Feet make me giggle. They always have. They probably always will. Baby feet inspire a sweet giggle. Twisted feet that have seen many years make me giggle sympathetically. Feet with long, yellowed toenails twisting every which way elicit frightened giggles that keep bubbling up even as fear grips my heart and twists it.
I don’t tell people this anymore. I told a roommate in college and she used the information to amuse herself at my expense. She frequently woke me up by diving into my bed so her toes were wiggling under my nose. She visited a podiatrist solely to pick up some brochures that kept reappearing no matter how many times I threw them out. She invited her friends over to model strappy shoes. She even hosted numerous Hobbit parties where bare feet were required and hairy ones encouraged. I never told another living soul after that. And, of course, I didn’t renew a lease with her as my roommate.
I almost ask my boss if he knows her when he gives me my next assignment—lead reporter for the New Orleans Foot festival whose final day coincides with the Thursday before Mardi Gras. Every activity involves bare, naked feet where anyone can see them.
“Now, Emily, you don’t have to join the foot fetishists when they drink champagne out of a glass slipper, but you need to write about it in such a way that even the foot phobia-ists wish they were there.”
I don’t bat an eyelash at his made up words. In the moment, I couldn’t say if my lack of surprise stems from the horror of this assignment or the fact that my editor invents words regularly because he thinks it makes him sound smarter. When I realize his eyes haven’t left mine, I smile at him and make a desperate gamble for sanity.
“Which event did you want me to attend, sir?”
He grins at me. “All of them. And Daniel will be with you to snap photos of you enjoying the footivities.”
I blink rapidly to quell urges to roll my eyes at his liberties with the language and giggle because Daniel wears Birkenstock sandals even when snow threatens to bring our city to a standstill. On the rare occasions we work together, I practice extreme focus on everything waist high and above. He has never commented, so maybe he hasn’t noticed.
-
I don’t know how he does it, Daniel takes pictures that may just save my job for me. If I can stop giggling long enough to eke out one last article that is. His pictures show me having a wonderful time. Somehow he captures disturbed giggles and transforms them to fun-loving smiles. On top of that, he captures a photogenic side of me that no photographer had ever seen before.
Thanks to those flattering photos, the final day of the festival finds me in a yellow-sequined gown between two female podiatrists about to board the Krewe of Muses float. My companions wear matching dresses in purple and green as we approach the float with reverence and awe that seem necessary from such an elaborate creation. A tall woman with blond curls and a silver mask, looks us over before her eyes rest on Daniel, who stands behind us with his camera ready. Her blue eyes narrow behind the slits in her mask as she looks him up and down.
“Sorry. Only Muses can ride on this float. That means daughters of Zeus not his sons.”
He bows before her, smiling. “Of course, I just want to get a few pictures for the newspaper.”
“Ah. You’re the reporter who lucked into an invite.” She beams at me.
I beam back. You can’t helps smiling back at a Muse, after all. “That’s me.”
“Welcome. We know you’ll have so many wonderful things to write about, but don’t forget to mention our philanthropic work.”
I nod at her as three more Muses step forward to welcome us to the float and helps us complete our costumes as part of the prize package the podiatrists won at auction.
The Muse who greets me has shoulder length red hair, dark-framed glasses over her mask by some magic, and a wonderful smile accented by dimples. She extends her hands to show me a glittery, purple calf boot.
“I knew I made a spare for a reason.” She says. “Your new friends told me that you didn’t have time to make a shoe.”
My mouth drops open in awe. Having done my research, I know that the parade goers covet these one of a kind masterpieces.
“For me?”
She grins and giggles. “Until you pass it on to some lucky member of the crowd.”
As I marvel at the decorations gracing the boot, another Muse steps forward and offers me and my companions masks that perfectly match our dresses.
“Mask up,” I say as I slip mine over my face.
“I knew you’d be fun,” the podiatrist to my left grabs my arm and hugs it close before donning her own mask.
“Me, too,” her friend bumps my elbow affectionately, “If Dr. Drew had to be sick, I’m glad we found a feisty back-up.”
Then we follow a regal procession to find a spot on the float from which to wave and eventually select a lucky person to receive the gift of a glittery shoe. As we slowly make our way down the street, I keep an eye out for the right person. Then I see her. Tiny little toes wave at me from the crowd. A little girl bedecked in enough beads that she could have been naked beneath them without anyone noticing sat high atop her daddy’s shoulders with her bare feet waving in the cool evening air. I stared at those wiggling toes on those tiny perfect feet. I didn’t giggle. Not even a hint of one crossed my lips.
Instead I calmly leaned out from the float as far as I could, meeting the eye of her father and gesturing for him to step forward. His face lit up as the float came to a gentle halt. Then I offered the shoe to his little princess. She squealed in delight, taking the shoe and holding it up like the true trophy such a gift is. The crowd cheered. I cheered with them, smiling sweetly at her before taking one last peek at those feet. I took a deep breath. I still didn’t giggle. Not even a hint of a snicker escaped me as the float started moving again.
~~~
Truth be told, I have a former boss who is a member of the Krewe of Muses. No idea how I know so many awesome people, but I am grateful to be inspired by them. Sadly, I have not yet made it to NOLA though many people have told me I should and real Cajun food and beignets sound like culinary delights my tongue must experience someday. Though my first attempt at shrimp etouffee was approved by a Cajun friend passing through, so maybe I do have an idea of how delicious a trip to New Orleans could be. Sorry this post is late late late, but we all know I am secretly the White Rabbit when I try so hard to be the Cheshire Cat.
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