When I lived in DC, especially in the second half of my career there, my surrogate big sister memorably described my wardrobe as “black shirt, black shirt, Hawai’ian shirt, black shirt, black Hawai’ian shirt.” And with the exception of the black shirt, the black shirt, and the mambo shirt, that was pretty much accurate. A proflieration of aloha-wear was good for many things: covering the emerging gut, resisting the heat of a Washington summer, looking snappy at the cigar shop.
Once I moved west, though, those shirts largely went in the closet and stayed there. Part of it was because they weren’t really practical for warehouse work, but I think at some level I was trying to make myself over a little and leave behind some of the more unpleasant aspects of my personality developed in the latter two years with the old firm. That may be why I also ordered myself a pair of No Sweats the day we pulled into Silly Con Valley to stay. Now, these shoes are your classic NorCal: a Converse Chuck Taylor lookalike, in black, made by sweatshop-free union labor in some less-benighted Third World hellhole. For whatever reason they don’t make them anymore, but back then, it felt like a nice change from years of Doc Martens. Ironically, within six months I was wearing steel-toed Docs, which I actually needed for my job, and the NS went in the closet.
If you need proof the 80s are back, just stroll around any shopping area populated by young people – I saw kids in Union Square up in the city on Saturday who could have dropped into my junior-high era without drawing so much as a blink. The Chucks are everywhere (as are drainpipe jeans and garish neon, but that’s a problem for another day) – much like the M1911 is for firearms manufacturers, every shoe company on Earth has made a Chuck clone at some point. And for similar reasons of timelessness and demonstrable utility.
I haven’t owned actual Chucks since a pair of maroon hightops for PE in 9th grade. I bought a pair of black hightops at some point in college and returned them within a half hour, and I had a pair of the big leather basketball shoes that Converse styled to look like Chucks during my new-kicks-every-month phase in college and grad school. In fact, since arriving in Washington all those years ago, I hadn’t bought a single pair of athletic shoes in at least…well, ever.
But there is something about the simple black Cons, with the white rubber toe and the stripe around the sole, that suggests – I don’t know what. All I know is that I put them on today, with the black Hawai’ian shirt, and felt like I probably looked five years younger. Which, as things go, well, you could do worse.
(There will be more weird flashback nostalgia later, including cigars.)
The ONLY shoes Nate will wear are Chucks. And don’t even get him started on the knock offs. I have a pair of limey green ones. They might actually BE from junior high!
It was a sad day when my corduroy Chucks finally gave out beyond safety pinning or sewing. I still own a couple of pairs, plus some vans and a pair of docs (though I may be adding to that). These are my only sensible shoes, because apparently when I want comfortable feet, I turn back to High School.