Left Flip-Flop

by Greg Porter

What sometimes gets lost in all the idyllic hubbub of smooth waves, endless sunshine, and verdant forests, is how hot California really is. And you don’t fully appreciate how hot it is until you’re a flip-flop lying abandoned on the uncovered asphalt in August. And all you have to ruminate on is how you ended up in this position, black rubber baking in the unrelenting sun, the unending line of tires leaving imprints of their treads on your insole. Because seriously, how did you end up here? How is it that only one flip-flop (not even both?) ended up in the middle of the road? You thought that you had known your owner’s foot intimately, sanded and raisined from the sea, for she had worn you everywhere, not just to the sea, but to the store, around the house, to the frozen yogurt shop in the dead of winter (you always preferred the cold––summer was always unbearably hot) so that friends scoffed at her strange footwear, at you; and because you had known her, because you had held together through changing seasons and unforgiving landscapes, you felt bold enough to think of yourself as Left Flip-Flop, but clearly she is content only with Right Flip-Flop, so you must degradingly rebrand as left flip-flop. left flip-flop alone, abandoned, forsaken, there are no shortage of depressing and lonely adjectives you can dream up here, on the one hundred and thirty degree-asphalt, because at least reflecting on your melancholy will keep you busy.

But, as soon as the next pair of tires roll over you, you see a pair of feet on the sidewalk above you with white-soled running shoes. Which gives you hope because perhaps they don’t own a pair of flip-flops. You begin to make yourself as attractive as possible, flexing your strap, angling so the sun shines on your curvy arch. But no––White Soles is here and gone. 

Four more pairs of tires roll over you before a pair of blue-tongued-and-gray-upper shoes walk by, a few feet behind two sets of paws. Maybe your arch isn’t actually that attractive, but surely, surely they can’t resist your toe thong. You flex it just as Blue Tongue passes, enticing him to come closer. The two sets of paws pause for a moment and walk toward you. They stop above you and an inquisitive nose covers your field of vision. Blue Tongue must be close behind. And he is, but only to tug the two sets of paws away. 

Black Upper follows Black Sole follows Red Tongue follows Blue Tongue follows ceaseless rejection as night falls. This is perhaps your darkest hour. As headlights roll over you, you wonder what it will take to be noticed, if you will ever be noticed, because surely you’re not like the rest of the standard black flip-flops out there, no, you have a curvier arch, better grip, and if they can’t see how special you are, then their loss. You’ve already proven yourself in the world, shown that, unlike the torn thongs and smelly, stained grips of others, you can handle the most extreme of environments from the uneven potholes of sand to the sweaty sole of a foot. Where others broke, you persevered, and not just persevered, but thrived.

But you were still abandoned. And perhaps for good reason. There are dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands like you, and though their arches are not as curvy nor their grip as grippy, what does it mean that they’re still out there, soaking up their owner’s sweat, and you’re here, soaking up the weak light of the lamp high above you? You had thought your purpose was to provide for Left Foot, but now, what is it? How can you possibly go on like this, on and on as the asphalt warms and then cools and then warms again, surrounded by the hum of cars, the painful weight of tires, and the tantalizing promise of new feet, always just out of reach and always just passing by?

One pair, though, seems to pass more often than the others. White Soles comes nearly every day, at the same time, and always passing too quickly to take notice. But the past few days, White Soles has slowed in their passage which could mean interest, or at the very least, it’s not anything bad. So, at the same time every day, despite the painful heat and ceaseless line of tires, you angle your arch, you showcase your thong and grip, hoping that just maybe, White Soles will stop and walk toward you. And one day, they do! Against all odds, White Soles’ toes pause, turn, and point toward you. A hand reaches out and picks you up. 

Finally, you have found purpose. Things are looking up for you at last, despite days of agony and nights of hopelessness. You showed them all, proved to all the other black flip-flops out there that you are special, you’re a force to be reckoned with. How can anyone look down on you now that Left Flip-Flop has staged a comeback and returned when all had presumed you alone, abandoned, forsaken? 

White Soles takes a few steps forward and pauses. Perhaps they are going to try you on now, to see how you fit. It all comes down to this moment. There is nothing you can do now but trust in your talent and in luck. White Soles’ hand extends outward, and you can’t help but look at Left Foot, that large, five-toed appendage which will guide you, Left Flip-Flop, to sand and stores and frozen yogurt shops and home. But your view of Left Foot is obstructed now by the shaded inside of a plastic bag, empty wrappers, soda cans, and a half-eaten burrito below and around you. You hear White Soles walk away. They’ll be back tomorrow.

In the meantime, at least it’s cooler in here.