[ WP ] You live in a world where walking a mile in someone else 's shoes gives you one of their skills . You work in a used shoe store .

ThumpThumpThumpThumpThumpThump 
 
 Miles focused on the sound of his shoes smacking the pavement as he tore up Century Drive. It was all he could do to ignore his heavy wheezing, wet and rattling at this point from the two miles it took to get to Anderson ’ s. The day was bright and hot, the air crisp and clean; a perfect June morning. Such a waste that it would be Miles ’ first day of summer work. 
 
 And he was late. 
 
 Down the street and left at the light sat a quaint and not very curious place of business. It looked much like any other with a dusty brown awning that read “ Anderson ’ s ” in elaborate but faded white letters. Behind the glass door sat a man at the front desk chewing an unlit pipe and reading the morning paper. He seemed unbothered by the lack of business and quite peaceful behind his thick rimmed glasses and under his bushy brow and wrinkles. Time was of least concern to him. 
 
 The door swung open and the bells attached jangled angrily. The man did not look up to greet the boy but instead chuckled as he finished off a comic strip. Miles huffed and set his hands akimbo struggling to speak. But before he could get out a word the man spoke. 
 
 “ Well, I suppose one should consider this a bad first impression hmm? But I would be lying if I said I am surprised or even disappointed. You clearly did your best to get here and best was not enough. We ’ ll look past it today and see how tomorrow fares, hmm? Come on then, let ’ s get started. We ’ ve wasted enough time. ” 
 
 And with one surprisingly swift motion he had risen from his chair and strode through a door leading to a back room. Miles stood puzzled for a moment before cautiously following. 
 
 The back room was far grander than Miles had anticipated. It reminded him of a study, or a library. The difference here being that instead of walls and shelves lined with books, they were stacked with shoes. 
 
 Hundreds if not thousands of shoes. 
 
 Some in boxes, some just single sided, all carefully separated and tagged. As Miles followed he glanced at the florescent green and orange tags. 
 
 8M RNG 
 
 8W ACCT 
 
 7W FLR 
 
 He could make sense of the size, but the letters that followed remained a mystery to him. The man turned to face Miles suddenly. 
 
 “ Tomorrow we ’ ll go through the more important details of your job. For now, I want you to do three things. ” 
 
 Miles stared at him awaiting instructions. 
 
 “ One, my name is Mr. Anderson. You will find that I am relaxed in most cases and understanding in even more cases than that. I do believe that a name, much like a label or title, is important. We will treat it with the value it deserves. Two, you will begin to sort each of the unpaired shoes into the four empty aisles on that side of the room. ” Back turned to Miles, the man lifted his hand lazily gesturing to a group of vacant rows. ” 
 
 Then strolling towards the front of the shop once again Mr. Anderson turned to face Miles. He stopped for a moment and seemed lost in thought, running his fingers lightly up and down one of the shelves. 
 
 “ Finally, for the moment, you are not to go through the room at the back of this one. ” 
 
 His tone indicated that this was of utmost importance. And with that Mr. Anderson disappeared once again to the front of the shop leaving Miles to begin his first day at the cobbler ’ s. 
 
 The work was boring, but it became almost relaxing over time. As Miles worked he would pause and probe the shoes. Some appeared to have been there for ages. Far longer than the typical one week repair time usually expected. Others seemed dated and forgotten by time, but certainly not forgotten by Mr. Anderson as their tags were fresh and without a crease. It was all a mystery to Miles why his father would have felt this a good “ lesson ” for him to learn this summer. For now though, Miles was content to have some change to enjoy on the evenings and weekends. Looking down at his own beaten tennis he noticed that part of the sole had ripped away from the body, possibly due to a combination of age and his earlier haste to get to the shop on at a reasonable hour. 
 
 At around noon, Mr. Anderson stepped into the room and announced “ That ’ s fine. Come up front. ” Before turning on his heel and disappearing once again. Miles placed a single shoe on a shelf taking careful note of his progress before hurrying to the front. He had barely closed the storage room door before Mr. Anderson spoke. 
 
 “ Take those shoes off. They ’ ll need some repair. ” 
 
 Miles had barely noticed their state himself and had not noticed Mr. Anderson look at him for more than a brief moment so the statement caught him somewhat off guard. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other nervously. 
 
 “ Ah, ” Mr. Anderson started, “ I suppose you ’ ll need something to get home then. ” He disappeared to the storage room momentarily before reappearing with a familiar pair of shoes in hand. They were a pair of worn but sturdy brown loafers. Miles could read the orange label clearly: 
 
 8M RNG 
 
 Miles obeyed and carefully took off his shoes, balancing awkwardly on each leg as he went. He then slipped his feet into the loafers. They fit well enough, if only a bit loose. But they felt comfortable and light. He felt almost as if gravity had released some of its grip on him as he shifted his weight from heel to toe, testing them out. For the second time that day Mr. Anderson chuckled. 
 
 “ You may head home now. We ’ ll try a longer day tomorrow. And I suspect… That you won ’ t be late. ” 
 
 Miles could have sworn that he saw the old man wink as he said it but before he could confirm the man had turned started off towards the storage room. 

