Shoeless in Des Plaines

Late yesterday afternoon when the last bit of light was quickly fading, I heard a rapping at my door. I opened it to a scrawny young man who wanted to know if he could use my phone. Against my better judgment I let him in. I went out to the kitchen where the phone was located, expecting him to follow me. When he didn't, I said, "You'll have to come in here to use it." He mumbled something and came out to the kitchen. I hovered, shamelessly listening in. According to what he told the person on the other end, the car he was driving had blown a cam. Could his listener come and get him? Or find someone to come and get him? "Yeah, you know, down where the street curves around, you know, the way we go to school."

It wasn't until he had thanked me and made his way back to the front door to leave that I realized why he hadn't immediately followed me to the kitchen. He had removed his shoes! This from a kid with his jeans hanging past his butt, showing off at least six inches of his plaid boxers.

I've been trying to decide if I was the only one on the block who was home -- the car was at the other end of the street -- or the only one who was willing to let him in.