Date: Wed, 13 Nov 1996 12:02:49 -0800 (PST)
From: Bill Hart 
Subject: SRU: Someone Else's Shoes



Spells 'R Us: Someone Else's Shoes
by Bill Hart

Brenda Marshall stood outside the little shop peering in through the
window.  She wasn't sure she wanted to go in.  After all, there were 
all those crazy, strange stories about "Spells 'R Us" circulating the 
campus.  

And she didn't want to be a new story.

But her curiosity... was stronger than her fear.

The bell over the door tinkled as she entered the shop.  It was empty.
Brenda thought that was strange, especially in light of all the stories.
But as she started browsing through the shop, an old man in a robe
came in from the shop's storage room.

"Hello, miss." he said.  "Can I help you?"

"No, I'm just looking."

"Well, if you do find anything that interests you, just come over and 
knock on the back door.  I'm doing inventory today, and I can always
use a break from that."

Brenda was surprised.  This wasn't the way she'd heard things happened
in this shop.  He didn't know who she was.  And there was no way that
any of the junk on display here could have any magical powers.

"Don't you know who I am?" asked Brenda.

"No.  I'm afraid I can't say that I do." replied the old man.  "I really 
have a good memory for names and faces.  And you're such a pretty young 
woman, I seriously doubt I would have forgotten you."

Brenda blushed.  "And the magic?"

"Magic?" replied the old man.  He smiled.  "It's all stage magic, my 
dear.  You don't really believe that any of this is real, do you?  I 
must thank you for your kindness to an old man.  But you and I both 
know, there is no such thing as magic."

"But all the stories..."

"Yes, I know.  I've heard the rumors.  Surely, you don't believe them."

"I guess not." she said, not hiding her obvious disappointment.  "But 
then, you probably don't have anything I'm looking for."

And Brenda started walking towards the door.

"That's too bad.  Maybe next time." as he stared after Brenda.

"Yeah, sure."

As Brenda reached the door and opened it to the tinkle of the bell, she 
looked back at the old man.  He smiled at her.  "Perhaps, Brenda," he 
said, "if you visit my shop again, I'll have something for you."  And 
without realizing what he'd said, Brenda exited the shop into the mall.

                            * * * * *

It was several shops later, when an errant thought came to mind.  "He 
called me Brenda.  I never told him my name."

And when she returned to where the shop had been, and by all the known
laws of the universe should still have been, it wasn't there.  She spent 
hours, in vain, looking for the shop.  It was simply gone.

                            * * * * *

In the back room of the shop, the old man stared at the shoes that had
been delivered to him yesterday on consignment.  He'd wanted to send 
them back, or destroy them, but hadn't been able to do either.  He was
certain now, that they'd been meant for Brenda.  Now he'd be able to 
get rid of them.

These shoes scared him.  They were "someone else's" shoes.  You put them
on and became someone else.  Who depended on what you wanted to know
or experience.  You actually learned more and more each time you wore 
them.  But the someone else you became, in turn became someone else.  
Someone totally different.

And it happened every time someone wore these insidious shoes.

It was clear that the shoes had been meant for Brenda.  Fun is one thing.
And the old man certainly enjoyed his fun, but these shoes weren't fun, 
they were dangerous - very dangerous.  He knew now that he couldn't
destroy them - he'd tried.  And he was certain he'd have to face some
repercussions from his peers.  But he didn't want to watch what the 
shoes could do.  Not again.

He'd remembered the last victim of the shoes.  Victim?  What else could 
you call him?

He'd watched as the victim changed races and sexes, as if on a magical
merry-go-round.  He'd watched changes in height and in weight.  He'd seen
eye color change through the visible spectrum.  He'd been awed as hair
grew from short coarse black to long silky blond to balding gray, then
back through all conceivable combinations of color and length.

And after the shoes had completed their work, the victim had the wisdom
of the ages.  He, or perhaps she, it was difficult to tell, was capable 
of solving all of mankind's ills.  

Except...

For the young black woman who'd been transformed into a racist white 
male.

For the male chauvinist who'd changed into a radical feminist.

For all the people who'd been changed into whatever they'd feared or 
hated most.

And the victim, who had learned so much, who had grown so wise, would 
never be able use that wisdom to help others.  He, or she, had been
brutally murdered by someone who feared that wisdom and knowledge.

"It just isn't worth it." thought the old man, as a tear rolled down
his cheek.

END

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