David Fewster

RED KEDS

Every year at the end of August

mom and I would drive the 20-odd miles

to the big city to buy me

my "school clothes" for the term

so I could look nice when they pried

my broken body out of the rubble

after the russkies had bombed us

and all the survivors would know

I had a mother who cared.

Even though I was from the hick town of

Ontario, NY, I felt I had an advantage

over those idiot kids I saw on newsreels

crouched under their desks in broad daylight

totally exposed to deadly radiation--not us!

WE were herded into the boiler room of

the 1895 brick monstrosity that was

Wayne Primary School to sit in the gloom with

the spider webs & mouse turds & Norman Bates' dead mother,

where, in our fortified comfort, we could totally see ourselves

emerging unscathed from the blast and eager

to begin recess on the newly-formed post-apocalyptic

fields of nuclear rubble. But I digress.

Trying on clothes was my least favorite thing in the world,

but it was still exciting to be in the megalopolis 

that was Rochester with its fancy JC Penney store,

where, in the shoe department, a middle-aged guy

in a white shirt and tie would come out 

and wait on you even if you were 4 years-old

and measure your foot with a silver and black contraption

called the Brannock Device (invented in 1925),

which looked so scientific and technical that you knew

that the guy wielding such an instrument must be

a highly-trained professional whose job you could only aspire to

by working hard in your classes and being

a Clean American Boy.

Anyhow, for the last couple years running

(or, about half my lifetime to that point)

I had been begging mom to buy me

a pair of Red Keds, easily the most

aggressively advertised sneaker in the universe,

strategically placed for my demographic as

commercial breaks during the 8 Man cartoon show.

The first half of this one-minute Madison Ave. classic

featured Kedso, a creepy and annoying animated clown,

who leads us in a sing-a-long of the company jingle

("If you want shoes with lots of pep / Get Keds, kids, Keds

With bounce and zoom in every step /Get Keds, kids, Keds")

followed, in a marvel of cinematic wizardry,

by a live action/animation hybrid where Kedso is joined by

two milk-fed freckle-faced apple-cheeked

buzz-cutted fascists, obviously brothers,

who enthused over the Ubermensch footwear

which would enable them to run faster

and jump further and get over-sized badges

with the word "Champ" emblazoned in large letters.

And Kelso wasn't just bullshitting us, nosireebob!

He was totally transparent about the special features

that produced these super powers, such as the "shock-proof arches"

and being made of genuine "United States Rubber,"

the very stuff that had made us

the greatest country in the world and gave us

the edge over those commie kids whose gym shoes

were made of folded-up copies of Pravda and used chewing gum.

And yet, every year I would end up with

an inferior, cheaper brand of sneaker that did

absolutely nothing to enhance my natural abilities

(which, to be frank, were nothing to write home about)

until finally, just before the start of 3rd grade,

mom was broken down by my incessant wheedling

and plunked down a couple bucks over

her carefully-wrought budget just to shut me up.

For the entire trip home I cradled the shoebox on my lap,

frequently lifting the lid to gaze at the splendor of

the crimson canvas and admire

the blue and white "US KEDS" logo at the heel

(notice how they subtly incorporated the colors of

the great flag of our nation in the design.)

Arriving home, I made a beeline to our basement rec/family room

to get some privacy, and, with tremblling fingers

laced the stiff new shoes. Now, our basement

had a cement floor covered with a thin, all-weather carpet

meant for outdoor use (because of the seasonal flooding),

the point being it was a hard floor, without any give.

Gingerly, I stomped both feet on the ground--no noticeable difference.

My eyes lit on the circular white naugahyde hassock,

about 18" high, in the middle of the room

(this was my favorite piece of furniture, which I would often

tip on its side and drape myself over,

rocking back and forth while watching tv

and feeling strangely comforted in

my prepubescent genital area in a manner

recently brought back into fashion by JD Vance,

but again, I digress...)

Leaping over the hassock easily, I hit the floor--

WHAM! BOING!

Holy crap, it was like a trampoline! Shot like a bullet,

I ran around the perimeter of the room,

gathering momentum at such a fiendish pace

that I was nothing but a blur

with a red line at the bottom--

Just like the Flash!

Centrifugal force soon had me running up the walls

like Donald O'Connor in "Singing in the Rain"

and thanks to the traction of US Rubber

I was defying the physical laws of gravity

and actually dancing on the ceiling like in

that Fred Astaire movie that no one

remembers the name of or watches

except for the part where he dances on the ceiling.

Returning to the floor in a somersault triple lutz toe loop

double axel pirouette that I invented on the spot,

I braced my legs to cushion the landing and knew

I was ready for the first day of school tomorrow.

So, Kedso, perhaps you could explain to me why I was

STILL THE LAST KID CHOSEN WHEN THEY

DREW UP SIDES FOR THE DODGEBALL TEAMS

for yet another entire year?