Poopshoe

Tonight I slipped on the same pair of sneakers that I was wearing when I was raking the other day and headed out the door for my haircut. As I was backing down the driveway to go to my haircut appointment, I caught a whiff of an unpleasant odor. It was mixed with the smell of my still relatively new leather jacket, and I couldn't immediately identify it. The odor teased me all the way to my destination, and when I got out of the car, it was gone. I had spilled a little mocha on the rubber floor mat this morning, so I wondered if I hadn't cleaned it well enough and the milk had spoiled. I was grasping at straws for an answer.

I checked in for my appointment, sat down, and noticed my shoe was untied. I bent down to take care of it, and there was that same fucking smell! This time it was a very distinct shit smell. I looked, and sure enough, nearly the entire bottom of my shoe was smeared with shit. I had to have stepped in it when I was raking. Fuck that god damn neighbor's dog. They let their dog run loose when they're outside to supervise, which is fine. I'd rather the dog run free than sit tied to a 6 foot leash all day like the poor dog across the street. And normally the neighbor is good about picking up the leavings, but every once in a while a nice, wet horse apple gets left behind for me to discover while I'm doing yard work.

Great! Now I have a poopshoe and am about to get my hair cut. I sat there for several minutes, thankful no one was near me to wonder why I smelled of autumn-lain crap. I furtively tapped my foot to try to knock loose some stool. I checked the floor. Nothing. This must have still been steaming when I stepped in it!

The girl I regularly get my haircut from bounced over with a friendly hello, and led me back to her station. Gotta play this cool, man. Can't let on that I have a warm biscuit on my shoe. But would she be able to smell it? And would she think that it was ME that smelled like shit? I sat in the chair, and she set to work, chatting me up as scissors flashed and hair flew. The whole time I could smell doodie. I couldn't take it anymore. Finally I asked, "Do you smell something?"

"Like what?" she replied.

I didn't want to play my hand. "Um...well just an odd smell."

She thought a moment. "Hmm...well now that you mention it, I did kind of smell something when we first came over here, but now it's gone."

Great. She smelled it. But at least she doesn't now! "Oh, well I smelled it when I was sitting in the waiting area. Maybe there's something in here." Damn! I took it too far. Now she'll want to find out what it is! I was just satisfied that she didn't smell it now. You should have dropped it and moved on, Jeremy! Way to go, dumbass!

She spritzed her water bottle. "Is it that?" she asked.

I didn't want this to turn into a game of Find the Smell. "No. Maybe someone's getting a perm or something."

"I don't think we have any perms tonight. Is it this?" She spritzed a small bottle of fragrant hair product. What, was she going to spray every god damn bottle she had at her station?

"No, that's not it. I don't know what it is. It's fine. It's a not bad smell, just...odd." Lies! I knew damn well it was icky dog poody doop on my shoe!

Finally she seemed satisified, and finished my haircut with no further incident. I paid my bill, and headed out the door. Once near my car, I looked around and begin scraping my shoe against the curb. Huge wads of feces rolled up on the concrete. I scraped and scraped, and the shit kept coming. I had no idea it was this bad. After a while, no more shit seemed to be coming off, so I hopped in the car to head down to Burnsville. Perhaps somewhat ironically, I needed to buy new running shoes at The Running Room, stop at an ATM for cash, and pick up some bottle water to have at work. Before I even left the parking lot, that now-familiar smell hit me. Dog crap! Sumbitch! I cracked the sunroof open and hauled ass down the freeway.

A few minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot near The Running Room. Again, I looked to make sure no one was around and began madly scraping the bottom of my shoe on the curb. Wads of kibble-fed turd were left behind to dry. I knew there had to be more though. I cursed and headed into the store. Inside, I was greeted by a lone salesperson. I knew the exact brand and model of shoe I wanted, and she ducked into the sliding racks to see if she had a pair in my size. Either way, I kicked off my shoes and quickly glanced at the bottom of the poopshoe. I could take a wire brush to the fucking thing and not get all of that shit out of the treads. The salesperson emerged from the rack, and I nonchalantly returned my coloncake-covered shoe to the floor. I was in luck, and she had the exact model I was looking for in my size. I tried them on and decided I would take them. She replied with a bubbly, "Great! Let's just box those up for you, and--"

"Uh...actually I think I'd like to wear them out." I couldn't take it anymore. I could no longer keep my terrifying secret under wraps. I am a dealer of TOO MUCH INFORMATION, dammit! I don't hide things. I make it my business to make my business everyone else's business. It's what I do. It's who I am! I blurted out, "Frankly it's because I have dog poop on my shoe. It smells pretty bad."

Her eyes widened, "Oh yuck! I'm so sorry!" It was an odd amalgamation of horror, sympathy, and shock of being delivered such unpleasant information so bluntly.

I was now emboldened enough to no longer care. "Yep. Let me just box the old shoes up. Hopefully this will contain the smell on the way home. Do you have any of that protective spray?"

They did have spray. So I added that to the tab and sprayed down my new kicks as she ran my credit card. It then occurred to me that she might not appreciate me filling the air of the store with the harsh shoe spray. "Oh! I'm sorry. I should have waited to do this outside. I'm just determined to stink up your store tonight!" She wasn't amused. I signed the credit card slip, grabbed the bag containing my box of poopy shoes, and headed out to my car. As I threw myself into the driver's seat and closed the door, a familiar friend tickled my nostrils. But this time as I turned toward the box on the floor, I smiled. Oh, poopy shoes, soon you'll rest in my garage to await winter's frosty grip. Perhaps then a good swift tap on the ground will convince you to release your shitty payload. If not, you're out with the spring trash, perhaps to be claimed by a hobo who won't care how you smell because he already reeks of crapped pants and cheap booze.