Dead Man's Socks

Dead Man's Socks Vicki L. McMillan My life has been ruled by a tyranny ofsocks. Black socks, blue socks, old socks, new socks: the white anklets on fat baby feet the first day they were stuffed into hard-soled shoes, giving way to knee socks tucked into school oxfords, those Buster Browns and Stride Rites, buUies of the playground , designed to imprison, to keep the foot in Une, surrendering at last to that first pair ofjunior high nylons, baggy at the knee, twisted at the ankle, pinned to a pink and white panty-girdle, puUing me into womanhood. But most ofaU I remember the dead man's socks, how they arrived quite unexpectedly, throwing my feet a curve. The dead man was the brother ofa woman who had the desk next to my mother at the unemployment office. A rag salesman pushing his sample cart from store to store, spending his Ufe in cheap motels aU over Michigan, commiserating every night over scotch or bourbon with the other guys in the trade. It aU took its toU—and now he was reduced to ashes, leaving me a legacy of executive men's socks. The colors were indicative of the time: olive, gray, black, tan, taupe. They were knee socks for a man, over-theknee socks for me. "I can't wear these!" I cried. "You wfll," my mother rephed. And I did. Trying to keep my legs tucked under the desk in the classroom , under the table in the lunchroom, under my books on the bus. Band was a problem. The clarinet was a wand pointing, sflently shouting, "Look! Look! She's wearing a dead man's socks!" One morning in the dim Ught of my room, I couldn't see they were mismatched, one tan, one taupe, glaring in contrast under the bandroom's fluorescent lights, while snickers fiUed the air around me. 26 Vicia L. McMillan27 Years later, my aunt told me her sock story. How my uncle, a young engineer slated for promotion, went to his interview wearing short, black, sport socks. At first aU went weU: he gave the right answers, laughed at the right jokes, proved himself executive material. Then he relaxed, crossed his legs, and his pant leg rode up, showing an inch and a half ofhairy leg. He'd never heard the dead man's rag trade maxim, "for every job, there's a right sock." And now a young friend has graduated from coUege, and I have maüed him three pairs of interview socks—long and elegant, knit of cashmere and wool. We are waiting to see if the dead man's taUsman wfll turn the trick. We are waiting to see if anyone notices that he's wearing the right socks. m\ ...