Bunny’s Bargain Basement

In the summer, I’d see her getting into her lipstick-red convertible, all her shiny gold bracelets clanging as she opened the door. Chandelier earrings glimmered out from her jet-black, puffed-up 1960s hairdo. Her big curvaceous body, always clothed in dark baby-doll dresses of pleather and lace, would swing itself into the car, and off she’d go.

Before I even knew who she was, she was dead. I found this out one day when I passed her house and there was a yard sale in progress. The merchandise spread out over the grass and continued up the front steps. There were swizzle sticks, souvenir coasters, martini glasses, Hawaiian leis.

But I wanted to know if there were any bobbles and bangles for sale. A sign at the front door read “Come On In”, and I did. The place smelled like drugstore perfume, a pleasant floral scent. In the living room, a photo of the Lady in Her Red Car accompanied big, gold letters: RIP Bunny.

"She died of a heart attack," her daughter told me. "And she always appreciated a good deal and that's what you'll find here.”

I offered my condolences, all the while eyeing a dazzling heap of jewels on a nearby table. Surrounded by bric-a-brac was a cocktail tray full of jewelry, glinting in the afternoon sun.

In the midst of selecting a number of large radiant rhinestone earrings a voice called out from the basement: “The ruby red slippers!” Clutching my my finds, I swiftly made my way down the stairs where my eyes landed on the fabled red shoes.

Well, not those fabled red shoes.

These were red-sequinned pumps, circa 1960, meant for dancing the cha-cha at a tiki bar, not traipsing along the yellow brick road. They were glowing in the dim light on the feet of an excited woman. I took a deep breath - aromas of must and perfume - and resolved to get those shoes.

Fortunately, I did not have to burn my fingernails, as the woman’s feet were too big for them. As soon as she pried them off, I swooped the pair up before any other shoppers could even think about it. They were my size.

I went through five boxes filled to the brim with their cousins and aunts. Every glittery toe and sparkly heel that shone out I put in my pile, plus a few for their striking neon colours.

I came out of there with twenty pairs of shoes: twenty bucks for the lot, including three pairs of earrings. Bunny's bargain basement.

The haul: Black patent-leather spike heels with gold studs, five pair of sequinned pumps in different colours, metallic-blue kitten heels, silver-and-champagne mules, high heels with jet beads on sheer netting, rainbow-sparkle sling-backs, spike heels of clear plastic with violet accents, sassy gold cabaret shoes, black high heels with hot pink details, strappy sandals with pavé rhinestones, dark-green stilettos with lime-green vamps.

Some of these wonders now hang by their heels from the ledge above my bedroom door, where they look down on my activities with perfect glittery calm and an artfulness pleasing to the eye. The colourful sequinned shoes dot my living room, breaking the monotony of staid volumes on book shelves, or posing heel to heel on window sills.

By day, the sunlight might catch a rhinestone and send little rainbows across the room. By night, a ray of moonlit crystal might be the last thing I see before falling into dreams.

Occasionally, I wear them. I like the click-clack sound they make on the pavement, although I can’t walk far before they pinch and hurt. They are best worn while sitting. I wore the blue dazzlers to a cafe early last year: crossing my legs and swinging my bedazzled foot around didn't hurt at all.

And I wore the amazing ruby reds to a bar in the historic Winchester Hotel in Toronto. It is said that Al Capone would stay at the Winchester during prohibition, after he’d anchored his rumrunning boat in the dark waters beyond the city. He drank at the long, oak bar that still graces the evocative amber-lit lounge on the second floor.

We sat at that same elegant bar. Beneath it are what my partner calls “shoe lights”, because their soft glow set my fabulous footwear ablaze. The ruby shoes could fuel a passionate encounter with just a glint of crimson sparkle in the dark. But under the shoe lights of the Winchester Hotel, they attracted more than a few admirers passionate about shoes. In fact, wherever I wear them, people of all ages and genders approach me to get a closer look and talk about them.

I ordered a Southside Fizz that night, the preferred drink of Al Capone, and my partner ordered a Corpse Reviver. And then, we toasted Bunny, the classy lady who once wore the ruby reds for frolicking, vamping, posing - maybe even for cha-cha-cha-ing at a tiki bar in Hawaii.

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Top photo & photos of The Shoe Haul by Aaron Schwartz