As an undergraduate in college, I worked as a shoe salesperson for the now-defunct Mervyns department store. The soothing strains of Faith No More on Musak played as we straightened neon hiking boots and striped ballet flats and assorted white high tops on plexiglass rounders. There was a strange power in disappearing into the dimly-lit stock room with a display shoe, leaving the customer waiting in socked feet in the wash of fluorescent lights. In the stock room, ladders ascended to the largest sizes, boxed near the skylights. To stand at the top was to stand in your own light beam like a deity. If you came to Mervyn’s for athletic shoes of any kind and asked me for advice, you probably left with whatever I thought coordinated best with the pants you were wearing. What I’m telling you is, I once sold shoes for a living and I know nothing about shoes.