Stars of the Shoemaker
Stars of the Shoemaker
Brian S. Wheeler
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2013 by Brian S. Wheeler
Contents
Stars of the Shoemaker
Help Spread the Story Across the Flatland
About the Writer
Other Stories at Flatland Fiction
Stars of the Shoemaker
"You mind turning up the radio so I can hear the ballgame?"
The cab driver's smile stretches across his rear view mirror. My request makes me something a little more than a stranger. I'm now a friend who shares the driver's passion for all the athletes, statistics and records defining the sporting world. Moments like these make me proud to work as a sports agent, where I'm given the chance to secure world peace by finding the athletic talent needed to bring the world together.
"Haley's just beat out a swinging bunt to third base," says the driver. "It's only the first week in August, and Haley's about to become the first person to hit sixty homeruns and steal sixty bases in one season."
I smile back into the mirror. "He's not swiped second yet."
"Oh, but he will," laughs the driver. "Jacobsen's on the mound, and that guy's delivery is slower than syrup. Haley's got second. Can you believe it? Sixty homeruns. Sixty stolen bases."
"No record's safe these days," I respond.
The driver turns towards me as he weaves through traffic. "You think the players are juiced? You think that might be why all the records are falling?"
"Not any more than before. They put those players through all kinds of drug testing."
"There's gotta be something," the driver shakes his head. "Someone just ran the hundred meter in under nine seconds. A two-hour marathon hardly raises an eyebrow anymore. Kid at the football combine just ran the forty yard dash in a flat four seconds. There's gotta be something more than just talent and hard work behind all these falling records, and athletes are always finding one way or another to beat the drug screenings."
The glass towers stretch taller outside my passenger window. The crowd of morning commuters grows thicker on the sidewalk. I'm nearing my destination at the city's heart. I'm getting close to the Shoemaker's office.
"All those athletes do have something in common," I say.
The driver refrains from blasting his horn at a red light. He's thinking.
"They all wear the Shoemaker's sneakers."
The driver chuckles. "Hell, man, even I wear those green and gold sneakers. You think those sneakers help me drive any faster? Everyone wears the Shoemaker's sneakers."
Applause cackles from the radio as Haley steals second base with much fanfare. Peeking out my window at the feet shuffling down the sidewalks, it looks like everybody wears the Shoemaker's sneakers. I've always thought those shoes ugly. They clash with any outfit other than sweatpants and a jersey. Men don't wear oxford or derby shoes anymore. I can't remember the last time I saw a woman in high heels. Footwear is only athletic casual anymore, and everyone sports the Shoemaker's trademark green and gold on their feet.
Though I don't yet wear a pair of the green and gold sneakers, I can't deny that the Shoemaker's been good to me. Billboards of my athletes clad in the Shoemaker's gear decorate the highways. Posters of my stars dressed in the green and gold sneakers hang in subway stations and shopping malls. The Shoemaker's money has flooded my athletes' bank accounts, and the humble percentage I take from those quarterbacks and shortstops has made me a very wealthy man.
I grin as the taxi empties at the front door to the Shoemaker's office tower. The Shoemaker has requested my presence, and all my business with that sneaker mogul has returned nothing but gold.