The World of Myth Magazine

The homeless man was snoring when Benson spotted him lying prone in a pile of trash in a dimly lighted alley. The old man smelled of booze, unwashed clothing and some other odor Benson could not identify. Benson nudged him with his shoe. The derelict smacked his lips and turned over. A brown, paper bag lay beside him. Benson picked it up and shook it. The bottle inside was empty.

Benson retrieved a small flashlight from his trouser pocket and shined it on the man. The bum was filthy from head to toe and grizzled, with dirty hair, His wallet lay beside him. Benson picked it up and looked through it. It held nothing of interest. He tossed it to the ground. He was homeless too, a result of laziness and disrespect toward his parents who had kicked him out after he had set the kitchen in their home ablaze while trying to make meth. They had been on vacation when this happened, coming home after two weeks abroad to find their home on fire and Benson high on a drug he never admitted to using.

The house sustained several thousand dollars’ worth of damage. Benson’s father demanded he go to work and pay for repairs. Benson refused, and now he was on his own on dangerous streets. He was twenty-four years old and should have been employed somewhere, even if it was a job as a dishwasher.

Benson shined his flashlight further and found brand new Sport tennis shoes on the man’s feet. He decided they were probably stolen. He moved his toes and felt the hard cement through the holes in his own worn-out brogans. He saw that the shoes had Velcro fasteners instead of laces. It shouldn’t be a problem to remove them.

An indignant squeal caused Benson to release one shoe and jump back. What the…? His victim still slept, and Benson was certain that sound did not come from him. He reached for the shoe again. This time the squeal was much louder. The shoe wriggled in his hand, forcing him to let it go.

He decided the sound was coming from the shoe. Sports brands were popular with teenagers. Perhaps there was a sound installed in it that they went for. He tried again; this time he gave the shoe a hard twist. It was almost off.

The homeless man abruptly awoke and kicked at Benson.

"What are you doing?" he bellowed. "Let go of my shoe!" Benson backed away and pulled out his pocketknife.

"If you don’t shut up, I will stab you!" he threatened. The man’s survival instincts kicked in. He shucked the shoes off his feet as fast as he could. A horrible stench assailed Benson’s nostrils, but he grabbed the shoes and left. At the end of the alley Benson took his old shoes off and put the new ones on. The stench eased a little as he fastened them.

Immediately the shoes exerted a tight grip on Benson’s feet. He gasped in pain and frantically tried to remove them. They would not budge. He sat on the cement and tugged at them, but they only grew tighter. Benson stood. The shoes began walking. He had no choice but to go with them. He worriedly looked right and left as they crossed the street.

The street was clear, but Benson wondered if the shoes would have kept walking into traffic. A chill went up his spine. What had he gotten himself into? Maybe he should go to the police station or the hospital and get the damned things cut off. He was afraid to try it himself. He might cut his foot. No, no police station. His face was familiar to the authorities because of shoplifting. He had only recently been released from jail for that very reason.

The shoes would not allow him to walk to the hospital but walked him all over town. He became weary and needed to go to the bathroom. He was forced to relieve his bodily functions as he walked. He found himself dozing as the shoes continued in an aimless direction.

Finally, the shoes stopped, and Benson cried with happiness. He collapsed into a clump of weeds behind an old building at the edge of town. He fell asleep at once. He was only able to rest for thirty minutes before the shoes began tugging at his feet, moving on. Benson refused to rise. The shoes dragged him until the rough ground forced him to his feet. Where to now? He asked himself.

The shoes took him around a fast-food place, and Benson yelled at the drive-through window what he wanted to eat. Unfortunately, he could not stand there until the order was ready. The shoes walked him around the building again, and Benson tried to give the employee what little money he had, but the shoes sped up and left the girl staring at him,

Benson gradually returned to the area where he hung out, a campground of other homeless people. The shoes walked across a campfire, earning him a torrent of curses from the person cooking fish in a skillet. Grease splashed on Benson’s legs, and he yelped. The shoes squealed. They must enjoy causing pain, he thought.

Miriam, a friend of his, emerged from her tent. She was beautiful beneath the dirt, matted hair, and unwashed clothes. She had run away years ago to escape a violent home situation. She spoke to Benson, but he kept walking with a painful expression on his face.

"Where are you going?" she called to him as he left the campground.

"I don’t know, but I can’t stop," he replied. Miriam hurried to catch up with him.

"Why not?" she inquired.

"My shoes won’t let me," he wailed. Miriam looked at his shoes that by now were filthy.

"Why not?"

"I don’t know," he answered.

"Where did you get those shoes?"

"I took them from a homeless man." Miriam narrowed her eyes.

"You’re disgusting, and you stink too" she declared. Despite her circumstances, Miriam was honest and had a good heart. Her little terrier emerged from her tent and began yipping at Benson. One of the shoes kicked him and sent him rolling. Benson wanted to say he was sorry, but the shoes grew tighter still, and all he could do was moan.

"You kicked my dog!" Miriam shouted. "I am going to report you for animal cruelty!" She used a tent neighbor’s Trac phone to do so, but by the time the police arrived, Benson had vanished. The police caught up with him about a mile away after being given a description by Miriam. Benson glanced at the patrol car that suddenly appeared beside him on the street. The officer had his window rolled down with his arm resting on the ledge.

"Hey, come here a minute," he ordered. Benson kept walking.

"I can’t. My shoes won’t let me," he replied. The officer rolled his eyes.

"I see we have a smart butt," he said.

"No, sir," Benson told him. "My shoes won’t let me come over there." The officer pulled his cruiser over to the side of the street and got out of the car. He walked alongside Benson. He grabbed Benson’s shoulder, but the shoes pulled Benson away.

"I ought to arrest you right now," the officer threatened. "There has been a complaint against you." Benson raised his hands in the air.

"It wasn’t me," he declared. "It was my shoes."

“Why don’t you take them off?”

"I can’t!" cried Benson. "Every time I try, they grow tighter." The officer scratched his chin.

"I’m not going to arrest you, but I do have to make a report. I know where you can go to get the shoes removed."

"Where?" Benson asked, beginning to hope for an end to the nightmare.

"The men at the fire station will have them removed in no time. We are not very far from them. You can walk there." Benson looked at him gratefully.

"Thank you, sir. I’m on my way." The officer watched as Benson walked away.

"And don’t be kicking any dogs," he called.

"No, sir, I won’t," Benson assured him. Three blocks, and he was at the fire station. A burly man sat in a chair outside the station. He had a toothpick in his mouth. Benson approached him. "I need someone to help me remove my shoes."

"Whassamatter, are you disabled?"

"No, I cannot remove my shoes." The man gave him a puzzled look.

"Are you some kind of nut?"

"No, and I need these shoes removed." The man stood and ambled toward the station door.

"I’ll get Fred out here. He can help you." Fred appeared shortly and looked at Benson. When Benson told him the story of the shoes, Fred directed him into the fire station. The shoes, seeming to sense that an attempt would be made to remove them from Benson’s feet, began to run, taking Benson all over the station. The shoes and Benson leapt onto a table where men were playing cards and scattered cards everywhere. There was a spate of profanity, then awe as Benson began walking on the ceiling.

When Benson reached the floor, Fred said, "Grab him, boys!" Three large firefighters lunged for Benson and tackled him, knocking a pile of dishes, pots, and pans to the floor. The men held Benson while Fred decided what to do with him. The shoes began kicking the men who held Benson prisoner.

"Call off your shoes!" growled one hunk of a fellow.

"I can’t!" screamed Benson. “That is why I am here. I can’t control the devils!"

"I know what we can do,” Fred decided. "We’ll call Dr. Grunyon. He’s a quack, but I think he can take care of this problem."

Dr. Grunyon’s cell phone woke him from a drunken sleep. For a few seconds he did not know where he was. Then he saw his alcohol-drugged friends sprawled on the floor nearby. Blearily, he looked for his phone where it lay beside him.

"What time is it?" he growled. Most people knew not to waken him before noon. Some fool had done it anyway. He listened to the voice on the other end telling him it was 9:00 a.m. When he heard what they wanted, he was enraged.

"Why can’t he take off his own damn shoes?" he grumbled. The voice continued.

"Okay, I’ll be there, but this had better be good." He turned the phone off and struggled to his feet. Staggering, he made his way to the bathroom where he splashed cold water on his reddish-purple face. His gray hair stood in all directions. He gave it a furious swipe with his hand, gargled mouthwash and used the toilet. His clothes smelled like whiskey, but he did not take time to change them. He grabbed his gear from the hall closet and left.

Dr. Grunyon eyed Benson with distaste. Benson looked terrible with his dirty clothing, unshaved face, and disheveled appearance. Two men sat on his legs. His shoes shook with pent-up energy, it seemed.

"Did you really try to take his shoes off?" Dr. Grunyon asked. One of the men nodded vigorously.

"Yes, sir, we did. The shoes kept getting tighter and tighter until this man howled in agony."

"All right, boys, there is only one way to remove those shoes," Dr. Grunyon stated. He opened his black bag and retrieved a small chainsaw. Benson’s eyes widened when he saw it.

"What are you going to do?" he cried.

"Why, I’m going to relieve you of those shoes. You can thank me later." He tossed a roll of duct tape to one of the men standing close to Benson.

"Tie him up and gag him," Dr. Grunyon ordered. "There are neighbors around here. We don’t want the police to come snooping around. I must say I’ve never dealt with this type of situation before, but old Dr. Grunyon is up to the task."

It took a hard knock on the head with a pool stick to finally subdue Benson. Dr. Grunyon cut off Benson’s right foot, then his left, just above the tops of the shoes. Afterwards he applied tourniquets, but Benson died from the shock. "Not to worry," Dr. Grunyon assured the men. "I will bury him on my farm. No one will ever know." Late that night when the firemen were asleep, the shoes, which had been left at the station, kicked out a window and escaped. Perhaps they still walk out there somewhere, but anyone finding them is sure to be revolted by the rotting feet the shoes contain.

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