text: It was just after the first big fundraising event of the year that Tom decided he wouldn't ride the skateboard to work anymore. After the fiasco with the paving crew and the tar fire he thought he shouldn't risk it. The Fire Chief had said that the all the guys in the crew were "good people," and wouldn't press charges but he wasn't sure, it had all happened so fast, and so he thought it best to avoid skating, at least for awhile. The problem that then emerged was he began having to walk to work. His shoes were worn through and the pavement was scratchy and bumpy. Tom knew he needed a fix. He stopped at the hardware store about halfway to the office. Tom approached the red-vested clerk at the register. "Any shoes?" he said. Just these." The clerk pointed at his own feet, no smile. His joke hung in the air like corrugated aluminum. Tom looked around. He had never been one to give up, and this sartorial matter was one he knew he could think his way through. He thought about wrapping his feet in a burlap sack, or maybe some heavy-duty trash bags. *There are many things one could use for shoes*, he thought. Tom wanted just the right thing though. He looked at the grill lids. "Too big!" he cried. He looked at the mouse traps. "Too small," he murmured. Finally, he found what he was looking for. The Croc knock-offs were extruded from plastic beads in a factory far, far, away. The hardware clerk had forgotten about them, his daily realm one of cash, candy, and copying keys, so far removed from the garden supplies in aisle 18. The croc-like footwear had holes much like Tom’s own shoes, but these holes were on the top rather than the sole, offering some nice ventilation for his toes and ankles. They looked leisurely, like a La-Z-Boy Boy for his lower half. Tom knew. These were what he needed. He headed to the register. "I'll wear them out." Tom said. The laconic clerk nodded and watched him leave. A new spring in his step, he headed for the office, the unique character of the new orange not-crocs inspiring different and exotic feelings in those Tom passed along the way. "Are you really wearing those?" said his silver-haired boss. The boss's diamond earing glittered in the glare from the window. "Wearing what?" "Crocs." They're not-crocs." "Oh. They look like them." "They're not Crocs." "You're crazy man." The not-crocs inspired Tom to partake in many activities that he formerly avoided. Rather than skateboard by the local garden patch, he would stop and weed on his way home, bending over in the not-crocs. Sometimes, instead of heading out to get a falafel, he would just microwave a hot pocket, then sit in his papasan chair and read a novel, balancing the paper-plated hot pocket on his bright orange shoe. *These not-crocs have really taken me to some places I never thought I'd go*, Tom thought, as he snapped a picture of the triceratops in front of the natural history museum. "Back in the day, I'd have just skated by this place, I thought it was just a playground for 8-year-olds. There’s a lot of history here though. And look at the way the light reflects off the bronze bony frill. What an amazing sculpture," he mumbled, talking softly to himself as he snapped another shot of the majestic dinosaur. "Come with me sir." the Capitol Mall policeman took Tom by the arm. The officer had been watching Tom take photos of children climbing on the bronze triceratops for the last two minutes. Any man wearing bright orange Crocs can't be up to any good, he thought, reaching for his handcuffs. "Wait! What did I do?" Tom said. "Sir, why are you taking pictures of children? Are any of them yours?" "No.