Of Pedicures & Shoes

On the curb of the strip mall, Emma holds her placard high above her head, in front of Femme Fashion. She looks up to make sure the black-marker words face the store front. Sure enough, she sees it says 1 in 3 women sexually assaulted. The Redhead, who organized the protest, stands to her right. In the crowd of a dozen women, a protester shouts “Misogynists!” and “Rape Apologists!”

Emma received the email a couple days ago. Several Femme Fashion employees heard the CEO say that the women should not wear the skimpy dresses outside at night. The CEO said that ‘women should not dress like sluts’. “Naturally,” thought Emma. “My university’s feminist constituency will not tolerate that”. On this cold, windy, fall day, Emma stand in her parka, holding a placard to protest the corporation employs a misogynist as their CEO. It is a good use of a Saturday afternoon.

Emma looks across the parking lot at the other side of shopping common, and she sees a few shoppers stop and stare at the shouting protesters. She sees a few shop employees staring from a window from a Men’s Workwear shop, and a Salon Spa employee stops mid circle while cleaning the inside of the window.

Looking into the salon spa window, Emma remembers why she became a feminist. In the salon spa window, pedicure chairs and foot sinks are bubbling away. Women are lined up, sitting comfortably in the reclining chairs along the window. They are soaking their feet for a pedicure in the bubbling foot baths. Emma remembers that her mother worked two cleaning jobs to support her and her sister after her father left the family.

Before her father left, Emma remembers her mother looking fondly at a pair of high heels sandals in a magazine at the breakfast table.

“Wouldn’t my feet look so cute!” exclaimed her mother. “I could get a pedicure with some cute polish. I always liked fancy toenails. Seems like you have made it in life when you have enough to put polish on your toes.”

Emma remembers her father raising his eyebrows and peering down at her mother over his newspaper.

“Really, Eugenia? Paying someone to wash your feet? Can’t believe anybody would be that stupid.”

Her mother slammed the magazine closed.

“Yes, well, I was just kidding.”

Later, her mother saved several tens of thousands of dollars. She didn’t get any pedicures, and used coupons and cut her own hair. Emma got a graduation dress from the thrift store. Before Emma’s mother died, Emma tried to convince her mother to go get a pedicure for once.

“No, dear,” responded her mother. “I’m saving for your graduate school. I don’t need to spend money on that.”

Emma received few thousands when her mother died, and there was insurance to pay for the funeral. Emma used the money to pay down the sum for school that year. That was what her mother wanted, after all.

Now, on the curb beside Emma, the red head was yelling.

“Women hold up half the sky!”

“One in three will be raped!” screams a blond. The blonde’s eyebrows furls around her horn-rimmed glasses. Emma wonders if the blond had also died her armpit hair blue.

“Shut up, will ya!!” yells a voice from between the two strip mall building, on their side of the curb. The protesters turn towards the raspy voice. The ubiquitous figure of a homeless man lies in the shade of the two buildings. There is course, grey gravel, as a fire preventer, between the two buildings. The sidewalk has a small piece that extends inward between the two building, and the shabby, unshaven man lies on a piece of cardboard. He has a dingy, green, unmarked ball cap to collect coins, and a cardboard sign that says 50 cents to buy a hot coffee please.

“Argh,” says the blond. “That homeless guy is loud.”

“You shut up!” the Red head yells at the homeless man.

“Why should I shut up? You came here shouting first!”

The red head turns back to the women, with a smirk on her face. “I’ll call 211.”

“Asshole!” yells the blond. “One in three women are raped!”

“Shut up!” yells the homeless man.

“You don’t know what it is like to be raped!” screams the blond.

“How the hell would you know that?” says the homeless man.

“I’m gonna call the cops,” says the blond. “We have a right to be here to protest. I know my rights. You are not allowed to loiter!”

He stands up and grabs his empty cap. He picks up his cardboard sign, and the cardboard piece he was sitting on.

“I’ll leave in a few minutes, but I don’t have to go because of you.”

“Finally, the reporter is here!” yells the blond. “’I called them before I came, and they will get some answers from these misogynists!”

A news van pulls up along the curb in front of Femme Fashion. The grey van door rolls open, and a woman with French manicure clutches a microphone. She steps onto the sidewalk with one high heel. Emma notices that they are sandal high heels, liker her mother used to admire. Glossy, pink, manicured toenails protrude through the high heel sandal opening.

“Brr,” says the reporter. She smooths her auburn bob as a cool, fall breeze passes. Not a hair on her head moves on her manicured head.

“Hi Peggy,” says the blond. “These misogynists are rape apologists.”

“I know,” says Peggy. “Don’t worry, I already called Femme Fashion for a statement. Their media relations sent an apology to our news team. You can see it at 6. They promised to give your student advocacy a donation to combat misogyny at the university. Just wait here one moment.”

“I have the cash box,” says the Red head. She pulls the box from her backpack. Peggy waddles on her high heels into Femme Fashion.

After a minute, a chubby woman with a “manager” name tag comes out of Femme Fashion’s glass door, and Peggy follows her out. The manager, in a brown cashmere sweater, can be heard speaking to Peggy.

“Peggy, I’m so glad you are here. Can you take a picture of me donating to the feminists’ cashbox?”

“Absolutely. Jim, come over here and take that please.”

The camera man sitting and smoking in the van jumps out, and snaps a picture as the manager puts a wad of cash into the Red Heads cashbox. The manager smiles into the camera.

Peggy waves. “Thanks ladies. Gotta get the next story. See you at 6pm!” She jumps back into the van. Jim pushes the van door close, and after returning to driver’s side, they drive off in the grey van.

“Well, I think it’s over for today,” says the Red head. “We got a good payout.” She hands the box to Emma.

“Emma, you can deposit this at the university for our cause?”

The other protesters are wandering off, and disappearing between the cars into the parking lot.

“I’m gonna get the SUV,” says the red head. “Just wait here and I will be right back.”

Emma nods at the red head, still holding the cashbox.

The red head takes her car keys out of her red leather purse, and turns on her heel to the parking lots. She also disappears between some cars.

As Emma stands alone, the cold fall wind blows a little harder. Emma feels the chill down her spine. She hugs her body, and cuddles her plush parka. Her feet feel no chill, and her suede boots break the cold, fall wind nicely. It is good to have great boots.

Suddenly there is motion in the corner of her eye. The homeless man still stands between the two buildings, and he is still awkwardly holding the cardboard sign. She notices he has a hole in his cheap, canvas sneaker. “Those shoes won’t be warm enough once the winter hits,” thinks Emma. “He needs to cover those toes with steel toed work boots to get any kind of starter job.”

Though he is unshaven, she sees his grimace as the wind blows harder. He tried to break the wind by holding up the cardboard sign. He ends up dropping the sign, since the wind blows on his hands. He rubs his hands together, as he does not have any pockets on his thin, worn jacket.

Emma looks down at the cashbox in her hands, which she knows is unlocked. Emma looks back the homeless man’s feet. She can see a toe still sticking out from the broken rubber and canvas. A big toenail is cracked.

Emma eyes the men’s work wear store across the street, and the new, steel toed boots for sale in the window. She looks at the women in the spa window, reading magazine, as the warm, scented, pedicure bath bubbles at their feet.

“I would have enough to buy my mother a pedicure and a new pair of shoes,” thinks Emma. She suddenly wishes the homeless man wouldn’t be here when the police arrive. They might stomp on his feet as they try to remove him.

“What size shoe do you wear,” she asks the homeless man.

He looks blankly at her, and then snarls.

“Eff off. Unless you want to buy me a coffee. I need a sandwich.”

She looks down at the cashbox. She looks at the boots in the window again.

“They called the police. Tell me your shoe size. I bet you would like to get a pedicure while the police come. There is a cafe around the corner. I will bring you lunch.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

She shakes her head. “I wondered if I was.” She shakes the cashbox. “Let’s go.”

He looks down at the rattle, then back up at her face. “Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later, he is sitting in the spa window, eating a sandwich while the warm pedicure bath bubbles at his feet. The men’s work wear shopping bag leans up against the reclining chair. He tilts the reclining chair back and holds a magazine over his face as the police car pulls up to Femme Fashion’s curb.

“He left already,” Emma says to the cops in the rolled down window. The cops nod and they drive away.

Emma shakes the now empty box. She bought the pedicure and a new pair of shoes. “After all,” thinks Emma, “she said to spend it on ‘our cause’”.