KITE HQ is snuggly tucked between Lucky Penny Droppers Inc. and Sock Recovery & Co. Irony runs rampant in the jokes made by the communal water cooler. Our floor manager takes solace in the company’s creative designation. Reviews say we’re certifiably “people-friendly” despite its ambiguity. 

“I have your Prayer scheduled between 11pm and 6am — is that correct, ma’am? A wingman will arrive shortly. Have a fabulace day!” Slipping off his headset, he says without turning, “I can see you, Beck.” 

Solidarity is at an all-time low at KITE Shoe-Walkers. Personalities clash over printer access and Taco Tuesday on an hourly basis — the latter never actually occurring on an actual Tuesday. You almost start to envy the lucky penny-totting, cupcake champions after years of 9 to 5s plagued by subjectivity. But Cal, good ol’ Cal, reminds me we’re here for a reason.

“I can see you, too, Cal. Having a fabulace day, are we?” I mock in a sing-song tone. Picking up the cobbler’s notes, I sigh. “5-inch, peacock-colored cork-wedges? Your callus friendship gives me blisters.”

“Rumor has it J-Day is shopping for a new wingman,” he quips.

“Because the last one had your god-given patience.” I scoff, rolling eyes catching red. “Speak of the angel and she’ll appear.” Secretary Lovett flutters through the floor’s rows of desks like a heat-seeking missile. Her red bob curls against high-flying cheeks.

“Excuse you. Pardon you. Ah, yes! Chanyeol Park, the big man upstairs calls,” she announces. Sinful schemes are hidden beneath a sinister smile. “What’s the judging stare for, Baekhyun Byun?”

“If you’re happy, then another end of days is surely upon us,” I say, tapping bare feet against ceramic tile. 

Secretary Lovett laughs. Typing fingers and talking cobblers stop at the sound. It’s quite eerie to hear her soprano voice sing out in jubilation. Imagine pearly gates opening wide, only to scrape by a scrap of loose chainlink. 

“It would certainly liven things up around here, wouldn’t it?” She enjoys ripping feathers from fellow winged beasts — I daresay she may love it. “Have a fabulace day!” 

Jealousy would be counterproductive to Cal and I’s work relationship. As it stands, it’s working. Success tends to come in waves; whatever news he’s receiving, it can only mean big things for his wing guy. In other words, me. But there’s this sinking feeling that’s soaking my wings.

When a penny dropper bakes midweek pastries, Secretary Lovett may just get the armageddon she’s praying for — sweets are typically saved for payday. “Cupcake?” said dropper offers by the bubbling water cooler. A collective thirst is circulating. 

5-inch, peacock-colored cork-wedges click as I make way for the tray he shoves in my face. “Not today, Try. I’m watching my heel-line,” I say, striking a pose. Popular opinion says my humor is a “people-repellent.” The entire service department stands united against true comedy.

“Have a cupcake, Beck,” Try insists. “You’re going to need it.” Penny droppers have a sixth sense for matters regarding luck. If black cats are cupcakes, ill-fortune tastes damn good — god forgive me.

He was right. You never know you need a cupcake until you regret it. Considering the memo I just received from upstairs, a supple heel-line isn’t on my list of immediate concerns. “Report to cobbler #0777 until further notice,” it casually signed off my fate. Walking helps abate the worry — as usual. For Shoe-Walkers, there’s nothing better than putting soles to pavement.

Heavenly is an apt descriptor. 

Frank Sinatra sings metaphors over the bus’s speakers at 4:53am. Repeats, repeats in my ear. “Don’t you know, little fool. You never can win.” Winning isn’t a part of our reality. Cal argues 1956 paper boys are well off now; a red scare is the stuff of nightmares. I’ve already won — apparently.

25-26.5 centimeters. Egyptian feet crammed into open-toed, ankle-strapped flats. Brown leather slips against oiled skin; only godly souls take time to apply foot lotion. This is what I notice about her before she says a word. 

“Did you lose a bet?” she asks. 

“On the contrary; I’ve won.” Letting go of the overhead handrails, I lift my suit’s pant leg. Green isn’t my favorite color. Beggars can certainly pretend to choose. “The natural contrast brings out my eyes.”

Why is she on a 4:53am bus to the shopping district? What possesses her to speak to me? The big man upstairs works in mysterious ways. Cal may be lost to me, but we’re here — right now — for a reason.

“You look more like the oxford type to me.” She ends the conversation with a metaphorical slab of juicy tenderloin. Size, shape, care: her feet meet every prerequisite. I’d give five Our Fathers and six Hail Marys to walk in her shoes.

But I play it cool; salesmen naturally reek of people-repelling desperation to begin with.

Handing Miss Oxford a business card, I say, “My friends call me Beck. You can call me between the hours of 9am and 10am. When your sole needs a break, I’m your wing guy.”

Euphoric anticipation blinds me to the sidewalk’s curb. Here I am trying to get off on the right foot with J-Day, and my left foot rushes to step first. I trip. Straps snap — aw crap. 

“J—”

“Ssh.” J-Day leans back in his corner office. Christmas lights dangle from here to there. Tiny hula girls dance the dawn away on his desk. Flip flops flapping against ceramic, the eccentric fellow whimsically whistles along to the day’s song of choice.

Everybody wants cobbler #0778-1400. Everybody wants to avoid his flippant flouting of a cobbler’s duty to bridge the gap between client and KITE. I’d just like to make it through to payday. KC and the Sunshine Band tell me, “Baby, give it up. Give it up. Baby, give it up.”

Minutes pass, the oohing chorus fades out, and I nab a ten second window until it returns with renewed gusto. “5-inch, peacock-colored cork-wedges due for delivery at 6am,” I say, pointing at the torn buckle.

He looks at it for seconds, then forebodingly comments, “That’s knot good.” Spinning in his chair, he types at his computer. Whacks the monitor. Stuffs hands into cargo shorts, stating, “Na’ah, I can’t fix that.”

“Your reputation exceeds you,” I declare — so much for the rumored miracle worker.

“Look,” he replies, unfazed by the insult. Black text rushes on the computer screen. Fading letters spell “deceased.” Souls hardly need soles once they’ve left the ground. “Send ‘em down to cobbler #0514; you’ll make his fabulace day.”

Years of service without incident — now this? “Can you check her Prayer records?” I insist, but the electronic piano fades in. J-Day bursts into the first verse, thoroughly distracted by musical happenstance. But we’re here for a reason.

Bad luck is approaching on the horizon, and droppers scatter pennies like its payday.

A/N: Comments would be a godsend. (Frank Sinatra "I've Got You Under My Skin" & KC and the Sushine Band "Give It Up".)