Space Heater

A businessman in his middle fifties crossed Washington in the rain. It came down steadily, and had done so for several days. The lack of umbrella in his hand was not from lack of foresight. The trek through the rain was curious; the streets in Los Angeles were prone to flooding, and, certainly, there had been standing water in the roads for days. As he approached the curb to return to the sidewalk from the road, he misjudged the distance, then stepped his loafer into one standing puddle along the side of the road. The rainwater cascaded over the edge of the shoe, into its fleshy interior, surely soaking his socks and insoles. The businessman—but, really, it was impossible to tell whether he was of the founder ilk or the middle-management caste—ascended the stairs along the side of the building, just a few feet from the road. He almost survived the walk. As his shoes squished beneath his weight on each step, he daydreamed of getting to his office, removing his socks and shoes, and placing his feet as close to his space heater as possible. Perhaps he would rest his socks along the machine, watch as they steamed and smoked. That way they would dry before he had to make the return trek home. He would have to brainstorm ways to dry out the shoes.