In the early eighties, when Jane Fonda was at her fitness guru height, and the twenty minute workout reigned at afterwork breaktime, and in the twenty minutes we somehow found before getting ready for work in the morning, dancing was actually a fashionable, and social, activity. Not satisfied to just stand and down as many alcoholic drinks as possible, part of the challenge of fashion choices involved picking something that would actually absorb the amount of perspiration which you were sure to excrete, during an evening of "shaking it".
While attending Brock University, in St. Catharines, Ontario, Canada, my man and I were wont to haunt a favourite dancing venue called "Club 747", located across the river in Buffalo, U.S.A.: a unique disco club which was shaped like an airplane inside - complete with seats and tables reminiscent of same, except for the huge dance floor in the middle of the "plane".
One weekend, exhausted from gruelling schedules and an inordinate amount of stress and tests, we decided to jump in the Forest green Honda hatchback, with the second of two blown-out engines in it, and head off to the "dream of flying"....two steps, and a few romantic shimmies closer, to somewhere warm and wonderful. My man, however, red headeded, red bearded, and delightfully scatterbrainedly, in his usual long-distance-runner fashion, had forgotten that the dress code was semi formal, and, as we entered the lobby of the hotel, and headed towards the entrance to the dance club, the bouncer - a huge man named, appropriately, "Tiny", looked balefully at my guy's running shoes, squinted painfully, and shook his head. We backed away from the entrance, with Blue Beard looking rather sheepishly at me, and apologizing profusely for forgetting to change his shoes.
"What in the world are we doing to do?" I said, out loud, shaking my head. This was long before Walmart and 24 hour available malls boasting both dance shoes and endless open hours of shopping convenience. Retail, and the world, shut down at six, and the doors clicked shut firmly until Monday morning. We were doomed.
"I could borrow someone's shoes", said Mur, suddenly, his eyes brightening, and a smile lighting up his face. He grinned. "I mean, I could rent them. We're in a hotel! Surely someone will lend me their shoes for four hours."
I looked at his face, laughing. This was not the first time he had come up with an unusual solution to a would-be mishap. I liked the idea on principle: no one would probably believe it, if we actually succeeded.
The first would-be person entering the hotel lobby looked at us ruefully, raising his head slightlly to catch what he was sure would be the overpowering smell of alcohol. When he realized we were serious about paying him twenty dollars to borrow his shoes for the night, and sober, he stared at us oddly, his head in a kind of slow swizzle, which caused him to almost bang into a pole, as he walked confusedly towards the checkin area of the hotel. I doubt anyone had ever asked him anything unusual at all, judging from the response we got.
The second man looked at his shoes, looked at Mur, looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said, "Are you nuts?"....and walked STRAIGHT into the pole. I felt rather bad at this, and said so to him. He shuffled quickly towards the desk, nursing his head, where he'd bashed it on the pole. There was a huge red mark, like a thumb print, in the middle of his forehead, as if he'd been stamped like a passport. The desk clerk looked at him oddly, as he sidled up with his baggage, casting furtive glances at us over his shoulder. We thought we were goners, when a whispered conversation with the clerk had him peering suspiciously at us, squinting myopically from the desk, in case we were trying to mug guests entering the lobby.
Finally, number three brought a sense of humour, if a somewhat testy size match. Mur looked balefully at me, while he chewed on his lip, as he sized up the man's feet, and we approached like Hari Krishnas on a gentle mission of peace, waving the twenty dollar bill like a flag of possibility between friends.
"Hi there!" said Mur brightly. "How'd you like to make twenty bucks?". I winced at the open joviality. The man looked at me strangely, and Mur cleared his throat.
"ER....um...it's not what you think." He looked at me, apologetically. "Could I, um, rent your shoes for the night? My girl and I drove all the way from Canada to come dancing at the 747, and I, um...wore running shoes accidentally. They won't let us in the club."
The man, a somewhat portly gentleman with feet approximately a half size smaller than Mur's, smiled, finally, sizing me up, and looked at us affectionately.
"Rent my shoes, eh?" He chuckled. "Well, now, that's about the strangest thing anyone's ever asked me." He looked at both of us. "Pretty damned funny, you crazy Canadian kids. You could probably buy a new pair for that much money, son." He looked at Mur kindly, reached into his carryon luggage, and pulled out a shoe bag. Opening it, Mur pulled out one plain, shiny, lace up black Oxford.
"Think mebbe they'll be a bit tight, but loosen up the laces a bit, and you'll be alright. You can hang the shoe bag on Room 48." He turned to go, stopped, and then took a step towards us. "And I'll leave YOUR shoes outside my door after twelve, just so's I know I'll get mine back, if you don't mind." He held out his hand for them. Mur grinned. He'd never had his shoes taken hostage before. It was kind of unique.
He sat down in the middle of the lobby, put the man's shoes on, and handed his over, along with the twenty dollar bill. The man headed towards his hotel room, whistling and tucking the twenty dollar bill in his pocket. He swung the running shoes from his hand, which he had tied together, like a cradle. The desk clerk, surveying the scene, waved and grinned.
"Found some!" he called from the desk. He gave a thumbs up, and winked. Mur laughed out loud, as he stood up, tucked my hand under his arm, and headed towards the club entrance.
"How are they?" I said, worriedly. He sighed, looked at me, and kissed my cheek.
"They're too tight", he said, cheerfully. "I'll have blisters tomorrow for sure." He grinned. "Let's go, baby."
Tiny looked at us oddly, as we appeared at the door again, looked at Mur's feet, and waved us in, smiling.
Approximately an hour later, when the pain of a half size had begun to shred the skin on the outside of his toes, Tiny also said nothing when we spent the rest of the evening with me dancing with a sock-footed partner. Apparently, the desk clerk had told him the whole thing, because he pointed at the shoes, held up his wallet, and smiled, when we both looked worried that we might get kicked out.
The socks were never the same again, having cut a rug for four solid hours, but as the last dance sounded, we swayed our last slow groove, and then tiptoed down the hallway towards the room where Mur's running shoes had been taken hostage, we arrived to find the following note hung on the doorknob:
"Happy Valentine's Day. I hope I get invited to the wedding." The twenty dollar bill was taped to the "Do Not Disturb" sign, and the running shoes were placed neatly, toes outward, waiting for their owner. Laughing quietly, we hung the bag with the dress shoes on the doorknob, tucked the sign, and the twenty back into the shoe, as promised, and wrote two x's, and two o's underneath with a pencil I fished out of my purse.
"Way better than bowling", said Mur, dryly, as we headed towards the parking lot, hugging me. I laughed, and hugged him back.
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