The squeak in my right shoe drives me insane.
At first, I didn't really notice it. Perhaps I'd be walking down an echoing hallway or passing though some quiet area. Suddenly, I'd become aware of the squeak. A squelching, squishy sort of squeak, not overly loud, but subtly invasive. On carpet, it sometimes sounds as if the fabric is soaked through with some viscous or unclean liquid, making me want to look at the bottom of my shoe.
After a few months, I seem to notice the squeak more often. It didn't so much worsen as achieve a new quality of omnipresence, so that the silences between each squeak could not be perceived in isolation. I buy a new pair of shoes, but somehow the squeak is able to transfer itself to the new shoe. I go back to the store and exchange the shoes for another pair, but it makes no difference. I try loafers, cross-trainers, boots, moccasins, wing-tips, even sandals. Each time, the squeak lays dormant until I buy the new shoes and leave the store. I am barred from the library and many places of worship.
Slowly, other people begin associating me with the squeak. It's unwholesome rhythm, suggestive of deformity or crippling injury, can be heard well ahead of me as I walk. I suspect that people I know hear the squeak and extinguish the lights in their houses or quickly turn the corner onto another street. People gesture as I pass. I can imagine them pointing me out as they identify other oddities of the neighborhood; "See, that's the women with all those cats, the one who talks to the lawn ornaments, and... Oh, look, there's that guy with The Squeak." It is during this period that I begin to spend as much time barefooted as possible.
I devise various plans to nullify or combat the squeak. Studying the specialized steps and movements of the Japanese Ninja, I develop a walk which does not produce the hated noise, but it is painful. Very painful. I persevere, but the strange and unnatural motions required by the special walk strangely effect the muscles and bones of my right leg. Certain muscles become hyperdeveloped, bulging outward in new and alien configurations while other muscles atrophy to the point of vanishing entirely. Some bones become more massive, others become more flexible, bending to conform to the anatomy of another species. It was as if the squeak was so firmly established that the vacuum left by its absence somehow communicated the squeak's malignant influence to my flesh.
I abandon the special walk. My leg returns to normal, but the squeak is more penetrating, more obscenely suggestive than ever. I am haunted by the fear that my leg is becoming habituated to the squeak. I finally resort to crutches in an effort to avoid walking on my right foot altogether.
My sleep suffers. I have a recurring dream where I see myself sleeping, tossing fitfully. My view moves back and I see my right shoe sitting next to the bed. The shoe seems to emit a numinous feeling of weight or significance. With glacial slowness, the toe of the shoe begins to flex. The squeak seems to last forever. I wake up and peer into the darkness, looking for movement near the bed.
I finally lose control in a shopping center and begin stomping on the floor in a futile attempt to hurt the squeak. I am restrained before I injure myself.
Shortly after being admitted for psychiatric observation, I begin regular sessions of analysis and therapy. I am asked how I feel about the squeak, what I think the squeak represents, and whether the squeak reminds me of any incidents from my childhood. The sessions are getting nowhere until one day the analyst realizes that he also has the squeak. A syndrome is named after us. My case is widely publicized as the discovery of the first transmissible mental illness. Despite the professional acclaim, the analyst is overcome by revulsion for the squeak and commits suicide. The tape recordings of our sessions are confiscated by an unnamed government agency. Eventually, the insurance company rules that my condition is not covered by the existing policy and I am released.
I begin my motion studies again. Inspired by my mental collapse at the shopping center, I study martial arts from around the world, concentrating on those forms which emphasize using the feet.. I learn to extend my life-force, my Chi, so that I can kick with ever greater power and precision. Finally, I seek out one of the rare masters of Dim Mak, the Chinese Death Touch, to complete my training. As my mastery grows, I allow myself to hope that my growing control over subtle energies may allow me to nullify the squeak or that a perfectly timed blow might somehow catch the squeak by surprise. I retire to the hills and live for months on roots and berries while I practice my Kung Fu in preparation for the coming showdown.
Coming down from the hills, I am surprised to learn that my story has been made into a major motion picture. In the movie, my character is portrayed as a scientist tortured by the need to know the secrets of creation. Despite the warnings of my colleagues and considerable foreshadowing, I continue my research into realms best left unexplored, heedless of the danger. The squeak is created in a paroxysm of special effects. Repenting my meddling with nature, I try to destroy the squeak, but it is too late. My foot and shoe have merged into an unspeakable new being that has outgrown its symbiotic relationship with its host. I am consumed in a scene described by most film critics as "excessive." The foot/shoe creature breaks out of the lab and gratuitously kills a variety of unsympathetically depicted morons. Finally, a broadly muscled heroine in torn clothing shoots the creature to pieces. It comes back repeatedly, but is obliterated. As the credits roll, part of a shoe-lace slithers into the underbrush to lick its wounds before the sequel. The film is mildly successful and receives an Oscar nomination for lighting.
My mastery of martial arts proves fruitless. I meet the squeak in an abandoned industrial park outside of town. After a brief bow, I unleash the full fury of my flashing feet. I split concrete sidewalks with a single stomp, but the squeak seems unaffected. The squeak defeats me easily, openly displaying its contempt for my Kung Fu.
I am plunged into despair as the squeak begins to receive offers of representation and late-night talk-show appearances. Tabloids begin reporting rumors that the squeak is buying luxury properties in several different countries. I attempt to capitalize on the media attention, but with little success. Television shots and newspaper photos typically show close-ups of my right shoe. People now point at me constantly on the street, but in the way that bystanders point at the cars of passing celebrities; "Do you think The Squeak might be in there?" In one magazine article, I am mentioned in passing as the squeak's "long-time acquaintance." I receive incessant requests for money from my relatives who are convinced that the squeak is supporting me.
Unable to tolerate the squeak's growing fame, I fake my own death by rolling my car off a cliff into the ocean. The squeak's funeral and retrospectives of its career are televised world-wide. I grow a beard and go underground. I live for a while as a lifeguard, but I make the mistake of wearing a pair of flip-flops to work one day and the squeak is recognized. I am arrested and charged attempted kidnapping. An outraged public demands swift justice. My court appointed attorney barely conceals her sympathy for the squeak. After a brief trial, I am convicted. For a moment, it seems I will escape prison on the grounds that any sentence would unjustly imprison the squeak. Suddenly, the squeak is gone. I am sentenced to life in prison.
I pace the exercise yard with tentative steps, each moment expecting to hear it, but there is nothing. Newspapers in the prison library occasionally report the squeak's appearance at a party or a charity function with some popular celebrity date. The squeak now sits on the boards of several Fortune 500 corporations and is active in political fund-raising. Commentators speculate on an eventual bid for a congressional seat or even the Presidency.
I volunteer to work in the prison library. I read everything I can get about sound and vibration, about shoes, about rubber. I study types of soil. I memorize every bone and muscle in the human foot. I examine the history of noise and the philosophy of annoyance. I delve into occult practices of binding and exorcism. Slowly, I assemble a collection of talismans, amulets, and phylacteries designed to protect the ear or un-demonize the feet. No detail is to small for me to take into consideration. I learn ventriloquism and mimicry until I am able to make a close-approximation of the squeak from either shoe. Perhaps this will enable me to confuse the squeak when we meet again...and we will meet again. I am eligible for parole in twenty years. I will be ready. I will never rest until the squeak is destroyed.
Copyright 1997 by William G. Whitcomb
