My Large Feet Meet Harvey Ronderfield
My feet. My how they’ve grown. Today they tower above me like flesh skyscrapers, toenails sticking up into the clouds. I hope they don’t interfere with air traffic routes. Maybe I need to contact the FAA charting office and warn them about the unusual size of my feet.
My feet remind me of a story I once heard about a man called Harvey Ronderfield — or, as we called him, Harvey Bithmeisterson. Harvey also had feet, and he always would ask me how my feet were doing. Usually I would respond that my feet were in their usual condition, and hadn’t done anything recently that was worth mentioning. Of course, once in a while I would have a wild story about something they’d done recently, and Harvey always listened carefully, like a cat might listen to a story about feet.
But then I heard a story about Harvey. Apparently he enjoyed visiting Beijing to go shopping for Beijing oranges. He would often try to smuggle those oranges back into North Korea by hiding them in the soles of his shoes, until one day the souls of his feet spoke up and protested this illegal behavior. Harvey’s feet always had a stronger conscience than Harvey’s brain did, and once in a while they’d speak up and make themselves heard.
Of course, Harvey’s feet also had gotten a reputation as a pair of jokers, and Mr. Ronderfield (that would be Harvey’s father) had spread the word far and wide that Harvey’s feet were not to be trusted. Harvey had heard those stories, of course, and therefore ignored what his feet had said. As Mr. Yonderfield (that would be Harvey’s great-uncle) always said, “You can’t warble when you’re doped up on antibiotics!”
So Harvey continued into North Korea, so loaded up on Beijing oranges that he trailed orange peel powder as he walked. Naturally, he was caught by the orange hounds, arrested, and quickly sentenced to life in America. That’s where I met him, and where he persisted in asking me to tell him about my feet.
Which brings us back to the present day, in which my feet are skyscrapers on the corner of 36th and Broadway. The police might send a demolition crew to try to uproot them, but I don’t think I want that. I plan on digging my heels in, cementing my feet in place, and enjoying my new status as the footiest guy in the world. Pigeons will perch on the folds of my footskin, and they will enjoy it, for my feet give warmth and life to whoever touches them.
I will miss wearing sneakers, of course. Ah, sneakers, we had some good times together. But now our days are past. Try moving to Warsaw, I hear that people there all have normal-sized feet. The poor saps.