It was after the big community tree planting at the elementary school that Tom decided he wouldn’t ride the skateboard to work anymore. After the accident with the hole and the child he thought he shouldn’t risk it.  The school had said that the parents 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 when he started having to walk to work.  His shoes were worn through, and the pavement was scratchy and bumpy.  He knew he needed a fix.  He stopped at the hardware store about halfway to the office.
 

“Any shoes?” he said.

Just these.”  The clerk pointed at his own feet, but did not smile.  His joke was made of corrugated aluminium.

Tom looked around.  He had never been one to give up, and this sartorial matter was one he would 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.  He 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 murmered.  Finally he found what he was looking for.

The croc knock-offs were extruded from plastic beads in a factory far away, their oriental character inspiring different feelings in passersby who saw Tom’s choice of footware.  The clerk had forgotten about them, his little island of cash and keys was far removed from the garden supplies in aisle 18.  The croc-like footwear had holes like his own shoes, but these were on the top, offering a nice ventilation for his toes and ankles.  They looked leisurely, like a lazyboy for his lower half.

“Are you really wearing those?” his silver haired boss said.  The boss’ diamond earring 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 skate 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, balancing the paper-plated hot pocket on his bright orange shoe. 

These not-crocs have definitely 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 of just skated by this place, I thought it was for 8 year olds.  There is a lot of history here!  He snapped another shot.

“Excuse me, I need you to come with me, sir.”  the Capitol Mall policeman took Tom by the arm.  He’d 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 hand cuffs.

“Wait! What did I do?”  Tom said.

“Sir, why are you taking pictures of children?  Are any of them yours?”     

“No. I…”

“Well, don’t you think it looks a little strange, you taking pictures, wearing those bright orange crocs?”

“They’re not crocs!”