I bought shoes from a man with one leg

I recently bought a pair of loafers from a man with a prosthetic leg.

How do I know this? Good question. I never met him. I never saw him. I bought the shoes on eBay, used. But I am almost certain he has one leg.

I love finding an old, vintage Brooks Brothers sport coat. One that was made before we landed on the moon.

As soon as I took them out of the box I realized there was something off. The left loafer had natural creases on the top of the shoe. You know, the creases that form as you walk and your foot bends. These were used shoes, and this is normal. The right loafer, however, had none of these natural creases. The top of the shoe looked essentially new.

I put them on, and my suspicions were validated only more. The right loafer fit a bit tighter than the left. It felt like it hadn’t been worn. It felt new. You know that feeling, don’t you? Stiff. Tight. It takes a while for shoes to get broken in. The right loafer hadn’t been broken in at all. I also noticed there was less wear on the very back of the right sole.

All of this corroborated my theory. The right loafer was worn on a prosthetic foot, which wouldn’t be bending the same way a fully functioning foot does. The shoe thusly wouldn’t be broken in. Rolling forward on the back of the heel with all of one’s weight, as you do when you walk, wouldn’t be happening, either.

All of this comes together to perfectly explain the asymmetrical state of the used penny loafers I bought on eBay. They were worn by a man with a prosthetic leg.

I put a shoe stretcher in the right loafer for a day or two. It stretched out enough so that it came fairly close to matching the size of the left. After a few weeks of regular wear, the discrepancy between the left and the right was all but gone.

This whole saga is exactly what I love about thrifting and buying used stuff on eBay. It’s not just the great price. The ability to find incredible deals on clothing you wouldn’t normally be able to afford is a wonderful thing, but what I love about thrifting is more than just the price tag.

It’s not just the vintage element, either. Excavating forgotten styles that are practically impossible to find off the rack is a total gas, but there is still something more.

It’s the story. It’s the unique thing that can’t be bought. It’s what you can’t get when you buy something brand new.

I love that these shoes have some strange backstory. I love that I can’t know it, either. I suppose I could reach out to the seller and ask about this discrepancy and try to pry some information. But how boring would that be? Where is the mystery in that? Where is the fun? It’s much better to try to piece it all together the old-school way. A little mystery is fun.

I love finding an old, vintage Brooks Brothers sport coat. One that was made before we landed on the moon. Standing at my closet, looking at the tag that’s been ripped a little. The wearing around the elbows, the name written on the inside pocket. I stand there and wonder who he was. How often did he wear this jacket? Was this a workhorse, or did it wait in a closet most of its life? Is he alive anymore? Maybe not. Probably not. A dead man’s jacket. Now, my jacket.

When you buy something new, the story starts with you. There isn’t really anything human before that point. Even if the piece was handmade, it’s just business. But the presence of some other story — a story you will never know for certain — wrapped up in the piece adds human depth. Some kind of connection with someone else. Even if you never see him, there is something shared. In our inhuman world of throwaway culture, there is something really refreshing about it.

Maintaining and sustaining something feels good. Deep down, in our heart, it feels right. The old jacket that was sewn long before you were born. The tie that’s as old as you are. Keeping those things alive and carrying them through the decades is humanizing. It feels like we are reaching back into time, grabbing something physical, and then bringing it forward into our world today.

Do I know beyond a reasonable doubt that my loafers were worn by a man with a prosthetic leg? No. I will never know for sure. But I think they were, and that’s the story I am sticking to. It makes them unique. It gives them a backstory. It makes them special in a peculiar little way. It makes me love them more. That’s the great thing about thrifting.