Walk a Mile

“I’m so proud of you Joe, that’s the first interesting thing you’ve said!” The intern leaned over and patted my shoes, the closest thing he could touch with me across on the sofa. We had been casually talking about previous jobs and I happened to bring up my experiences in a sweat shop. Of course, the job wasn’t technically a sweat shop job but working in the basement of a rundown textile factory with a chain-smoking, disability check collecting grandmother for less than three dollars an hour was close enough in my book. With that, both the assistant and fellow intern chuckled in approval.

“Now if we could only get you to tell interesting stories all the time,” said the assistant. I couldn’t argue with that. I often come off as the silent type with the personality of a shoe horn in new situations.


“One step at a time.” The intern said. “Though we still have to work on your fashion sense.” I followed his gaze to my shoes.


The assistant laughed. “Oh, those sketchers”


I asked what was wrong with my sketchers. If anything, I was proud of my brand new black and white sneakers. Bought before I left for LA, the shoes were my first steps to becoming the polished LA yuppie.

“They’re knockoffs. Extremely derivative of other shoes.” The intern spun around in the office chair and sighed.

Normally I’d take an insult like a wimp—and I figured today wasn’t a day to start breaking habits. Enlighten me, I said. Asked what he would have bought.

“Saucony…Steve Madden…I dunno. Not Sketchers. There’s a hierarchy to it.” Said the assistant.

Luckily for me, I brought a pair of Doc Martins too.

The intern coughed. “That’s so last season.” Somehow, I knew mentioning how I got them on sale wouldn’t have helped.

“You know what your problem is?” asked the assistant. “You still shop at Gap and Old Navy, right?”

I tugged nervously at my Gap shirt and Old Navy jeans and asked what his point was.

“Well, you need to start shopping at Banana Republic, buddy”

I didn’t know all that much about fashions and what was in and out, but I distinctly remember browsing the Banana Republic after I picked up my shoes. Sixty for a single pair of jeans, twenty for a polo shirt, a hundred for a jacket. Two whole combinations would have been worth more than my entire wardrobe. I could have bought dozens of sketchers with that money. Two months worth of groceries. Crack Cocaine. Luckily for me, my mom taught me how to shop clearance at Filenes and still have plenty left for food. Besides, Banana Republic, Gap, & Old Navy all used the same supplies and labor. Namely, Asian children.

“Nope. My shirt was made in Turkey. You pay for quality.” Something in the way the assistant said it reminded me of my distant uncle in New York. He worked in China Town making jeans, but I felt he meant a very different thing when he said it. The assistant leaned over his desk and said, “Look, if you want to work in this business, you got to dress the part, that’s all there is to it.” His blackberry buzzed and he began tapping out a reply.

Days later, the mailroom brought in a package for the assistant. Ripping it open, the assistant lit up as he pulled out a brand new pair of jeans, direct from Washington D.C. He ducked out to the bathroom and returned sporting the jeans. Black and form fitting, he waltzed around the office like a kid with a new toy.

“Don’t they look good? Only paid a hundred for them.”

I agreed; they were a great pair of jeans. He sat down again and began to browse the catalogs while I thought about what I’d cook for dinner.