Zoris

There are two kinds of people on Saipan: Those who have adopted zoris as their primary footwear, and those who haven’t.

Footwear is no trivial matter. Have you considered that your footwear might have serious implications for your future?

If not, consider the plight of disgraced former New York governor Elliot Spitzer and his call girl imbroglio, which may, if we believe some news accounts, have prison time as a consequence. Recent news item: Spitzer was alleged by one political operative to have worn “calf length black socks” during “the sex act,” (now really, how tacky) an allegation reportedly tendered to the FBI via a letter that sought to use this piece of footwear data as “collaborating” evidence of Spizter’s deeds.

Hmmm. Zoris would have left no such trail of evidence, since you don’t wear socks with them. Might this mean the difference between prison and freedom? Well, we can’t rule that out entirely.

But the truth is that men have never known what to do with their socks. Socks are an awkward piece of attire, to be sure. You have to have black ones for business wear, white ones for athletic duty, and often other shades for, well, whatever. Socks take up an obscene amount of space when packing a suitcase. And the cost? A good pair of socks can run 10 bucks. It’s not a satisfying purchase, either; nobody ever walked out the door feeling like a million bucks because of his nice new socks.

Zoris get you neatly around that problem. And they’re easy to shed at your front door.

But, as for me, I’ll admit that I never took to zoris. Or tennis shoes, for that matter. Perhaps it’s the psychological law of primacy. When I was a kid, my mother, a ballet instructor, and hence very savvy about feet and related bone structures, made me wear heavy “corrective” shoes just to ensure that my feet developed property. I have no idea, really, what all that means; it’s a mom thing.

Anyway, back in those kid days, one of the school bullies, a big lummox named Kenny, would tease me because of my big black dorky shoes. Kenny thought he was cool in his Adidas. And he was, maybe, until he shot off his mouth one too many times, whereupon I kicked his family jewels so hard they’re probably still embedded in his spleen.

Kenny got a lesson he’s certainly not forgotten: A two-pound shoe, swung in an arc as long as a leg, carries enough angular velocity and, hence, kinetic energy to turn a dork like me into an instant Bruce Lee, and a lummox like him into an instant jellyfish.

These days, I can’t really say that I intend to give anyone a good swift kick, but I do reserve the option.

And then we have Kevin, my pal in the Navy. Kevin had two things on his mind: One was to try to avoid sea duty, and the other was a funky, stinky foot fungus that he couldn’t seem to shake.

Well, one problem solved the other. I still remember the day when a Navy doctor told Kevin that his medical eligibility for sea duty was in jeopardy from the foot condition. That afternoon I found Kevin in his apartment, soaking his feet, in socks, in a bucket of warm water, so as to facilitate the fungal growth. He spent every possible moment wearing wet socks for the next week or so, which meant we couldn’t go out for beer, so I’d bring some to him, and there we’d sit listening to his stereo and sipping Miller Lites as he periodically immersed his stockinged feet in the bucket. The stench was so bad we’d light cigars to mask the smell.

So think of all the lives that would have been changed if zoris were more popular. Maybe Spitzer wouldn’t be in such legal trouble. Maybe Kenny wouldn’t be sterile. Maybe I’d still be an easy mark for bullies. And maybe Kevin would have been on a slow boat to Diego Garcia.

See? Whether or not you wear zoris, it’s clearly not a decision to be taken lightly.