I had no intention of posting about this, but I just committed an act so sinister and dastardly on my commute home from work, that I have no choice but to pay tribute to the shoes that made me do it. I present to you: The Tale of the Bad Guy Shoes.
If you’ve been in New England this spring, you’ve probably seen enough rain to consider rounding up two of everything and heading to the ark. Record amounts of precipitation were recorded this year, causing various types of mess. This posed a problem to my daily wardrobe; I only have one pair of waterproof shoes, my winter snow boots. See, women can wear those rubber rain boots in the spring, which purely on the basis function I think are pretty dope. But unless I was fly fishing, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a male equivalent. So naturally, I went for the American staple of function, comfort, and classic style in shitty weather: The LL. Bean Boot. I searched eBay and came across a brand new pair of LL. Bean moccasins, perfect for the spring, which I won for a mere $15 and will surely last me many many moons.
I got the tip from the good people of The Weather Channel that there would be scattered thunderstorms today, so I slipped on the mocs on the way out the door this morning. When the rain started coming down this afternoon I stepped out of my office building with confidence and headed to the T train station, and that’s when “it” happened…
As I’m standing on a corner waiting for the light to change, a group of youth who looked to be on a field trip or excursion of some sort, walked past. They seemed to be around the age of 12 or so. As I watch them walk by, completely unprovoked, a straggler breaks off of the pack. He scurries up to where I am standing and kicks a nearby puddle of rainwater right at me, getting dirt and water all over my favorite chinos. Before I could react, he was down the block laughing.
I was faced with a serious dilemma. Any other day I would’ve let this go, but I wasn’t wearing just any shoes. These weren’t my suede desert boots, or leather driving loafers. These were some made in Maine, rubber duck-toed L.L. muthaf*ckin Bean boots. The same boots I had as a kid when I practically stomped puddles for a living. It was time to be a bad guy.
I looked down the block and saw the kids stopped by a nearby bench. Like a man on a mission, I hot stepped towards the pack. I was hoping for at least a similarly sized puddle for a small, retaliatory splash. But seeing that enormous lake of a puddle that lay right next to the bugger that splashed me was like seeing the mirage of a tropical lake in the middle of a desert: almost too good to be real. I casually walked closer, trying to blend in with the other day-jobbers downtown. Once I got within striking distance, I veered off towards the puddle, jumped in the air, and came down square in the middle of it with both feet. The splash sent a tsunami of dirty rainwater, undoubtedly soiled with Beantown residue, right on the shorts of my little friend (he must not watch the weather channel much). I may be exaggerating a bit, but it looked something like this video, except I wasn’t driving a vehicle or speaking in an accent.
No retaliation I’ve ever engaged in felt as good as the Earth Day Splash of 2010. Part of me wanted to smack talk him afterward, ask him if he was going to cry perhaps, but I refrained. After the splash, looking down at my now drenched pants and my bad guy shoes, I quickly came back to my senses and headed towards the train station. Of course, not before shooting the most evil of grins at him and his pals (see picture below). I have no doubt today is a memory that will stick with him for the rest of his life.