“What size shoes do you wear?” I held the phone away from my ear and looked at the caller ID just to be sure.
“Yeah. What size shoes do you wear?”
“Good. Do you have a pair of black flats I could borrow?”
“Sure. You don’t have a pair of black flats?”
“Not exactly,” she answered. "When I dug them out of the back of the closet, the soles were…sticky.”
“The soles were sticky? How old are these shoes?”
“Let’s just say Reagan was president when I bought them and leave it at that.”
I chuckled. “Maybe you could rub the sticky stuff off,” I suggested.
“I tried that. I put them on and walked around the house.”
“That didn’t work?”
“Oh, the sticky stuff came off all right. There are black footprints all over the living room. Luckily, Mom doesn’t see too well these days and she hasn’t noticed them yet.”
I laughed out loud as Dawn continued, “Then I walked up and down the driveway to scuff them up.”
I pictured Dawn marching up and down her driveway outside, wearing her usual baggy shorts and a T-shirt that advertised the high school science fair, thick socks, and a pair of dress flats that had been stylish in 1980.
She patiently waited for me to stop roaring with laughter. “So can I borrow your shoes?”
“Of course you can,” I replied. “But it sounds like you need to buy a new pair, too.”
“Nah,” she answered. “I’ll just have the cobbler put new soles on these and they’ll be good as new.”
“Yeah, you know – a guy who fixes shoes. Manny does a great job.”
“I know what a cobbler is. Who uses a cobbler? And who uses a cobbler often enough to be on a first-name basis with him?” She is so killing me. My sides are aching. “Do you rinse out your used Ziplock baggies, too?”
“Maybe I do. But at least I don’t use a bench vise to squeeze the last bit out of my toothpaste tube.”