Lost Shoe Anthologies 003: Adidas Slide Sandal

She was running late. Again. What the fuck?! Why couldn’t she just have a moment to herself. Time to pluck her chin hairs, dig the schmutz out from under her toenails, stare at the beautiful display of travel-sized toiletries at Target? These are all things she desperately longed for. Mundane. Predictable. Independent. Nope! Beatrice, Bea for short, had insisted she wanted that 5th kid. She did, she does! She has to keep reminding herself how much she loves her five boys. The youngest was 5 and the oldest was 16. Bea had wanted a girl so badly she was willing to keep “trying” after she had two boys. What a mistake… ADVENTURE… that has been. She was running late, in fact, to pick up her oldest from lacrosse practice. He was turning into such a bro, it made her worried. She constantly tried to drill into his head the importance of consent and equality. He wasn’t listening… no 16 year old is. Bea rolled up behind the high school, near the track where they were practicing. He was sitting with a girl. Who is that girl?! Bea laid on the horn, hard. Her son glanced up with hatred flaming in his eyes when he saw the minivan, roof box STILL on the roof from their vacation two months ago. It was his dad’s fault: not only would he not take the box off, he had lost the key. So, now it was a permanent, hollow fixture on their family wagon. He smiled goodbye at the girl sitting with him, and sauntered casually with purposeful swagger to the idling monstrosity. When the automatic door slid wide, Motörhead blasted out the opening. Bea’s son cringed at the sudden auditory onslaught which made Bea grin. “Hey babe! Your brother just pooped his pants so let’s hurry home”. The girl sitting on the curb laughed and got up to walk away. “Thanks, Mom. That was Kassandra..” as if Bea should know who that was. He continued “Uhh… the hottest girl in 11th grade?!” “A woman’s value isn’t just in her face, tits and ass!” Bea shouted at her ignorant ape of a son. She received no acknowledgement of the message received. Bea didn’t give two shits. The only shits she cared about were the ones festering in her youngest’s shorts. She whipped the whip around and slammed on the gas. All six cylinders growned under the new demand on their capabilities and roared to life. By the time they hit the road, Bea figured this was a good time to give her son “the talk”. “Honey? When a man, loves a woman… can’t keep his mind on nothing else…He’d trade the world for the good thing he’s found!” Her son sensed her intention (though disguised by quality lyrics) and began screeching in protest. As loud as he could, continuously. This upset her poopy-panted-progeny who began shifting in his seat uncomfortably, either as a result of his fecal predicament or his brother’s high-pitched wails. The shifting released an ungodly odor, which had been contained in his 4th hand pants prior to the uncomfortable shifting. “What is that smell?!” “I told you your brother shat himself!” Rolling down the windows, Bea instructed her eldest to start waving. “Just wave something around to get the smell out! Dear god! My contacts are fogging over, I can’t see the road!” Her boy grabbed his bro-worthy footwear, Adidas slide sandals, and began using them as a rubbery fan. The grip his sweaty hand had on one shoe wasn’t adequate and he felt it slipping from his pasty digits. Out the window his shoe flew! “I’m not buying you anymore of those damned slides. You can wear Food Lion knock-off Birkenstocks like the rest of us”. There went his shoe… and his chances with Kassandra. 

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