Sale

Alamo Shoes has, hands down, the best selection of mid-range shoes I've ever seen. They have the really swell brands we all always seek out, and they have lots of them. They also are an independent store in the Andersonville neighborhood of Chicago - definitely a cool area of town. So, the place rocks.

Sort of.

The main problem - maybe the only problem - with Alamo Shoes is its salespeople. Perhaps you've been to such a place yourself. You have to be on guard when you walk in the door. You have to brace yourself. For they come at you, these salesmen, with great force and relentlessness. These men, the youngest perhaps 45, in their poly pants, translucent short-sleeved button down shirts and mismatched ties. They pounce. They pounce repeatedly. They want to help you find that perfect pair of shoes. More accurately, they want to help you find thirty of them. They give commission-based sales a bad name. If I am wrong, and they are not commission-based, then they are very strange space people.

I like to do little duck and spin moves to avoid them. Or focus on the kids to prevent eye contact. (See my basketball entry for more details on my history of avoidance.) On occasion, though, I can't help but stare at one of them as they ask, "Can I help you, sir?" In those cases, I say "no," and run to the socks rack. I'll hide there for some time checking out Gold Toes until it's safe to go to the Rockports.

If you are going to buy anything there, of course, you cannot help but truly interact with these people. They hustle off to find your size while you patiently sit in their vinyl chairs, perhaps tapping your toes on the little stool-foot-ramp-thing-that-has-no-name-that-I-know-of. Sometimes, I kid you not, other salesmen will ask if you need help with anything while you wait for your shoes to try on. They will be pushy. They will be frustrating. They will even be offensive. Like the time many years ago when one of them was trying to push Ann to buy BOTH pairs of running shoes she was choosing between. When I joked that we'd take them both if they were "buy one pair, get one free," the salesman snapped back, "You'll have to come back in Jew-vember for that deal." (Angry letters and confrontations ensued, and apologies and forgiveness have since been granted.)

But they really know their shoes, and, like I said, they simply have the best stuff. And maybe it's worth it, right? I mean, the alternative is DSW, which is self-serve in every way, and I always end up awkwardly dragging my stuff aisle to aisle, my socks hanging off the ends of my toes, old shoes trailing behind me, as I look for something, anything, in my size.

So, I'm in Alamo on Thursday - mostly to buy a little time with my son before we pick my daughter up from her nearby preschool. I've only been asked if I need help three times, so I think something must be up. I wander to the back of the store and find before me the most incredible sight: the shoe reps are there.

The shoe reps are there, selling their shoes to the store - to a group of these sharks - and they, the reps, are worse than the salesmen! It's great! It's... great! This woman is on her knees, and the salesmen are kneeling, sitting, crouching in a semicircle in front of her. And she's on fire. She is unstoppable.

"You can get this in the saddle, or just in the black, I'm not saying you have to carry both, I mean you can try just a small run of the black and see how they go before committing to more than that, unless you actually think having both styles is a plus, which I think it surely is, gentlemen. (pause, breath) We should do lunch sometime."

They are frozen. They are afraid of her. I swear I see two of them sweating. I mosey to the other side of the store, and she fades out, "of course this is the new version of that, I'm not going to stick you with the old version, I wouldn't do that, ever, unless you want both to show as a comparison to your many clients, gentlemen..." I reach the spot where the kids' shoes are, and I'm again rewarded! Her colleague is there, with the two guys who specialize in children's shoes, and she's going at them with all engines on turbo.

"The kids are loving these this year. They are loving these. LOVING THESE. And THESE? Let me just tell you right now that they are LOVING these! Loving these even more than THESE, and I already told you they are loving THESE. They are LOVING THEM."

The Alamo salesmen are leaning forward, wringing their hands, as their ugly ties dangle between their legs. They have furrowed brows, they look worried, they look stressed. They look pretty much how we all feel every time we go in there.

I love it. But, alas, it is time to go pick up the girl. So I hoist my son up onto my shoulder, he screams in protest, which is not easily heard above the intense shoe chatter, and we head out into the cold Chicago rain.