Who in their right mind would put up with Sammy’s? Wouldn’t it just be preferable to traverse the ubiquitous dog pooh, predictable dark clumps of discarded chewing gum, random shards of glass and other hygienic terrors of the city pavement while stone-cold barefoot?
This may sound crazy, but in a store like Sammy’s where at least half the metro hordes go for regular shoes, altercations are as common as calluses; nasty little run-ins that could easily benefit from the intervention of law enforcement, or perhaps the Dalai Lama, especially on weekends. By “regular” incidentally I mean the kind of footwear you can actually walk in, not the type that comes in alarming hues of shiny hot pink and sunburst yellow with three inch extended Italian toes into which no human digit was ever made to squeeze; such inquisition chambers for the metatarsals had to be created for teenagers of all ages hell bent on experimenting with foot ruination; they never were meant to adorn mainstream lower extremities with fallen arches, broken toe nails, the errant corn and a host of other all too human imperfections, some of them quite gross. Real shoes for real people, that’s their motto. . . .
