Brown shoes! Why had he worn brown shoes? He was playing Death for Chrissakes. Everyone knew that Death wore black shoes. Black suit, black shoes. It said so on the costume list. Every year the same. Sister Concertina would never forgive him; that mouth of hers bunched up like a sundried tomato. And the bishop would be all for excommunicating him. After all, it wasn’t often that a member of the congregation was allowed to audition for the annual production of Everyman. He had given it his best shot and he hadn’t got the part. Father Flynn did; pompous git that he was. Joe got to be understudy. But then Father Flynn had tied on one too many at the yacht club last Saturday night, went out in his yacht, and hadn’t been seen since. That had worked out well.
Now Joe had his big chance. Everyone said he was perfect for the part with his rangy frame and his lugubrious disposition. But brown shoes? He would have to perform in his socks. Yes, that would do the trick. No one would notice. Joe looked around the empty church. Where could he hide his shoes? Kicking them off, he nipped up to the altar and stuck them under the cloth. Sure there was a bit of a bulge but no one would notice. They’d all be focused on the play. He tiptoed down the steps and sat again, waiting. The church bell tolled seven times. Wait a minute, where is everyone? With panic rising, Joe checked his mobile. Mon, April 12. Shite, the performance was last night. Why had no one called him? He’d missed his big break, him and his brown shoes.
Clo Carey – May 2020
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Teetering on the Edge 