OKAY, STORY TIMESo in one of the small towns I grew up in, there's a massive flea market right outside of town. Everyone and their mother, their sister, their cousin (sometimes all the same thing) goes out to this place because it's basically like a year-round white trash circus.
I'm in town, at least was, because I came back to see my sister graduate (With honours, I'm proud because she really is intelligent and it's good to see her passionate about it) and well, there isn't much to do around there, and to be perfectly honest I collect strange knick knacks anyways.
So I'm perusing as usual, flipping thru weird knockoff toys, ancient taxidermy, used work boots and dinged, discount canned goods. Just as I pass the food court and the strange fortune telling machines that line the walls by the doors (my favourite being one in which tells you about your love life based on how well you kissed it. I've never seen anyone use it, but I imagine it could easily be accurate if it always said "plagued by disease" post-kiss,) I see the most bare and unorganized booth I've ever seen. In the back, an old woman sits quietly, hands clasped. I walk up, give her a brief smile, and start looking thru things. Laid out are a strange collection of things, including but not limited to old playboy magazines, huge baggy jeans with gaudy white stitching, huge stacks of ps2 games, and a quite a few beat pairs of Jordan's. Eventually, through a culmination of awkward silence and curiosity, I ask the elderly woman how she came to own all these things.
She breathed in deeply, and I noticed her puffy red eyes for the first time, which were mildly concerning. She started to talk about she came into the possessions when they were left with her unexpectedly. Of course, being a sucker, I asked her how that came about. She paused, took another deep breath, and explained that her 22 year old son had recently passed away, leaving her with all his possessions. They apparently grew up rather poor, and while she singlehandedly supported herself and him with a factory job, he was left alone often. She tried to entertain him with any video game he wanted, or with decent allowances to go to the mall with his friends. But apparent he had gotten involved in a gang, and slowly drifted into a shadier lifestyle. One day she received a call from a detective who had bad news. Apparently, while selling heroin in Atlanta, her son was drawn into a house under false pretenses (she stumbled here a little bit, which I attributed to her having a hard time saying her son dealt drugs) and killed in some nonspecific way. She legItimately looked teary eyed, and struggling for breath, I had no idea how to respond. After a moment of silent recollection, she stopped to explain how she was selling all of these things in order to pay for the burial lot and grave stone. Of course, my wallet followed my sucker heart, and I offered to buy a pair of the used Jordan's for all I had with me ($65~) in order to help. She told me she couldn't let me buy used shoes for that much and told me she would offer me something nicer. She wobbled to the back, popped open the lid to a large, green plastic container, and pulled out a sealed black Nike bag. She told me they were a pair that he had never opened, and so would be more fit for what I was offering. I agreed, as it really didn't seem too unfair at all, especially the circumstance. She took my money, hugged me, and sent me on my way.
Eventually, I met up with my sister and one of my few remaining old friends from there, and I drove us back towards her mom's house. With her riding in the back seat, she asked if she could open my new shoes. Upon opening it, she started talking about how nice these Jordan's were (she's got really, really casual teenager tastes) and how she had seen some of the boys at her school wear the same ones. I glanced at them, excited that by some miracle I had gotten the cheapest pair of the only Jordan's I ever wanted (4s), and was stoked. Seriously, I was so excited, I had been thinking about biting the bullet on a pair of 4s for a while, even though I had never bought anything Nike before, not even converse.
Blindly I went on thru my day, eventually making the drive all the way back to the city I now I reside. Getting home, I unpacked my things, getting excited to put my new Jordan's on. I opened up the box and was still convinced, looking over the retro card and the "bike air" tag and all. But I put them on and noticed how uneven they felt, and started to feel out the insoles. While doing that, I started noticing a few different details that seemed off, be they loose threads or uneven cuts. But then I noticed one detail specifically:
It all clicked. From my sister saying she saw those pairs around the school (authentic all white/chrome 4s are rare) to the woman going to one of many large plastic tubs to retrieve the nonspecific bag. I seriously had nothing to say, I just say in silence staring at my wonky, fake shoes...
Seriously, that woman was so convincing. Even now I want to believe she didn't know they were fake, but I can't shake the fact that my sister recognized them immediately.