Docking My Time: A Top-Sided Tale of Trend and Transition

By J. Corbett Holmes

At first glance, a tentative reaction arose. Time and growth were the catalyst for our separation. Choice and change -- the conduit responsible for the amicable divorce. But, like most relationships, we'd been through a lot together ... especially the deepest, darkest secrets of my past. But even with that "special" place in my heart, could I really step back in?

Was it our time again? I wondered, as I stared with apprehension. Could fate rekindle the romance? From my vantage point, there was still an attraction. All at once, excitement and anxiousness accompanied the past along with the possibility of the present. But this time my view had been colored ... more yellow to be exact.

With uncertain footing, my steps stunted, I made my way across the room like a stalker with selective Alzheimer's. "Do you need some help?" she inquired. Her tone reeked of commission compensation. I began fondling the laces for moral support. "Yes, actually I do!" I replied, fingering the tongue to keep mine from becoming tied. "Do you have these in a size eight?" And I met her gaze, letting her know I understood the power of a pair. "Ummm, well, usually we have our smallest size out, but I'll go check in the back," she chirped. Inadequacy was already stepping in. I quickly made a beeline for the trendy athletic sneakers, hoping to ward off any further judgments. When she returned, the sprite sales-girl nudged the blue box across the floor in my direction, further accentuating her age with the toe-tapping of her trendy platform shoe. The box had been updated with a hodgepodge of indigo nautical images. The collage said current, the images screamed establishment. At the hub of the box was its moniker: Top-Sider, since 1935. However, directly below, a bold font shrieked "Get wet!" "Ok," I thought! And with that, I flipped back the top, fumbled through the tissue, cast off my shoes and socks and sunk my feet in, immediately finding my sole. At that very moment, the remembrance-rope was uncoiled, the romance-rigging rearranged, and all former feelings came sailing back.

I'd like to say my thoughts were all smooth sailing as I considered my new Top-Siders. But like TV's Mrs. Muir upon her return to Gull cottage, I too, was uncertain if these shoes would prompt all my (childhood) ghosts to haunt my home-o. Would they reveal that, although now an accomplished adult, inside I was still really a cautious Claymore Gregg? Or would these Top-Siders oil paint over my past, and brush me into present perfection, like a confidant sea captain? This particular brand of shoes had taken me through the trials and tribulations of some turbulent teen waters. And now, these newer, more yellow Top-Siders brought everything back to the surface.

There is a standard fashion rule, "If you wore it the first time, chances are you're too old to wear it the second time around!" That adage began to give me a sinking feeling, taking the wind out of my sails as I preened my new pair, while the sales girls waited impatiently for her sale. But weren't these Top-Siders considered a timeless classic? I wondered. If worn appropriately, couldn't they aid in a graceful, albeit slow, walk from the mayhem May of my adolescence to the deck chair of my December decline? Youthful, happy, understated (to some); yet still established. Yellow seemed the ideal choice to rekindle this relationship. So I chose not to set sail for the safety of the sporty sneakers. "I'll take them!" I told the sales girl. And with that, I took my first shaky step, setting sail to rediscover a new world where colorful choices and diversity are free of judgment.

Classic shade is how I presently monogram myself. It's a combination of a traditional childhood, some New York fashion philosophies, with a little laid-back-L.A. and a garnishing of gay. It's the melding of madras with motorcycle boots, penny loafers with porn, and a blazer with a razor-shaved head. That is why at 45, yellow presented perfection alongside a posed problem. Would they work at the "foot" of the guarded, ivy covered walls of classic shade I'd created? Or, would they force observers to see only poison ivy and begin scratching and stay away? Were they too gay?

Once home, as I sanded the stem and stern of my new shoes, the busted brown of my boyhood began catcalling on my gay of today! The memories came flooding back. Long descents down large hills, perched atop my bike while dragging my feet in order to accelerate their age. When I rubbed soil into their leather (in an attempt to defuse the yellow), this too, marked another one of my "dirty" little secrets. When fresh from the store, I'd worked feverishly to achieve an established well-worn look. And afterward, when the new rub of their insides left bloody blisters, the outside, like all "good" marriages, maintained the accepted look of social register chic.

Upon completion of my everything-new-is-old-again distress session, my shoes now looked like I'd had them for years. As I came inside from my roof deck and began to descend the flagstone stairs to my bedroom, the 40-foot wall of staggered mirrors before me offered an odd, Hockney-like picture. In between sanding and dirt rubbing, I'd been sunning as well. Thus I was practically nude, except for boxer shorts and my new/old Top Siders; which literally left me very exposed. I stopped to observe the vision. Was I free and playful, even willing to consider myself a little colorful (due to the shoes)? Or was I just a guy still struggling to recapture my youth, eager to hold on? Hopeful the yellow would make things sunnier this time around?

My debutante introduction to my Top Siders arrived along with a motive: the use of fashion to hide my homosexuality. The catalyst to acquire this particular brand of shoes arose from an adolescent attempt to fit in at school. The Catholic school I attended was filled with the usual combinations of ethnic heritage, all brought together through a family dedication to God. Although we were all Catholic, there was still this underlying desire to assimilate a blue-blooded background. We wore uniforms just like the upper-crust prep schools, but ours was a get-up, devoid of rugby ties and charm bracelets. Ours was monitored by the sanctuary standards of the nuns. Thus, our only means for wavering towards the wasps was through our shoes. Brown Top Siders were the gold standard. They were what you wore to personify popular. And there was nothing gay about them! In an effort to buy my way into the established club of sailing shoes, I incessantly nagged my mother until she gave in. The next day when I wore them to school, nothing happened! No waspy welcomes or progression in popularity, and definitely no hiding my gravitation towards gay. Discouraged, I eventually left for the freedom of public school. There among that liberal, diverse world, I found new ways to express myself, and most importantly, other ways to "step" outside of what appeared the perfect existence.

Eventually, like all good pairs in marriage (even if we are not considered legal by some), my banana-boat Top-Siders and I have come to terms with the turbulent waters of our past to further perfect the present. And as I look down upon them, and they blaze back, I am reminded of the classic wedding accessories. "Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue," or in this case, yellow.

The old is the experience I have gained, adding up along with my age to allow me "see legs" in life's most turbulent waters. The new is a conviction to live freely in a world where, at times, it still feels like I am reliving the stifled inflictions of my closeted youth. The borrowed are the examples from those around me who have shown me how to courageously navigate through un-ventured waters to come out on top (in this case Top Sider). And the blue is a reminder that there are places you can fall so dark in the depths of the indigo water, and heights you can reach so high in the azure sky, but that even if you're simply finding your footing, life is a wonderful adventure!

The yellow (the new gay amendment to my marriage) stoically serves as my emissary. Today, when l wear my Top-Siders, I wear them in memory of me ... and I only hide them in the closet when they clash with my outfit.

For your shaving graces, e-mail me at shavingsfrommyhead@yahoo.com.