Saying your writing makes me sad or depressed while it amuses me is no sort of criticism.

Still depressing, though ; )

I live for that kind of closure.

Sure took long enough, she said.  

Can’t rush art, he said.  Besides, ain’t those as pretty a set of shoes as you’ve ever seen.

They look, well, they look just magical, she said.

Aww, you’re nice to say that, he said.  Now how about you put them in this here bag, and I’ll get Mister Bancroft back into his coffin and into the elevator, the viewing’s starting in a half an hour.

See you regular time, Horton, she said.

Regular time, he said.  He brushed the hair from her eyes and patted her dry cheek, and as their eyes met, she raised her trembling hands and straightened his bow tie.

But, from time to time, the mischief would raise itself to something more sinister that would demand discretion if the assembled crew would ever hope to show their faces again in church or the country club. 

In the case of Mr. Kinsman, his crime against propriety was so bizarre that he was removed from the rolls of the establishment and was told in no uncertain terms that he needn’t show his face ever again. 

Mr. Kinsman beat a drunk hog to death in the parlor of the club using a nothing but a trenching tool he’d brought back from Europe after his stint in the Great War. 

His expression was locked in a rictus of eerie calm, very much like the face we can see above, the only difference being that on that night, that coolly unlined face was splattered by jagged streaks of fresh porcine blood. The expression never changed, even amid the screams of the assembled burghers and ghastly ripping squeals of his victim. 

When the hog was clearly and unmistakably dead, Mr. Kinsman shrugged at the horrified assembly, smiled briefly, and spoke in his sturdy salesman cadence: “That’s how we did it on the Marne.” 

Mr. Kinsman lived alone, and his house burnt down not a week after the incident. He was seen leaving town in his roadster, even as the flames from his house still painted the side wall on the outside of Olaf Sarsberg’s grocery store autumn orange. 

I never knew his name until today. But that face stayed with me all these years. 

I’m thinking runner-up.

I see that name and wonder… what does “E” stand for that was more awkward than “Horton”?

It’s just Edward. Horton likes it awkward.

Don’t worry, the moderation is very polished around here.

No loafers, they.

If not for E. Horton, man would never have walked on the moon.

Considering Kennedy’s influence on the Apollo program, Armstrong and Aldrin would have sashayed instead.

Thank you Mr Horton, shoe consultant.

Back in ’68, I landed a gig as a journalist in Arkansas. Now, I know you are thinking “Arkansas journalist” is an oxymoron, but bear with me. Being a Yankee headed for the Confederacy, I wanted to make sure I didn’t stand out too badly. I mean, I didn’t know Grits from Shinola in those days, so of course, my first stop was to the office of E. Horton Kinsman, Shoe Consultant. His office was on the third floor of a shabby pre-war brick faced, building that was, shall we say, experienced. I looked up and saw the drapes flapping out an open window. Kinsman didn’t believe in that new air conditioning, which didn’t matter because neither did the landlord. I went in and found the elevator out of order. I worked up a sweat climbing the stairs. The hall hadn’t been swept in weeks. I passed the frosted glass windows with the names of the other tenants. I knew a few. Erwin Schwartzkopf, Black Hat Sizer, Reginald Tallberg, the noted inseam man and  Pierre LaGrab, a lingerie designer who was trying to battle back after getting that felony beef reduced to a misdemeanor. 
The door squeaked, begging for a shot of oil on its rusted hinges and I saw Kinsman’s curvy secretary, Ethel who was shining a pair of black pumps behind a beat-up grey metal desk. I told her she looked good. She believed me. I asked if the man was in and she glanced at desk calendar  without stopping the shine job on the shoe and said, “He’s almost done with his appointment with some guy named Choo,” He can see you shortly. Choo, I thought. Sounded mysterious. I sat down on a torn naugahyde couch and picked up a dog-eared copy of American Shoe Consultant Magazine from 1947. E.H. must have let his subscription lapse, which I found strange give the number of times he had graced the publication’s covers. I heard a side door slam and Ethel told me I could go in. I figured Choo must have exited out the side door as Kinsman never let two clients see each other. He was known for his fetish for confidentiality and some speculated, well we don’t even need to go there. 

I walked into the sweltering office. I was dripping like a half hour old ice cream cone, but the big man looked crisp in a starched shirt and bow tie. “So, what’s the story with this Choo,” I asked. The big man glanced at the door in the direction of his big mouthed secretary and shook his head. He told me Herb Choo had some wild ideas for a new line of men’s tennis shoes. He said he had told him he ought to listen to his younger son Jimmy who had a better business plan and let it go at that. 

I told him about Arkansas and the new job and how I was thinking of a solid pair of cordovan wingtips by Florsheim. He went to a green file cabinet that still had the military surplus number stenciled on the side and pulled out a file folder. “No Florsheim’s,” he said, “you’ll stick out like U.S. Grant.” He flipped a brochure on a pair brown brogans by Church’s on the stained blotter on his desk. Get these and you will probably win the Pulitzer Prize. I knew he was right. I thanked him went out the side door. I hailed a cab that was driven by one of those new hippies who didn’t give a second thought to what kind of sandals they wore. The guy, or maybe it was a girl, I couldn’t tell with all that long hair, was playing one of those new FM radio stations and a song came on. I asked the name of the band. “Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention,” he said, it was a guy after all. The song was, “Brown Shoes Don’t Make it.” But, who was I supposed to believe, some jerk named Zappa or the legendary E.H. Kinsman? I went with Kinsman and got the brogans. I didn’t win the Pulitzer, but I did meet the daughter of a wealthy cotton plantation baron. But, that’s another story.