What the Chuck.

They’re made of rubber and canvas with a little metal thrown in for good measure. They’ve been around for hundred years and haven’t changed very much, except that if you want you can now get them in custom colors.  They have adorned the feet of basketball stars, thugs and hipsters alike and it seems no matter where you put them they are pretty damned sweet. They bear the signature of Chuck Taylor, the man who tirelessly toured the States touting their super awesomeness. I am of course referring to the timeless All-Star high top made by Converse.

I love these shoes, they go anywhere do anything and they look good doing it. You can dance, walk, and play just about any sport in them, you can even fight in them, just ask Pony Boy, he kicked some major Socs ass in them. Its the ability of these fine canvas kicks to adapt to just about any situation what is what made me pull my pair out of the closet last month.

 They weren’t in very good shape; they were kind of smelly, stained with blood and crispy with dried nastiness. I picked them up with that “Eeew” two finger pinch, and I regarded them with a little contempt. “What the shit am I going to do with these” I grumbled as I contemplated what to do next. I could put them back in the closet to collect dust? Nope, my Ma taught me better. I could give them to the Sally Anne? Not a fucking chance, the thought of a dirty a *Goo Bag wearing them was ridiculous. I throw them out? No way! They’re way too boss to be thrown out. I could… Wash them?  Washing eh? Well, it was after all the night of the Smalltown show and my Chucks were total Smalltown vets. Washing then.

“Into the bath to the bath tub my pretties”, I snickered as I poured laundry detergent into the hot running water. It was apparent that this was going to take a while. The rubber toecaps were the color of poo, the left shoe was hemorrhaging from a blood stain that my baby toe had left some months ago and the laces were stained green from doing a favor for a friend. I removed the laces, put some more soap in the ugly looking water and began to scrub.  I worked the sullied grey canvas first, then the rubber and then inside and bit by bit my trusty kicks started to reveal themselves. The rubber started turning white, the brownish blood began to relent to the original weathered grey, and it seemed with each pass of the  scrub brush my Chucks began to tell stories that I had long forgotten.

As each layer of filth relented a new memory came to light, I began to notice the small intricacies of wear that represented things both joyful and gloomy. There were nicks in the toecaps from wading coral flats in Central America, red wine stains from boisterous celebrations, the souls were worn with patterns that were indicative of long walks and even longer dances. I caught my first Bone Fish in my Chucks. My Chucks were with me when I danced to Steve Aoki and The Cat Empire. I was wearing them when I realized I had been swindled, and I they were with me when I decided not to give up. They were close when I decided that I could love a woman with all my heart, and they were there when I decided that not following passion would be folly.  As I pulled  the semi-clean shoes from the tub I began to remember that my Chucks were totally boss, and that they needed to be worn. 

Still warm from the dryer, the Chucks felt good on my feet; I stared down at them and admired the dull shine of the white toecaps and the over under of the laces. They looked like, well not like new, but  well worn, seasoned, and they looked like they were ready for another night of dancing.

Peace,

Spence

* The term “Goo Bag” refers to a broke-ass Aussie, you know the kind…. Don’t pretend that you don’t.