Off-duty cobblers prefer windowless, corner offices. Cramped tight behind the racks of KITE HQ. “People don’t appreciate the subtleties involved in repurposing worn soles,” cobbler #0514 explains away the toeless sneakers, seatless stilettos, and heelless boots scattered across stuffed shelves.

Walkman blaring Bill Withers, he chips the sunshine away. Beady eyes look up through large, circular spectacles. Four flips of assorted magnifying lenses affixed on either hinge later and he passes judgment.

“What a shame; you do good work, wingman #0888,” he declares, tongue clicking.

“Call me Beck.”

My suggestion hits the brick wall of office civility. “I already acknowledge above par coworkers. Don’t get ahead of yourself,” cobbler #0514 says. 40 some-odd years of seamless stitch-work straightens out the sharpest kinks.

“You always did know how to make your pals feel appreciated, Bugeye,” I resign with a sigh. You win some you lose some. Speaking of which.

“Beck, call incoming,” J-Day calls over the intercom. Kool & The Gang celebrate another day in the life of cobbler #0777. “Nab industrial adhesive on your way up. Forget and—well, let’s give you the benefit of the doubt.” Yahoo!

Denying his right to party, Bugeye warns, “Watch your instep around cobbler #0777.”

Twas J-Day’s recommendation that got Bugeye transferred to the RRR—Reuse, Repair, and Recycle—department of KITE. Rumor has it only Stickman at Sock Recovery & Co. remember the details of the cobblers’ feud. It’s on a don’t ask, don’t tell basis. So my soles are sewed shut.

“Good morning! It’s 9am, and you’ve called the KITE Shoe-Walkers. What a fabulace way to start your day!” I recite by heart into J-Day’s borrowed headset, “Wingman #0888, Beck, speaking. May I ask who rang?”

“Did you lose another bet?” she laughs. 25-26.5 centimeters. Egyptian feet. Miss Oxford.

“On the contrary; I’ve won.” Forgetting to mind for wrinkles, I take a seat to drink in the euphoria. Pant legs hitch up to reveal bare feet. The recent turn of cork-wedged luck left me soleless this particular 9 to 5. “Please hold while I transfer you to the next available cobbler.”

Cue the frantic waving to rush J-Day’s bow-legged stride back from the break room. Flip flops clap purposely slow. Celebration’s opening verse necessitates a shuffle or two—three minimum. Come on!

“No need for all the pageantry; I only have a few questions,” she stalls my habitual press of customer service’s extension.

Fingers tingling to complete the action, I ask, “How many is a few?”

Cobblers typically handle the nitty-gritty, sole-breaking details. The KITE employee handbook included a brief FAQ section Secretary Lovett extolled as an exemplar of the form. Shame on the wingman unfamiliar with basic Prayer procedures! Of course I read it. Skimmed it. Once.

“It’s time for the fiscal review.” J-Day sings in tune, hovering uncomfortably close. “Hang up the phone! Did you get what I asked for?”

Everyone around the world—“Hold please,” I smile into the transceiver. “A podiatrist’s dream potentially desires to break in an oxford or four. I trust the corporate machine will run smoothly without me for another minute or eight.” Doubling down only works 16 out of 32 times.

J-Day stops clapping sandals to The Gang’s funky fade-out. “Okay, hotshot,” he agrees, “then work your magic,” pressing the flashing red “hold” button. Unleashing my ravaging ineptitude for desk work on my dream feet.

“Do you take suggestions for your ‘on hold’ music? I’m partial to Earth, Wind & Fire,” she greets. “Hello?” again to stun me out of pondering the rhetorical.

“Erm—yes. Hello.” My abundance of sass shrinks into a lack of confidence. J-Day, smug, sits atop the employee handbook. “Was there anything else I could—er what were your questions exactly? Feel free to fire away!” Poor word choice.

“On the website, there's an ‘early bird special;’ you don't really work from the ungodly hours of 1 to 6 a.m.?” she asks.

“Depends,” I answer.

“On?” she presses. “Depends on what?”

“It's all in the logistics.” My fingers attempt to pry the handbook from beneath J-Day's bottom. “Logistically speaking,” I elaborate. God save me!

“You have no idea what you're talking about,” she laughs. “Am I right or am I right?” I can work with laughter.

“Start your day on the right foot by—”

3.5 centimeter, closed-toed kitten heels click closer to the eccentric corner office, and J-day cuts off what is sure to be a winning sales pitch. “Apologies, ma'am. Internal affairs is currently breathing down our necks, so I'm transferring you to the next available cobbler in your area. Have a fabulace day!” Click.

“Cobbler #0777; late as usual.” Secretary Lovett stands poised to rain fury on her ex-partner in sadism. Her bob blazes red beneath beaming Christmas lights. “Enlighten me with your excuses,” she crows, cheeks suffused a charmless cherry color.

J-Day threw his hands up in jubilation, exclaiming, “Madame Secretary! Is it too late to amend wingman #0888’s yearly performance review? It’ll only take a minute or four. 8? 16. Sorry, 32.”

Pantsuits—pantsuits everywhere.

PDI, SRC, and KITE funneled into the auditorium en masse. Once a year, the big guy upstairs gathers pocket-square enthusiasts to stare at graphs. Fun is a word.

“Cobbler of the Month 39 months and running reserves the right to his territory,” Cal adds to the collective buzz.

He would know. Labels aplenty demarcated the stickler’s workplace. So much as an aglet in the wrong drawer warranted a lengthy talking down. Days navigating J-Day’s bug-eyed bobbleheads and toppled “Flying for Dummies” manuals makes a wing guy miss bi-weekly rebukes.

“On that note, any news from the big G?” I ask. Microphone feedback renders the Director of Finance’s fiscal review incoherent. Static screeches. I wince, “When’s this band getting back together?” I.e. Cal and me.

“Talk a little louder, gentleman,” stickman #0129, Sprite, begs three seats down. “Nourish the grape vine!”

Stickmen come in assorted specialties and sizes. The Department of Memory put Sprite to work at their “Rumor Mill” division. Consider it the bedrock of miscellaneous thought. They inspire the “sinking feeling” associated with finding your lost sock in the freezer. Who knew? Stickmen knew.

“Listen, Beck—”

“It’s my pleasure to announce cobbler #0778, Chanyeol Park’s, promotion,” Secretary Lovett shrieks at the podium, “to the position of Secretary. With his help, the downsizing and eventual absorption of KITE HQ by Sock Recovery & Co. should go off without a stitch!”

Sheer shock soon subsides, and I take on a side quest to sidestep any direct confrontation with my bleak future: “spilled” industrial adhesive had firmly attached Bugeye’s soles to the ground.

A/N: Let me know what you think. (Bill Withers "Ain't No Sunshine" and Kool & The Gang "Celebration.")