tend to prefer lending out things like sweaters and scarves, maybe a seldom used jacket; not shoes that I wear daily. Also, call me old-fashioned but I do like to be asked first – or at least provided with a justifiable excuse after the fact. Thirdly, there was the obvious atrocity of Floyd’s feet being disgusting.

In the end I decided to put it past him; it wasn’t important enough to cause a big fuss over, just an isolated incident. Probably he needed a pair in a pinch, forgot his own, or something along those lines - I was willing to overlook the fact that my shoes now represented a biohazard zone.

Except that wasn’t the end.

The next day upon my arrival Floyd came to meet me again, and again I was horrified to see he was wearing my shoes! I thought, Jesus, WTF Floyd?! Again no explanation was offered. Nothing other than his maddening nonchalance. Furthermore, when he released my shoes from the horror that was his feet, this time he didn’t even return them to my area... but to his.

So now he’s completed the takeover, I thought. He’s officially stolen them! I was shocked into speechlessness. What could I say? Excuse me… uh Floyd? Yeah, did you just, like, matter-of-factly steal my shoes?

After Floyd left that night, I collected my shoes from his area and moved them back to mine. I hoped – I figured – that this would at least send a message. MUST send a message. Whatever he had been thinking would halt. He would show up for work and see that the shoes he had left for himself would have been claimed by their rightful owner, and he would be embarrassed. He would realize his mistake.

Alas, my hopes went unfulfilled. The next day when I came to work, I was infuriated to see that Floyd had them on again. He rambled on casually while my gaze locked onto his feet. You sick bastard, I thought, you’re not getting away with this.

When Floyd left for home, I once again removed the shoes from his area and once again returned them to mine; but this time I wrote my name in big prominent lettering on two scraps of paper and inserted one into each shoe. Check! Your move, Floyd! Unfortunately, this chapter took place on a Friday night, so I was forced to wait out the weekend before arriving at the exciting conclusion.

The situation plagued my mind all weekend. It became an obsession; I'd be in my kitchen Saturday afternoon spreading cream cheese on a bagel or standing in the shower Sunday morning thinking, What is the meaning of this business with the shoes? What is Floyd's deal? Who does he think he is that he can just seamlessly annex my shoes into his wardrobe? Is it possible he is that obtuse?

When Monday finally rolled around, I arrived for work 15 minutes early and made a beeline for the break room. There was no way he'd have taken out my name tags! It was one thing to wear an article of clothing under the guise of ignorance, but to remove the name tags would have demanded a deliberate action. Either way, I figured, I would have my answer. Either the issue would be resolved, with apologetic Floyd having realized his mistake, or the name tags would have been discarded. There would be no more ignorance, genuine or manufactured.

What I neglected to consider was option C, which was exactly what happened: that Floyd would defy the odds and continue wearing the shoes, only with the name tags in them. It was unbelievable. The shoes were sickeningly parked in Floyd's area, with my name tags - the ink smeared as a consequence of being mashed by something heavy and wet (Floyd's hooves) - against the insole. Motherf-

FLOYD!!!

Having already left the premises, I couldn't confront thieving Floyd, which was my initial inclination. But the more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that I had to beat him at his own game; I had to continue with the charade. It wasn't even about the shoes anymore - I could throw them away, for all they mattered. What concerned me was teaching Floyd a lesson.

Okay, let's take it up a notch! I snatched the shoes, placed them in a bag, and tied the bag. I made a bigger name tag with my name emblazoned in thick black magic marker and affixed it to the bag. And I waited.

To be continued...