There was a new museum on the corner of Parksby Street. What was most peculiar was that the museum looked ancient already, but signs had not even been put up advertising what was on display inside. Spider vein cracks traced their way up the sides of the gray marble cornerstones. The front steps dipped in the center from decades of people marching up them, and the brass knob on the faded door no longer shined.
George Tripper didn't like living across from the museum. The way the columns seemed to sag reminded him of the bank building where he worked. At the end of every workday, he would sigh up the stairs to his apartment, lean outside the window with his elbows crushing the flowers in the window box, and stare across at this building that seemed to have been forgotten by time, eclipsed forever by the brighter structures beside it.
One Thursday after a particularly depressing day at work, George found himself elbow deep in the wilting pansies of the window box once again. Raindrops began to fall on the lazy street as he stared across at the languishing museum. Suddenly, a light began to glow in the top left window and the silhouette of a figure appeared to be pacing inside. George closed his window.
Harry MacMarren was lost in memory as he paced the length of the dimly lit museum office. He was reliving his final moments as the assistant director of a different museum, months ago.
A family of taxidermied giraffes stood like silent reflections of the wild inside the exhibit room's walls with fake plants and a habitat mural behind them. Harry was not in the mood for such whimsical scenes, however. He had just argued with his wife again the night before. Her words of 'You need to find a real job to support our family! If you waste your days in those dusty galleries you'll end up another washed up exhibit!' were fresh in Harry's mind. As he glanced around the exhibit, he saw only decaying animal hides with outdated descriptions. With all of his emotion bottled up inside, Harry glared up at the nearest stuffed giraffe and punched it squarely in the neck with a satisfying 'thwack'! The giraffe wobbled on its stand before hitting the floor, its neck snapping off at the feet of the museum director who had just entered the room. A page of the Assistant Museum Director's Etiquette Book flashed through Harry's mind. One line read: "Do not mishandle stuffed animals; they are fragile." Harry was promptly dismissed.
Harry stopped pacing in the office of the new museum and turned to the Museums Association board member seated at the desk.
"You should take on this project," the board member advised, pushing a contract toward Harry. "It could be a real hit."
Harry looked at the scuffed mahogany desk underneath the severe smoothness of the paper. The previous museum he had worked at was old, but not as faded as this building. How could a fading man make his comeback in a fading building? Harry straightened his fraying bowtie and signed the contract to open the new Parksby Museum of Shoes.
"Excuse me, can anyone point me in the direction of the archaeology lab? Hello?"
Dr. Andrea Willows' voice echoed off the empty walls of the Museum of Shoes as her trusty lab coat flapped at her sides. This was not what she signed up for. The advertisement had said a new museum was opening and in search of an archaeologist. A museum of shoes? She had one at home in her closet. But the archaeological excavation season was over for now, and Andrea needed a job. As her heels clicked down the labyrinthine corridors of the museum she felt like she was climbing down the career ladder. No, she decided, pushing her curly hair back from her shoulders, I can make something out of this. Andrea turned a corner and pushed on the ajar door of the Museum Director's Office.
Harry was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. When Andrea walked in, he looked up.
"Hello," Andrea said confidently. "I'm Dr. Willows. I was told there was lab work needed for the artifacts here."
"Yes!" Harry responded. "Sorry, right this way..."
"So, a Shoe Museum," Andrea said, in an effort to make conversation and get some answers as they made their way down the hallway. "Was there always a museum like this here?"
"Oh no," Harry replied with a chuckle as he slowed to dig in his suit pocket for keys. "This is a novel idea. Too many museums are full of things everyone has seen before...like stuffed giraffes."
Harry unlocked the door to reveal a basic archaeology lab. Andrea stopped in her tracks when she noticed an overfilled box of shoes leaning against the counter.
"I need you to get started analyzing these samples from alleys and dumpsters around town," Harry informed Andrea brightly. "Our first exhibit is titled To Walk A Mile," he paused expectantly. "You know, like in someone else's shoes? I want to capture the history of our town through their footsteps." Harry paused again, this time for dramatic effect.
"Got it," Andrea said. "I'll start looking for soil samples on soles and other evidence."
Harry gave a tired but hopeful thumbs up and left the room.
Within the week the exhibit was up and running. A sign was affixed to the brow of the building and banners offered exhibit highlights. Shoes were carefully prepared and displayed under lights and behind glass, with plaques beside them describing their stories as interpreted by Andrea the archaeologist.
Across the street George confided in his window box perch once again. Something was different. The museum seemed to glow with new life. People were lined up outside and down into the street. George could only just make out the banner advertising the opportunity to walk a mile in many different pairs of shoes, all in one museum. He would give anything to live a different life right about now. George grabbed his coat.
Andrea waltzed around the exhibit admiring her handiwork and answering questions.
"Did these sandals really have residue of every flavor of bubble gum stuck to the bottom?" a girl with pigtails asked.
"Yes," Andrea replied in her most professional tone, "I'd imagine this individual was a candy store worker."
"Was this nifty pair really worn by one of the fastest runners in town?" an old man inquired.
"Evidence of wear on the heels and soles suggest it is so," Andrea replied.
Harry was practically bouncing off the walls with the success of his museum. He couldn't wait to tell his wife about how much the public enjoyed the first opening day. He swaggered between the displays like a circus ringmaster.
"Step right up and learn about a person who had two left feet! Our world-class archaeologist determined this from the shoes' insoles!" Harry bellowed. Kids came running over to see such a wonder.
George thanked the ticket salesmen and headed inside the Museum of Shoes. He made a loop around the exhibit room, stopping to admire a pair of boots made from tree bark. What kind of adventurous soul donned them? George looked down at his own boring, bank-worker dress shoes. He took them off and walked over to Harry MacMarren.
"I would like to donate these to the museum collection," George announced. "I've definitely walked my mile in them, and I need to start again with something new."
"Thank you so much, kind sir!" Harry said.
George walked out of the museum and down the steps. He knew there was excitement in life as long as you kept your eye out for it. Even something as unusual as a Museum of Shoes might appear just around the corner.
George Tripper didn't like living across from the museum. The way the columns seemed to sag reminded him of the bank building where he worked. At the end of every workday, he would sigh up the stairs to his apartment, lean outside the window with his elbows crushing the flowers in the window box, and stare across at this building that seemed to have been forgotten by time, eclipsed forever by the brighter structures beside it.
One Thursday after a particularly depressing day at work, George found himself elbow deep in the wilting pansies of the window box once again. Raindrops began to fall on the lazy street as he stared across at the languishing museum. Suddenly, a light began to glow in the top left window and the silhouette of a figure appeared to be pacing inside. George closed his window.
Harry MacMarren was lost in memory as he paced the length of the dimly lit museum office. He was reliving his final moments as the assistant director of a different museum, months ago.
A family of taxidermied giraffes stood like silent reflections of the wild inside the exhibit room's walls with fake plants and a habitat mural behind them. Harry was not in the mood for such whimsical scenes, however. He had just argued with his wife again the night before. Her words of 'You need to find a real job to support our family! If you waste your days in those dusty galleries you'll end up another washed up exhibit!' were fresh in Harry's mind. As he glanced around the exhibit, he saw only decaying animal hides with outdated descriptions. With all of his emotion bottled up inside, Harry glared up at the nearest stuffed giraffe and punched it squarely in the neck with a satisfying 'thwack'! The giraffe wobbled on its stand before hitting the floor, its neck snapping off at the feet of the museum director who had just entered the room. A page of the Assistant Museum Director's Etiquette Book flashed through Harry's mind. One line read: "Do not mishandle stuffed animals; they are fragile." Harry was promptly dismissed.
Harry stopped pacing in the office of the new museum and turned to the Museums Association board member seated at the desk.
"You should take on this project," the board member advised, pushing a contract toward Harry. "It could be a real hit."
Harry looked at the scuffed mahogany desk underneath the severe smoothness of the paper. The previous museum he had worked at was old, but not as faded as this building. How could a fading man make his comeback in a fading building? Harry straightened his fraying bowtie and signed the contract to open the new Parksby Museum of Shoes.
"Excuse me, can anyone point me in the direction of the archaeology lab? Hello?"
Dr. Andrea Willows' voice echoed off the empty walls of the Museum of Shoes as her trusty lab coat flapped at her sides. This was not what she signed up for. The advertisement had said a new museum was opening and in search of an archaeologist. A museum of shoes? She had one at home in her closet. But the archaeological excavation season was over for now, and Andrea needed a job. As her heels clicked down the labyrinthine corridors of the museum she felt like she was climbing down the career ladder. No, she decided, pushing her curly hair back from her shoulders, I can make something out of this. Andrea turned a corner and pushed on the ajar door of the Museum Director's Office.
Harry was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. When Andrea walked in, he looked up.
"Hello," Andrea said confidently. "I'm Dr. Willows. I was told there was lab work needed for the artifacts here."
"Yes!" Harry responded. "Sorry, right this way..."
"So, a Shoe Museum," Andrea said, in an effort to make conversation and get some answers as they made their way down the hallway. "Was there always a museum like this here?"
"Oh no," Harry replied with a chuckle as he slowed to dig in his suit pocket for keys. "This is a novel idea. Too many museums are full of things everyone has seen before...like stuffed giraffes."
Harry unlocked the door to reveal a basic archaeology lab. Andrea stopped in her tracks when she noticed an overfilled box of shoes leaning against the counter.
"I need you to get started analyzing these samples from alleys and dumpsters around town," Harry informed Andrea brightly. "Our first exhibit is titled To Walk A Mile," he paused expectantly. "You know, like in someone else's shoes? I want to capture the history of our town through their footsteps." Harry paused again, this time for dramatic effect.
"Got it," Andrea said. "I'll start looking for soil samples on soles and other evidence."
Harry gave a tired but hopeful thumbs up and left the room.
Within the week the exhibit was up and running. A sign was affixed to the brow of the building and banners offered exhibit highlights. Shoes were carefully prepared and displayed under lights and behind glass, with plaques beside them describing their stories as interpreted by Andrea the archaeologist.
Across the street George confided in his window box perch once again. Something was different. The museum seemed to glow with new life. People were lined up outside and down into the street. George could only just make out the banner advertising the opportunity to walk a mile in many different pairs of shoes, all in one museum. He would give anything to live a different life right about now. George grabbed his coat.
Andrea waltzed around the exhibit admiring her handiwork and answering questions.
"Did these sandals really have residue of every flavor of bubble gum stuck to the bottom?" a girl with pigtails asked.
"Yes," Andrea replied in her most professional tone, "I'd imagine this individual was a candy store worker."
"Was this nifty pair really worn by one of the fastest runners in town?" an old man inquired.
"Evidence of wear on the heels and soles suggest it is so," Andrea replied.
Harry was practically bouncing off the walls with the success of his museum. He couldn't wait to tell his wife about how much the public enjoyed the first opening day. He swaggered between the displays like a circus ringmaster.
"Step right up and learn about a person who had two left feet! Our world-class archaeologist determined this from the shoes' insoles!" Harry bellowed. Kids came running over to see such a wonder.
George thanked the ticket salesmen and headed inside the Museum of Shoes. He made a loop around the exhibit room, stopping to admire a pair of boots made from tree bark. What kind of adventurous soul donned them? George looked down at his own boring, bank-worker dress shoes. He took them off and walked over to Harry MacMarren.
"I would like to donate these to the museum collection," George announced. "I've definitely walked my mile in them, and I need to start again with something new."
"Thank you so much, kind sir!" Harry said.
George walked out of the museum and down the steps. He knew there was excitement in life as long as you kept your eye out for it. Even something as unusual as a Museum of Shoes might appear just around the corner.