It wasn't until my last year in college that I was doing quite well for myself; or at least, I liked to believe I was. My best friend, Dean, and I shared a two-bedroom apartment near the university. It was a little place with a wobbly staircase and a view of a parking lot. It wasn't anything to brag about, but it was clean and affordable while we studied for our degrees. It had been snowing a great deal that winter, which drove up the electrical bill, so we rented the living room to Dean's cousin, Charlie, as a way of circumventing the additional expense.

Charlie had recently been dishonorably discharged from the Army due to an accident involving a horse, a firehose, and two waitresses from the High-Five Bar and Grill. When Dean asked what had happened, Charlie swore he was merely teaching the horse how to jump rope. Charlie paid us twenty-dollar bills and then moved his queen-sized bed into the living room. Soon after, he complained about the lack of privacy and erected a partition made from a cardboard box he found in the parking lot and fashioned a curtain from an old tarp and a piece of rope. As one could imagine, it became harder to study at home, so I spent most of my time at the library. Lucky for Dean, his girlfriend, Patty, invited him to spend the night occasionally, so "His grades wouldn't fall behind," as she put it. They often talked about living together after Dean graduated.

The nights at the library were beginning to pay off: I had won a regional marketing competition and landed an internship with a well-known corporation, which would ultimately result in full-time employment after graduation. When Dean heard the news, he insisted we celebrate my good fortune. We met up with Patty and her roommate, Gracie, at an Irish pub on their side of town.

The following morning, after Dean and I returned to our little apartment, we noticed Charlie had added another cardboard box to his makeshift bedroom and had claimed the coffee table as his own. He had also tacked posters of motorcycles and bikini models onto the living room walls.

"What's going on here," Dean said, surveying the room with contempt and focusing on a pile of dirty clothes in a corner. "Is that a—"

"Yeah, it's a mannequin. Pretty cool, huh," Charlie said, crawling out from behind his cardboard wall. "Some knucklehead left her under a streetlight. At first, when I was walking back from the liquor store, I thought the mannequin was a real woman, you know like she was leaning against the lamppost, just waiting."

"Just waiting?"

We eyed the wig-wearing mannequin, who now waited on all fours behind the couch.

"What was she waiting for, Charlie," Dean said, shifting his eyes toward mine and then back on the mannequin.

"How would I know," Charlie said, "It was dark. Look at her arms and legs; they rotate."

Charlie sucked in his lower lip, held his breath, and then pointed to the television.

"I also fixed the TV, free Netflix. Don't ask. And, I got you both presents," Charlie said, then handed Dean a near-full bottle of Polo cologne. "And, these are for you, Tanner."

From behind his back, Charlie produced a pair of fine leather slippers. He placed them on his forearm with the same flair as a waiter showcases an expensive bottle of wine. "That's real animal fur," he said, gliding his fingers along the side of the slipper, just below the stitching. "Could be a rabbit, could be mink, maybe, muskrat, who knows, but I'll tell you what, they're not from Sears. That's for sure— they're handcrafted."

"You should keep them for yourself, Charlie," I said.

"They're too big for me, so you keep them. And, I'm not the type who uses cologne, so that doesn't do me any good either. But, I'll tell you what does, I mean, since we're having an early Christmas gift exchange…."

Dean stopped sniffing the nozzle and sat down, gesturing to Charlie to continue.

"Well, I'm a bit short on the rent and—"

"Did you steal this stuff, Charlie," Dean said, tossing the cologne bottle on the couch.

Charlie sat close to Dean and looked at him directly in the eyes and said "No, I did nothing of the sort. I was given these items in exchange for cash payment, like a bonus. Jesus, Dean, you're starting to sound like my mother."

"Sorry, I didn't mean anything by it," Dean said, appearing sincere. "So, you found a job?"

"Of course, I have a job. How else am I going to pay rent? I'm a scrapper/mover/hauler for a company that clears out houses, storage units, and shipping containers. That kind of stuff. We all can't be college-educated, you know?"

Guilt washed over me as I stared down at the slippers, knowing Charlie had a valid point.

"Thank you for the gift, Charlie. It means a lot. Isn't that right, Dean," I said with a hint of persuasion.

Dean whispered something to Charlie, as only a cousin could, then sprayed cologne onto the pile of dirty laundry. "We'll work something out for next month's rent," Dean said, removing the mannequin's wig. "What else did you have to tell us? You had something else to say, right?"

By this time, I had kicked off my boots and slipped into my slightly-used, leather slippers.

"It makes no difference to me, but I think you guys should know, I mean, you probably already guessed," Charlie said, resetting the wig on the mannequin's head with a gentle touch.

"Guessed what," Dean said, watching Charlie amble toward the bathroom with a towel slung over his shoulder.

"Those things belonged to a dead guy. And, if it makes you feel any better, he was rich— a real handsome devil, too. I saw pictures. He had lots of pictures in gold frames, with lots of fine-looking women around him, like, a playboy on television. You know the type, the ones who host pool parties on a whim, platters of aged cheese and sweetmeats and green and black olives, chilled bottles of champagne, like, that type of guy. He probably wore monogrammed shirts and silk robes around his estate. Most rich guys do, you know. I think he died of a heart attack."

"His heart quit at a pool party? How embarrassing," I said, looking down at the fur-lined slippers. "But, it's snowing. Who throws a pool party in the dead of winter?"

Dean ignored the conversation and, with laser focus, stared at a particular poster with growing disapproval, as Charlie rambled on.

"Can you imagine that old guy in his silk robe and slippers, the very ones you're wearing right now, playing host, smiling and laughing it up with all of his guests, lounging around the pool; then out of the blue, he drops his cocktail. Glass and vodka go flying everywhere as he clutches his silvered chest. You think, 'Oh, my God, the geezer's having a heart attack, but before you can say a word, the guy staggers along the edge of the pool, losing his robe to gravity. He's watching his whole life flash before his eyes, then falls head first into the pool and drowns."

"Sounds tragic," I said, working my warm toes against the soft fur.

"Are you kidding me? It's entertainment. I mean, don't get me wrong. Total bummer, but come on. Only rich guys die with pizzazz. Am I right, or am I right, Dean?"

Dean, mumbling under his breath, approached one of the bikini posters, and in a low voice said, "Who tore a hole in this," tapping his finger against the wall.

Charlie stood on the couch as if to get a better view then jumped to where Dean stood and said, "Who would do such a perverse thing? And, right between her legs, too."

 "I wonder why there," Dean said in a rhetorical tone, taking a seat on the floor.

"Wait a minute," Charlie said, "I know who did it." His eyes now cast downward.

"Tell me who made that hole, Charlie," Dean said with piqued interest.

Charlie looked at me then at Charlie then paused a moment before confessing, "It was the dead guy."

"Rich people don't buy posters, especially of bikini models," I said, looking at Charlie's blushing face.

"Oh, you mean, like rich people don't throw indoor pool parties in the dead of winter, Tanner," he said, then stared at the hole in the poster. "What do you think, Dean? You're probably the smartest guy in the room; no offense, Tanner."

"None taken," I said, enjoying the slippers.

"I wouldn't know; I've never been rich. What do you say, Tanner?"

"I'd say, pool parties during a snowstorm; custom-made slippers; expensive fragrances, lots of fine and beautiful women in bikinis; abandoned mannequins on street corners…"

"She wasn't on a street corner. Under a lamppost, yes, but not on a street corner," Charlie said, sounding mildly offended. "There is a difference, granted it's subtle, but come on, Tanner. You're better than that. Give the poor girl a break."

"She's a mannequin," I said, waving off Charlie's remark. "What do I know? Other than that, I have a pair of handcrafted slippers that once belonged to a dead guy. Now, if you both don't mind, I have to get ready for work."

Throughout the following week, my feet had taken on the worst rash I had ever experienced. I suffered constant itching and burning, an irritation so great that I missed my internship orientation. Midterm exams were coming up, and I grew concerned I wouldn't be able to sit through them without incessantly scratching my feet. Dean suggested I ask for alternate test dates, which were denied by my professors. Charlie provided an Epsom salt soak and said, "Once, as punishment, I was ordered to march around the base from sun up to sun down for three days straight. Man, let me tell you, it felt like a colony of fire ants had crawled into my combat boots and feasted on my tootsies, not to mention the eye-watering odor. Listen up, Tanner, first, a salt bath, then if that doesn't help, we'll add cucumber and apple vinegar into the mix, maybe some buttermilk and chopped lemons to help with the pain." The Epsom salt reduced some of the itching and swelling, but lacing my boots was still nearly impossible.

Gracie invited me over for a home-cooked meal and a movie some hours later. She asked if I had fun the other night. "I want you to know you're special, Tanner," she said, then paused to clear her throat. "I usually don't sleep with guys on the first night. I hope we can see more of each other." Needless to say, I asked for a raincheck because of the condition of my feet. "Sure, Gracie," I said, hoping she didn't hear the furious scratching on my end of the phone. "That would be great. I'll call you soon."

Charlie recommended that I fill a pair of socks with Vaseline and keep the date. "Believe it or not, Tanner, I was taught that trick from a guy I met in basic training. He spent a lot of time in solitary confinement and swore it did the trick. I never tried it, of course, but cotton and petroleum jelly are highly recommended in cases like yours— you know, homeopathic cases."

Dean suggested that I skip work and visit a doctor. "Steroid ointment," he said, then layered up to go outside. "And, if not steroid ointment, here's an idea Charlie would like."

"Oh, what kind of idea is that," Charlie said, tearing into a bag of potato chips. "Tell us, cousin. Can't you see Tanner's desperate? His toenails are falling off."

"Shut up, Charlie. This is all your fault," I said, eyeing him with contempt.

"How is it my fault?"

"If you didn't give me those damned slippers, I wouldn't be in this trouble. Just look at my feet."

Charlie put aside the bag of chips and hung his head.

"They were a gift, Tanner. How did I know they would bring infection? Maybe, you're allergic to animal fur."

"Or, maybe, you should never wear a dead man's shoes," I said, dropping the slippers into a plastic bag and stepping into a pair of flip-flops.

"You can't go out there like that, Tanner," Dean said, looking down at my red-ballooned feet. "It's snowing for Christ's sake."

"I've had enough of this. Do either of you want them?"

The apartment fell silent. Dean and Charlie averted their eyes from the plastic bag in my hand.

"You should leave them at the tent encampment by the university," Charlie said with a glimmering stare. "In this weather, they'll be gone in a minute."

As Dean and I walked together toward the university, he convinced me that I could be suffering from an allergic reaction to leather or animal fur, and it would be a kind gesture to leave the slippers for someone in need, especially a person living in a tent during a snowy winter.

"But what if they're cursed, Dean? I don't want to be responsible for someone's misfortune, especially a person living in a tent during a snowy winter," I said, feeling the cooling sensation on my feet.

"You're crazy walking in the snow in flip-flops."

We remained quiet and listened to the snow crunch beneath us.

"Whatever you do, please don't tell anyone about this, especially Gracie and Patty, okay," I said. "I'll never live it down."

When we approached the homeless tent encampment, I tossed the bag near the row of tents and returned to an empty apartment. Later that evening, I felt courageous and doused my feet with bleach, worked an emery board against the dry skin, and ended the pedicure with a soapy rinse. There was obvious improvement within the following twenty-four hours. So much so that I repeated the pedicure once more and, being extra cautious, bagged my winter boots for another drop-off donation. The swelling had gone down and the burning and itching subsided as well, so I called Gracie for our raincheck dinner date.

The next morning when I returned from Gracie's, the slippers were waiting on the doorstep. How could this be? At first, I thought Charlie was playing a cruel joke, but he was nowhere to be found, and it wasn't in Dean's character to do such a thing. I had to dispose of them more grandly than before. It was apparent that I couldn't toss them in the street without the possibility of their return. How they found their way back remained a mystery.

Over the sixth-grade summer, I spent countless hours at the local zoo. Children in colorful clothing dotted the walkways, and their gleeful adolescent laughter often rose above the trumpeting elephants and roaring lions. Silverback gorillas roamed their area and clowned with one another, playing to their audience. In late afternoons, the menagerie and park visitors were bored, hungry, and fatigued, which brought a somber semblance over the zoo. This was the most peaceful time of the day; the sun moved farther west and the breeze cooled, and all the screaming excitement subsided toward the exits. During these hours, I'd stroll into the emerald-colored building with my lunch.

Late one afternoon, when no one stood watching, I casually dropped chunks of roasted chicken into the alligator exhibit, wondering which of the gators was the fastest. Each day afterward, I brought extra chicken for my amusement. It was always the largest of the alligators that snapped up the white meat. Then, the albino alligator caught on and, being smaller and nimble, became the fastest. A pair of animal fur-lined slippers stuffed with chicken would never have a chance of returning to my doorstep ever again, not if that albino alligator still lived at the zoo.

When I returned from the supermarket, Charlie was snoring behind his cardboard walls, nearly sprawled off his mattress, looking like a snail with a broken shell, so I carried on and stuffed chicken parts into each slipper, soaked the fur with chicken juice, and then finished by wrapping the soggy mess in a plastic bag. The slippers needed to marinate for a couple of days without any disturbance from Dean or Charlie; they would try to dissuade me with the lawful consequences of being caught, not to mention what the slippers could do to the poor reptile's health. I didn't need to hear the obvious. I was well aware of how it could end for me and the white alligator, but I was desperate and wanted to be done with these cursed slippers once and for all. Are zoos popular during winter snowstorms? There was only one way to find out.

After two days of marinating the slippers, I rode the bus to the zoo in the late afternoon hours and strolled into that familiar emerald-colored building as I had done countless times in my youth. Memories from that long-ago summer came rushing back. My heart raced with adrenaline as I approached the alligator exhibit and looked downward into the faux rainforest structure. My heart pounded with hope and anticipation. The heated room was empty and grew uncomfortably humid. I wondered if the white alligator had been transferred to another zoo since my last visit.

As I removed the slippers from the bag, the albino alligator, now an adult, crawled out from beyond the foliage and waited along the water's edge as it had done so many times before. Its bulky head and grayish-blue eyes stoically waited for my next move. In a blur of color and sound, the slippers fell from my hand and splashed into the water below— a streak of white disappeared beneath the black water as though the albino alligator never existed.

Some days later, I received a call from the internship coordinator, stating everything was fine: my internship had blossomed into a specialized certification program, which would be provided free of charge, and yield a higher salary, of course. On our way over to Gracie and Patty's apartment for dinner, Dean and I stopped at the supermarket for a bottle of wine, cream cheese, and sourdough bread. I bought a Scratcher lottery ticket with the change and won a hundred dollars on the spot. I didn't want to jinx my good fortune by mentioning anything about the slippers, the albino alligator, or the zoo, so I remained silent on all three topics, even when Charlie asked about the handcrafted slippers' whereabouts.

On the matter of my missed midterms, I was unable to reschedule the exams under university policies; however, the head of the Marketing Communications Department granted opportunities for extra credit, which I accepted without hesitation.

Some weeks later, Charlie confessed he had found a box filled with love letters and photographs of a woman during a storage unit clean-out. He stole the items on impulse. "There were risqué pictures, Polaroids of a blondie in nothing but a pair of black stilettos, so I kept them," he said, then pressed himself against the wall covered in bikini girl posters. "You can't blame a guy for being lonely, can you?"

"No, but you can go to jail for stealing," Dean said, narrowing his sights on his cousin.

 "Sure, whatever, that's easy for you to say. You have Patty, and Tanner has—" Charlie paused with a slacked jaw.

"Gracie," I said.

"Right! And, Tanner has Gracie," he said, fingering the hole in the poster. "And, who do I have? Nobody. That's who. So, I took the pictures and called a phone number I found on one of the nudie pictures."

Charlie reclined, interlocked his fingers, and cradled his head in his palms.

"That's right. Don't look so surprised," he said, smiling as if he knew the secret to happiness. "And, I'll tell you something else: I've been sleeping with her, at her house."

Charlie shared the Polaroids like a card dealer, dealing them out fast and accurately. Not a word was spoken as the photos made their way around the table. Charlie reclined again with an even bigger smile than before. Dean and I looked at each other, then at Charlie, then back at the woman in her birthday suit.

"These pictures look old. I mean, they're so old they're fraying around the edges," Dean said, picking at one of the corners.

The big smile on Charlie's unshaven face began straightening into a thin line.

"Well, we can't all have college girls, Dean. Some of us came late to the party if you catch my drift," Charlie said, scratching the back of his neck. "I mean, who cares if she's a widow with three cats and high cholesterol? I never liked shellfish, anyway. The important thing is, we're in love."

"Were these pictures taken when Nixon was in office," Dean asked.

"I believe so," I said, pointing to an old-fashioned record player console in the background of one of the pictures. "My grandparents had the same one, definitely mid-century."

"Mable isn't old, okay? She's vintage," Charlie said with irritation. "Anyway, we're in love, so I'll be moving out in two weeks. Mable's having the furniture cleaned before we live together. Please accept the mannequin as my departing gift."

When graduation day finally rolled around, Dean and I received our degrees in the presence of Gracie, Patty, and a few of our family members. A week later, in a bittersweet fashion, we turned in a 30-day notice and snapped a couple of pictures of our bachelor pad. "So, we don't forget our humble beginnings," Dean said. "We're on our way to better and bigger things, buddy." He and Patty flew to Martha's Vineyard in celebration while Gracie and I searched for an apartment of our own.

Over the following months, I completed the internship and certificate program at the university without a hitch. Everything was moving along so wonderfully that it felt like a dream. While Gracie and I lay in the dark after sex, she asked if I'd like to meet her parents. How could I say no? I was in love with Gracie and wanted to marry her. It was that same evening, I presented her with an engagement ring. We were both so overtaken with excitement we couldn't sleep a wink and stayed awake talking about our future together.

As luck would have it, some days later, I received an email from a hiring manager where I had completed my internship. She asked if I was available to interview for a full-time position. Of course, I was available. I was so ecstatic about the good news I immediately called Gracie. "I'm so proud of you, Tanner," she said. "You're going to do great, just be yourself." Needless to say, I was filled with so much joy I couldn't wait for her to return from work, so I began preparing for the interview.

I stopped at my usual barbershop without an appointment and discovered a customer had canceled moments before I arrived. I couldn't contain myself and shared the good news with my barber. "Congratulations, Tanner. Marketing degrees bring in the big bucks, I've heard," he said with playful laughter. "I'm counting on you to tell me all about it, okay?" He shook my hand and wished me a great day.

I knew I couldn't show up to the interview wearing the only suit I ever owned, a sun-faded, ten-year-old, threadbare thing I bought at a secondhand store for my uncle's funeral. I wore the hell out of that suit. Once, I wore that junky suit to a gentlemen's club under Dean's advice. "If we look like businessmen, the dancers will give us all their attention," he said, working styling gel into his hair.

I had visited several big-name suit stores and then suffered from sticker shock. I didn't have two-thousand dollars to spend on a suit, or even half of that; and once the salesmen discovered my modest budget, they found other customers who required their immediate attention. They directed me toward the "Last Chance" rack before they walked away snickering. By late afternoon, I was ready to stop shopping for the day then remembered I hadn't eaten lunch.

Some blocks away from a popular shopping center, there was a little out-of-the-way strip mall. It appeared neglected, nearly forgotten, and consisted of a liquor store, a Chinese bakery, a Mexican market with 2 for 1 piñatas, a vacant retail space for lease; and at the end of the row, there was a tiny clothing shop.

A small bell positioned above the door chimed as I entered the shop. A scent of abandonment swirled toward the dust-coated walls. I felt as if I had just wandered into a stranger's living room; nonetheless, I waited a few moments, hoping someone would appear from the rear of the store. Lingering about the stained carpet floor, I fingered some of the suits on display, rubbing the fabric between my fingertips, checking for texture and quality. To my surprise, most of the fabrics were fine and looked expensive and the stitching appeared skillfully executed. "Hello," I said, craning my neck beyond the front counter toward the shelves containing bolts of fabric.

In a glass showcase, cracked but mended with duct tape, there were gold and silver cufflinks, engraved tie clips, jeweled lapel pins, and some used wristwatches; the shelf below held pairs of leather men's shoes, brown and black, matte and patent leather, Monk strap, Brogues, Derby, Loafer, Wing Tips, and Cap Toe Oxfords. Every single pair had an inch of dust on them. The walls were decorated with framed posters of bygone fashions. I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to the store clerk when a short, curly-haired man with an unkept beard and rimmed-framed glasses appeared from behind one of the shelving units.

"If you're looking for a suit, I only take cash," he said, "Half now and the rest when I'm done, okay?" When he bellied up to the counter, his rancid breath reeked of alcohol. "What kind of suit do you want, mister? One like this, pinstripe, like a gangster used to wear. Now, bankers like pinstripe. You're not a banker, I can tell. Maybe, you like something like this," he said in a foreign accent of some sort. Then, he showed me a shiny suit made of nylon or rayon, like something from the 1980s.

"It looks like a bunch of ribbons stitched together," I said, turning away from his breath.

He tried not to laugh, but failed, then introduced himself as Enzo.

"This is not a fancy store, okay? Yes, once upon a time, I wanted to have my shop in the big shopping mall, you know the one, all the people with all the money, shopping all the time. This was what I once wanted; but, as you know, and as I know from the looks of your shoes, life does not always give us what we want, yes? You like espresso? I have a machine in back. You look around. I'll make us coffee, okay? Then, I find you a suit."

"Sure, okay," I said, knowing he was trying to sober up enough to possibly make a sale, and I appreciated the fact, so I lingered some more.

Enzo returned with two Dixie cups of espresso.

"No sugar. It's okay, okay," he said, then put the cup in my hand. "Now, you me tell your name and what you are looking for."

"Tanner, and I need a suit for a job interview. Is this possible, in two weeks," I said, watching Enzo massage his chin through his beard.

"All the work is done here, in-house, only by me. Enzo," he said, then slapped his chest. "My family comes from a little village in southern Italy, by the ocean; we have been tailors for five generations, and I— I am the last of them. My daughter has no interest in the family business. Okay, yes, of course, we get you— what you say was your name again?"

"Tanner."

"Of course, Tanner needs a new suit for his interview in two weeks, yes?"

"Yes, will that be sufficient?"

Enzo looked around the store as if he had lost something, then looked me in the eyes and asked, "What is sufficient, like Scotchgard or something like that?"

He closed one eye, narrowed the focus of the other, and leaned in closer.

"Is two weeks enough time to have the suit ready? I want that fabric," I said, pointing to one of the display suits. "And, smaller lapels, okay?"

"Yes, of course, Tanner. This is a perfect fabric for you. Two weeks, no problem," Enzo said, crushing the empty Dixie cup in his hand. "But first, you will need a belt, tie, shirt, and shoes, yes?"

Before I had a chance to agree, Enzo disappeared into the rear of the store and returned with a fashionable tie, black leather belt, and a shirt with French cuffs. He laid all the items on the showcase in front of me, then bent down for a pair of white shoes and presented them on his forearm the same way a waiter displays an expensive bottle of wine. As I stared at Enzo's widening smile in disbelief, my mouth lost all moisture; I could not utter a single word. Enzo leaned in, bringing the pair of white shoes closer to my eyes, and said, "Handcrafted from albino alligator. For you— yes?"

♢

September 21, 2025