It Takes Courage

He knew the shoe, but not the dog.

“Uh...little help here,” he said to the laundromat but washers sloshed and dryers tumbled without providing any help. And the other people there? They were on their phones.

The green-tiled floor before him housed puddle after soapy puddle and if he stepped forward toward the dog and the beast snapped, eliciting in him a recoil, Wallace ran the risk of slipping on the floor and cracking his head open, a one egg-omelet.

He spoke louder this time over the quivering din of machines. “Is this someone’s dog?”

But, again, his call saw no return.

The tip of Wallace’s athletic shoe bent at the toe while the dog worked the white rubber sole between its teeth. In drip-drip-drops, saliva fell from its roaming black tongue.

Chow, that’s what it is, Wallace thought. He had always enjoyed the name of the breed matching what it is dogs love most in the world, second to loving humans, but Wallace wasn’t so sure about that. By association, he had never liked dogs after finding himself covered, basted frankly, in smears of light brown dog food in the early morning hours of a sleepover. He cried while the other boys laughed until they were reprimanded and then there was a house full of sobbing 10-year-olds.

Wallace crouched with a smile, beaming at the dog which was now grinding the laces in between its teeth, enjoying the sensation, its eyes rolled to the back of its head: minute ecstasy.

However, identifying the dog’s breed failed to provide him with any mastery over the animal; it didn’t help him tap into some psychic connection that would free the shoe, one that cost $300 when paired with its mate, currently hugging Wallace’s left foot.

The other foot, bare, rested against his thigh, curled at the toes. His nails were longer than he preferred to show off in public but the plan had been to slip off his socks, throw them in the washer with the rest of his clothes, and wear the shoes bare, nylon-housed skin.

His one mistake had been placing one sock in the washer at a time, keeping him distracted in the middle of the process, leaving a shoe unattended.

But he heard no beast-like gasping or barking or tip-tapping of dog claws against the floor. There was no tip-off to what would happen yet somehow a fluffy brown dog was making a meal of his footwear with gnashing abandon.

“Whose dog is this!” Wallace amplified his voice to a yell. These were expensive shoes, ones he had saved to impress young women with their blinding whiteness, a sheen maintained with a toothbrush and a jar of shoe cleaner unfortunately called Fresh Feetz.

Still, no one answered him but finally he lifted his horrified gaze off the dog and saw that a guy, younger than him, stood about four feet from the animal, sitting criss-cross on a folding table, bobbing his head in a steady rhythm.

Hearing snaps emanate from the dog’s busy mouth, Wallace maintained a shout. “Is this your dog?”

The young man, even younger than Wallace’s twenty-two years, stayed locked into the waves of his music which stoked Wallace’s anger.

He walked up to the kid, maneuvering around the dog and the wet parts of the floor. “Yo, is this your dog?” The “yo” had been unplanned but Wallace went to school with a few weed dealers and they said it all the time, trying to sound tough despite their clean teeth and lack of ever having been in a fight. Though Wallace did remember seeing them in a skirmish of some pretty intense slaps.

Snatching his headphones from his head, the young man’s face came together in a scrunch. “What the fuck are you saying to me?!”

Woah, this guy also might have grown up knowing a weed dealer or two, Wallace thought and decided he’d keep “yo” out of his mouth, try a more congenial approach.

“Um, is this...Is this your dog?” His voice had lightened.

The young man peered around Wallace, following his outstretched thumb, and nodded with only a glance. “...Yeah?”

“Well, he’s got my shoe.” Wallace maintained kindness despite the skeptical kid’s face.

“Then go and get it,” The young man replied, replacing the headphones on his head.

Wallace held up a limpid hand, wait. “Is your dog...friendly?”

The young man shook his head. “What shoe dog relents what’s his…”

No one else stood close enough to Wallace to ask them what the hell that meant and he wasn’t about to ask this kid who had tight arms and, well, a dog. But seeing the confusion in Wallace’s face, the young man hopped off the table with a smack of a landing. “You gotta take what’s yours, guy.”

Suddenly the kid had his arm around Wallace, guiding him toward the Chow. He was unused to such an intimate touch at the hands of another man, especially one controlling him, at an age probably six years younger than his own.

“You can do this,” the young man said.

Wallace stood right in front of the dog and before the kid whose mouth was only inches from Wallace’s ear. “You gotta take what’s yours.”

If it were up to him, Wallace would turn around and prod the young man forward so he could take care of his dog. But something about it felt right, like this had been a setup by his unconscious for him to face his fears, reveal his valiant side as he freed what was his from a mouth of only sharp teeth.

Soon the young man started to clap and roused everyone in the laundromat to do so in a 1-2-1-2 beat. Clap, clap, Clap, clap, Clap, clap.

Crouching, as the Chow groaned, working on the shoe’s heel; Wallace was sure this would be his moment to shine. He had confronted a stranger and he would recover his property, doing so from the mouth of his greatest fear, it was a big day for doing things Wallace tended to scurry from.

His hand shaking, he reached out and grabbed the toe of the shoe.

The dog began to growl.

Wallace wanted to let go, practically had to stop himself from rearing back and tucking all his limbs to himself, a spider on defense.

But then, over the encouraging clapping and the thrum of the appliances, Wallace could hear the young laughter and the oiliness of the dog food on his skin.

The days of turning back had left. Today meant donning a new version of himself, running wild because he was in charge of his own life with no one to stop him, no one to get in his way.

And with that, he yanked on the shoe, right as the dog, bored, let go.

With the imbalance of force, Wallace’s bare foot lost its footing on the soapy floor, going forward while the rest of him went back.

The young man and the rest of the laundromat cheered. The dog walked over and curled up by his owner’s side.

But Wallace, falling for an entire calendar year, went so far back that his head struck the corner of a washing machine.

He was out, but as quick as the darkness came, taking his vision and consciousness, he knew no one would ever be able to take away the courage he had so brightly shown.