The Sole Survivor

“I’m telling the truth, Wendy,” Martin panted. His chubby arms waved in the air, flinging beads of perspiration onto Wendy’s clean walls. “It chased me. It chased me all through the parking lot, past endless cars and up and down Handicap ramps. Wendy, I thought it was going to kill me, but I outsmarted it.”

Still wheezing and sweating, Martin Blumbottom sat back on the overstuffed orange sofa. He took a long healthy gulp of his just-opened Yoo Hoo and waited, as he always did, for his wife’s reaction.

This time, however, Wendy didn’t have the strength to react. She was too numb speak. Instead, she stared at the wall in front of her, trying to decide if she was angry with him or just plain stunned. The latter, she decided. Stunned. Stunned with sheer disbelief.

Unable to think of anything to say, Wendy remained frozen on the matching bright orange ottoman, holding a large wooden spoon still heaped with mashed potatoes.

Martin frowned at her silence. He stripped off his tie with an impatient tug, downed the rest of his Yoo Hoo and set his empty bottle hard on the coffee table. Still she said nothing.

“Wendy,” he belched. “Darling, did you hear me? Everything is going to be fine. I’m okay.”

The familiar twitch started up in her right eye. “Let me get this straight, Martin. You’re two hours late from work because you were chased through your office parking lot by a humongous shoe?”

Martin tossed her a look like it was she who had lost her mind. “Weren’t you listening to anything I said? A humongous shoe," he scoffed. "It was a High Top Reebok, Wendy." He shouted the fact again at her, in case she missed it. “A giant High Top Reebok.”

The twitch traveled from her face to her shoulder. Tears welled in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. “I should have known,” she sobbed as chunks of cold mashed potatoes dropped around her feet. “I was thinking you might have been in a car accident or maybe you were working late and just forgot to call. I mean those gangs of High Top Reeboks are known to be ruthless."

"It wasn't a gang of shoes."

"Oh, that's right." she scoffed. "It was a just one. One really big one."

Martin frowned. "I'm getting the feeling you're having a hard time with this."

Wendy propelled forward. She paced, unsure of what made her angry. Nine years of this, she thought. She seldom yelled at him. Not even last year when he made fast friends with the large Creeping Charlie she purchased for the living room. For God sakes, he talked to the plant more than to her.

She’d hear him in the morning downstairs discussing politics, or rehashing his endless frustration over how they could put a man on the moon, but they couldn’t make a chicken who could lay ham and eggs. At first she answered him, tried to join his monologue. Then she realized he was talking to the plant.

She even heard him belly laughing late into the evening, begging it over and over to divulge where it got its jokes. But nothing was more embarrassing than when Martin started to take the plant out with him and his friends.

“You’re not taking that plant with you to the bar again?” She screeched.

“Yes, of course.” He turned back to her and grinned as he made his way out the front door. “The guys love him. He’s a hoot!” Martin slapped at his knee and giggled. “You should see his imitation of Clark Gable. It’s right on.”

“It’s a plant,” she argued. It was like talking to a brick wall. She thought his delusions couldn't get worse. She was wrong.

Martin stood. He walked toward her, his arms outstretched. Wendy backed away.

“What the hell do you take me for anyway?" she asked. "Some dumb housewife who believes every story you dream up?” She shook her head. “Even your inane claim your armpits bite you has to stand in line way behind this one.”

He looked hurt and gasped at the remark. “My armpits do too bite me. I don’t know why they do it, they just always have.” He lifted his arm and shoved his armpit up close to her face. “Go ahead, ask them. Maybe they’ll tell you why they do it. They never answer me.” He looked at her in bewilderment. What kind of person makes something like that up?”

“You,” she answered. “I’m beginning to think you don’t know the difference between fantasy and reality, Martin.”

The verbal slapping stunned him. “I know when I’m being stalked, and not to mention threatened by a giant and extremely hostile piece of footwear. If you would hear me out Wendy, I know the whole thing would make more sense.”

She flopped back down on the couch. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

He stood before her and took a deep breath. She braced herself.

“I did leave work late.” he explained. “I got my tie caught in the pencil sharpener again.” He chuckled to himself. “I ruin more ties that way. I seem to be the only one who does it too. Huh,” he said, “Imagine that. Anyway, I left the office, crossing through the garden walkway and entered the parking lot on the lower level. That’s where I always park. That’s how I know it was stalking me Wendy, because it knew my habits."

"Anywoo, I was walking along, singing “Tar Ra Ra Boom De Ay,” like I always do, when I got this strange, creepy feeling I was being followed. But when I turned around, I saw nothing. I kept walking, but I couldn't shake the feeling. At one point I swung around. That's when I saw something odd. There were long white shoelaces flowing out from behind an old trash bin. I didn’t really think it was anything to worry about, so I just continued on, but now I was kinda paranoid, I mean, who wouldn’t be? I kept checking over my shoulder, you know, like I do when we go to the grocery story and I don’t want the bread aisle to know I’m there?”

Wendy sighed and nodded. She hated when he did that.

“Every time I turned around, I just saw the same white laces flowing out from behind some car or pole. About half way to my car," he swallowed, his face paled. "I heard it.”

Martin’s eyes showed such intense fear, Wendy almost felt sorry for him.

“It was a loud thumping noise, like a very big person playing hopscotch. I could tell it was coming from behind me, so I spun around. And there was the biggest shoe I had ever seen! Probably a size 80 and it was in mid air, ready to stomp on me. When I turned around though, it had quickly hid behind a car."

He stared at her. Wendy knew he wanted to her tell him how brave he was. She couldn't. Not this time, not anymore.

"Wendy, don’t you see? Those were the long white laces I had seen all along. It was actually stalking me." His breath came in excited gasps as he reenacted his tale. "I knew I didn’t stand a chance to out run it, Reebok being the fastest of the sneakers…” He paused and straightened. He turned with a thoughtful look. “Hey, do you suppose that’s how they got their name? Because they sneak up on people?”

“I doubt it, Martin.”

“They should be called Stalkers,” he spat. “Anyway I started running through the parking garage as fast as I could, screaming for someone to help me. 'Distract the shoe.' I yelled, but people did nothing. Nothing! All they did was stand and stare.”

Wendy did the same as her husband slipped further into some sort of weird, unexplainable shoe fetish. As if he were in his own private world of rubber and imitation leather, he continued to reenact his tale.

“Wendy, I was helpless. The shoe knew it. I decided then I was not going to be stomped on by this overgrown sneaker, snuffed out like some old discarded cigarette butt. I did the only thing I could. I stopped running and turned around. You wouldn’t believe what happened next.”

Wendy snickered at that statement. Its sheer irony totally lost on Martin.

“This vicious shoe froze in mid hop. When it knew I saw it, it immediately hid behind a parking meter. I was shocked to say the least. There it waited as if I couldn’t see it. Wanting me to turn my back, planning to squash me like a grape.” He paused for a moment, then said with a loud chuckle, “It's nothing more than a bully." He gave a satisfied sigh and grinned. "I out-foxed it, pure and simple.”

Thank God they never had children. She imagined him telling their son or daughter the heroic tale of the perilous sneaker.

“Martin, what’s the point?” she snapped. “That you ever so bravely glared down the giant shoe?”

“Oh, Wendy,” he whined, “don’t you see? All I had to do was face it and it couldn’t hurt me."

"So, you drove home then?"

"No. I had to walk home backwards.”

She burst into tears.

Martin dropped to his feet, wrapped his arms around her shaking body. “Darling, don’t cry. I’m all right. The police will put a stop to its terrorizing. I’m telling you, that shoe has stomped its last. I bet the cops are out there right now tracking it down. Believe me," he laughed, "it won’t be hard to find, with that huge foot print…”

“Wait a minute,” she interrupted, slapping at the damp hair plastered to her tears stained cheeks. “Don’t tell me you reported this to the police?”

“Of course I did. Wouldn’t you?”

She had visions of him selling T-shirts on the street corner, baring the slogan, “Don’t tread on me.” Wendy had never been more physically exhausted. Her energy drained into her feet, her head fell into her hands as if to hide her face in shame. “Why me? Why do I have to be married to a lunatic who is trying to save the world from hostile footwear? Why couldn’t you run in shoes, instead of running from them?”

The moment had come. Wendy couldn’t take his strangeness any longer. She stood and faced him. “You need help, Martin. There are people who are trained to…" she stammered, "understand your mental state….better than I.”

His mouth dropped in stunned silence.

“Martin,” Wendy reached out to touch his hand, but he yanked it away. “I promise I’ll be right with you. We’ll get through this; all we need is a little time and a lot of medication…”

“No.” Martin shouted. “We will not get through this together. I’m not staying with a woman who after nine years of wedded bliss thinks I’ve dipped into the pesticide pellets one too many times.”

“Well, I have seen you in the garage snacking…” she argued.

Martin pushed passed her and snatched the nearby Creeping Charlie from off the plant stand. “Milo and I are leaving.” He marched toward the front door.

“No Martin, Wendy pleaded. “Don’t do this, bring the plant back. You need help.” She rushed to the open door and cried out after him as he stomped down the walk way. “What will you do? Where will you go?”

The plant eased over his shoulder and took on a human form. In a strong and very familiar voice called back, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”