Need New Nikes
(Column: SL magazine, June 2003)
I need new Nikes. I mean, the last time I bought sneakers was three years ago.
Cute little soccer-style Converse takkies. But a few climbing walls, several seasons and a puppy later… I need new Nikes. But unfortunately this month I needed to fix my car and buy a heater more. Okay, so maybe I don’t need new Nikes. I want new Nikes. Nikes would be nice. But how am I going to get them?
Have you heard about the woman who went on the internet to ask people to donate money towards paying off her credit card bill? She had run up more than $20 000 in debt buying lattes and Prada pumps. Her site was called www.savekaren.com, but it didn’t give her surname and the pic showed her hiding behind her computer. Oh the shame of gluttony! I decide on a more personal approach.
The Zone in Rosebank is a hang-out for the young and trendy. These are the kinds of shoppers who’d appreciate my need for Nikes. So on a Saturday morning just after payday I go to Rosebank to begin my own collection, using that great South African fundraising tool – a cardboard sign. On a strategic street corner I elbow my way between the newspaper vendor and a woman selling Homeless Talk. (Said elbows are clad in a Diesel jacket – R750 on half-price sale, a steal.)
I tramp those white lines. The sun is beating down. Thank God for my Guess sunglasses, not to mention my Estee Lauder LightSource Transforming Moisture Lotion with SPF 15 (R450 for 50ml – worth every cent). Through the glass, inside their controlled climate, I see one or two people sniggering. Grrrrr… I’ll bet the feet pressed against the pedals are encased in gleaming new Nikes. A few people – particularly one woman whose scrubbed young son is swooshed from head to toe – manage to wear an unusual expression that somehow combines embarrassment and terror.
Finally a window rolls down. ‘I’ll help you out with your Nikes,’ says the man, dropping a 50c piece into my Alessi collection jar (R186 from Spilhaus stores nationwide). The golden coin tinkles satisfyingly against the finely crafted Italian glass. I’m on my way!
When the next window rolls down. I’m smiling and confident, like one of those groomed ladies on an infomercial. ‘Would you like to help me, sir?’
‘Just do it, huh?’ He’s breathing funnily. Maybe it’s the sudden loss of air-conditioning pressure due to opening his window. ‘You’re cute,’ he rasps.
I debate whether being scrubbed with Clinique exfoliating cream, spritzed with Gucci Rush 2, slathered with Body Shop nut butter, smoothed with Mac foundation, perked up with a Wonderbra and then accentuated by fashionably low-slung Guess jeans is actually an advantage when begging on a street corner. At least it’s broad daylight.
And then my payload pulls up. It’s a businessman in a brand new silver Porsche. I approach and he suavely allows his window to slide down. ‘Hello sir,’ I say, admittedly coquettishly. ‘You look like a man who appreciated the finer things in life. So do you understand that I need new Nikes?’
‘Come and live with me,’ he replies. ‘I’ll buy you new Nikes.’ I’m considering. Tempting, but… he pulls off. It’s my first and, hopefully, last chance to live a life of luxury in exchange for sexual favours.
The next to respond is a car full of students. ‘Why are you doing this? What are you studying?’ asks the shaggy-haired driver. ‘Because I did exactly the same project for my marketing class.’
‘I just need new Nikes,’ I say, getting the stomach-churning feeling that every ad exec must get when realising for the first time that everything has already been done.
Suddenly the boy is twisting. And his leg pops out the window. ‘Look at the wicked Nikes I managed to buy from my project.’ They’re beautiful. They’re red. I look down at my dismal 50c piece.
I remember a street kid who came up to me one day and said: ‘You have to give me money if I make you laugh.’ I looked blankly at him. ‘Because I’m saving up to buy my BMW.’ I laughed. I gave him R2. My first R2 comes like that, the man chuckling as he drops it into my jar.
I get another R1 like this: the window cracks open far enough to let pursed fingers through. ‘Thank you,’ I say. The man grunts sadly. His eyes, staring where his passenger would be, are shifting quickly, as though his sockets are oiled. The window snaps shut. It’s horrible. What’s a new pair of Nikes really worth?
I have R3.50. I’m about 1/200th of the way to a bottom-of-the-range pair of Nikes. And it’s getting ugly. The laughing I can handle. I’m trying to be funny. I know that I don’t really need the money. It’s the glares I can’t take. One man accelerates as I pass in front of his bumper. Through the windscreen, his face shows undiluted hatred. Clearly there are a lot of peopl out there who think I don’t need new Nikes.
‘I need new Nikes,’ I say to a young guy driving a Toyota Tazz. He turns his Oakleyed eyes to me.
‘Don’t we all,’ he sighs.
I retire. I take my R3.50 and give it to Grace, the woman selling Homeless Talk. She smiles and gently claps her hands. Thank you. I feel guilty about stealing the limelight at her corner all morning, so I give her R20. She hugs me, squealing like the grand-prize winner on the Coca-Cola Mega Millions game show.
We don’t need new Nikes. What we need is perspective. What we need is to know what we need.