The Compleat Steve :: By Steve :: Miscellany



		By Steve :: Miscellany :: Cruel Shoes This was Steve's first book. It contained a number of short absurd pieces that are not easily classified. The very first version was a handmade limited edition of 750 published by Victoria Dailey, otherwise known as the Press of the Pegacycle Lady. This first edition is very odd looking since the cover is just pale paper over pressboard and only contains 48 pages. It does not contain all of the bits in the trade version of the book which came out in 1979. Steve personally numbered each book in ink in the back. These same bits were also published in Playboy. You can still find copies of the trade versions for sale on ebay.com or in used bookstores.
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	Cruel Shoes by Steve Martin A collection of short stories. [1] Introduction My Uncle's Metaphysics Demolition of Cathedral at Chartres The Confessions of Raymond to His Goldfish The Boring Leading the Bored Cruel Shoes The Bohemians Serious Dogs The Diarrhea Gardens of El Camino Real Turds The Undertakers [2] The Day the Dopes Came Over The Smokers She Had The Jugs Sex Crazed Love Goddesses Women Without Bones The Children Called Him Big Nose Wrong Number Morse and the Naughty Magnets Dynamite King The Gift of the Magi Indian Giver Poodles... Great Eating Shuckin' the Jive How To Fold Soup [3] The Vengeful Curtain Rod Cows In Trouble The Complete Works of Alfredo Francesi Society In Aspen The Day the Buffalo Danced. Things Not To Be No Man's Land Oh Mercy, The Prose-Poem Tryptch! Comedy Events You Can Do Dr. Fitzkee's Lucky Astrology Diet The Morning I Got Out of Bed What to Say When the Ducks Show Up [4] The Year Winter Lasted Nine Minutes The Almaden Summer The Nervous Father Dogs In My Nose Awards Rivers of the Dead When Men Shop The Last Thing On My Mind Acknowledgements
	[Introduction] You are walking down a country road. It is a quiet afternoon. You look up and far, far down the road you see someone walking toward you. You are surprised to have noticed someone so far away. But you keep walking, expecting nothing more than a friendly nod as you pass. He gets closer. You see he has bright orange hair. He is closer- a white sating suit spotted with colored dots. Closer-a painted white face and red lips. You and he are fifty yards apart. You, and a full-fledged clown holding a bicycle horn are twenty yards apart. You approach on the lonely country road. You nod. He honks and passes.
	My Uncle's Metaphysics My Uncle was the one who developed and expounded a system of cosmology so unique and unexpected, that it deserves to be written down; his papers were destroyed by fire. I am reconstructing his philosophy from memory as he told it to me on my birthdays and other such holidays. We would be sipping lemonade, perhaps, and he would begin to rock and peer at the sky on those cool afternoons, and with a slow drawl, begin to explain in the cleanest logic why the sky existed, why the universe was the total of all information yet unknown, and how each star in every galaxy could be plotted and predicted by a three dimensional number system. Then he would explain to me his numerical device called random mathematics, where any equation could be unbalanced for any reason that existed. With it, he predicted to the minute the gestation period of the white giraffe. As the afternoon rolled on, he fluently spoke philosophy and lost all inhibitions of language, explaining complex ideas with gestures, it seemed. He expressed how sorry he was I had ever heard the word God, and then said something about M39. (Later I discovered that this was a method of numbering the galaxies.
	Demolition of The Cathedral at Chartres Mr. Rivers was raised in the city of New York, had become involved in construction and slowly advanced himself to the level of crane operator for a demolition company. The firm had grown enormously, and he was shipped off to France for a special job. He started work early on Friday and, due to a poorly drawn map, at six-thirty one morning in February began the demolition of the Cathedral at Chartres. The first swing of the ball knifed an arc so deadly that it tore down nearly a third of a wall and the glass shattered almost intones, and it seemed to scream over the noise of the engine as the fuel was pumped in the long neck of the crane that threw the ball through a window of the Cathedral at Chartres. The aftermath was complex and chaotic, and Rivers was allowed to go home to New York, and he opened up books on the Cathedral and read about it and thought to himself how lucky he was to have seen it before it was destroyed.
	The Confessions of Raymond to His Goldfish Sometimes I find myself gazing away. Often it's sudden and in the most interesting company. Then I return to the eyes and the words traversing the room. But in that moment of time, the soul of me is exalted and weeping and gazing, gazing. I'm worried. Perhaps unconcerned with the most interesting people, I shall waste away, neglecting to feed you or speak as I pass, or I shall sit in stoned solace before a picture on a wall, a picture that has plunged me back onto a sofa. Fish, to let you know, if I am ever fixed on a point in space, and your bowl should sliver or crack and break across this floor, my mind will see you in slow motion edging across the table and onto your downward fight to the ground, I shall stand up and shriek and rush to you and find the water to save you.
	The Boring Leading the Bored (Reprinted from "Boredom" Magazine) "Well, I never!" said Mrs. Watkins. The meeting of the College Council on Metaphysics the applauded her and stood up cheering. Of course, some of the old-school existentialists humbugged it, but nevertheless, the response was overwhelmingly positive. Then Mrs. Jenkins shouted over the crowd, "That woman never ceases to amaze me." The logicians and semanticists gloated and looked anxiously over to the metaphysicians to see their reaction to the carefully planted "never ceases" insertion. Mrs. Jenkins obviously had been working for the logicians to arouse insurrection among the three or four Zeno partisans. But suddenly Dr. Walker, who had been a recluse professor for almost twenty years, stood up. With the crowd instantly silenced by his commanding and unexpected rising, he uttered something so incredibly unutterable, so impossible, so unsolvable, that this mass of philosophy started heaving right and left and dying on the spot, blood bursting from their ears in an astounding death agony.
	Cruel Shoes Anna knew she had to have some new shoes today, and Carlo had helped her try on every pair in the store. Carlo spoke wearily, "Well, that's every pair of shoes in the place." "Oh, you must have one more pair..." "No, not one more pair... Well, we have the cruel shoes, but no one would want..." Anna interrupted, "Oh yes, let me see the cruel shoes!" Carlo looked incredulous. "No Anna, you don't understand, you see the cruel shoes are..." "Get them!" Carlo disappeared into the back room for a moment, then returned with an ordinary shoe box. He opened the lid and removed a hideous pair of black and white pumps. But these were not an ordinary pair of black and white pumps; both were left feet, one had aright angle turn with separate compartments that pointed the toes in impossible directions. The other shoe was six inches long and was curved inward like a rocking chair with a vise and razor blades to hold the foot in place. Carlo spoke hesitantly, "... Now you see why... they're not fit for humans..." "Put them on me." "But..." "Put them on me!" Carlo knew all arguments were useless. He knelt down before her and forced the feet into the shoes. The screams were incredible. Anna crawled over to the mirror and held her bloody feet up where she could see. "I like them." She paid Carlo and crawled out of the store into the street. Later that day, Carlo was overheard saying to a new customer, "Well, that's every shoe in the place. Unless, of course, you'd like to try the cruel shoes."
	The Bohemians Were they rebels? Were they artists? Were they outcasts from society? They were all of these. They were The Bohemians. These Bohemians, Mr. and Mrs. Clarence Williams, and their seven children, Biff, Tina, Sparky, Louise, Tuffy, Mickey, and Biff Number Two, lived in a notorious artist's colony and planned community. Naturally, the bohemian's existence thrived on creativity. Early in the morning, Mrs. Williams would rise and create breakfast. Then, Mr. Williams, inspired by his wife's limitless energy, would rush off to a special room and create tiny hairs in a sink. The children would create things, too. But being temperamental artists, they would often flush them away without a second thought. But the bohemians' creativity didn't stop there. Mr. Williams would then rush off downtown and create reams and reams of papers with numbers on them and send them out to other Bohemians who would create special checks to send to him with figures like $7.27written on them. At home, the children would be creating unusual music, using only their voices to combine in avant-garde, atonal melodies. Yes, these were the bohemians. A seething hot-bed of rebellion-the artists, the creators of all things that lie between good and bad.
	Serious Dogs I had always thought dogs to be playful and spirited; to me they were animals who loved to chase sticks and romp around and lick you. That is, I used to think that, until that day I met the serious dogs. When I first saw the serious dogs, they were sitting on a small hill out to the side of my house watching the sunset. One dog was standing on his hind legs, leaning his elbow on a tree, lost in melancholy thought. They all watched this particularly glorious sunset, then each sighed in turn and strolled in a pack over the hill. Were these the dogs I had thrown bones to for the last several months? These day-dreamers? Several days later I saw the serious dogs lunching under the willow. They were not gulping their food down like Spritzie does; they seemed almost refined. After dining they buried their trash, cleaned themselves up, and disappeared over the horizon. I waited half an hour and then took my shovel over to that willow and dug up what they had buried there: several wrappers of cheese, some half-eaten doggie biscuits, and Good Lord! . . . two empty bottles of fairly expensive Bordeaux! I turned, confused, and saw a small pamphlet lying on the ground. I picked it up and read the title, "Federal Migratory Waterfowl Stamps." "Well," I thought, "some poor stamp collector left his book here. . ." Just then, one of the serious dogs appeared and gently took the volume from my hands and padded off. I stopped. This was something more than just some dogs who didn't like to play fetch. I decided to secretly follow this dog. I laid about a hundred yards back and watched him. I was impressed with his courtesy to other animals and his compulsion to leave his pathway neat. If a branch had fallen over he would right it; if leaves had blown over this trail, he would brush them back onto less traveled ground. Then I saw him crawl through an opening in some thick brush. As I approached, I could hear the sounds of other dogs moving lightly. I moved toward the opening and cautiously peered through. I could see a few dogs staring intently at something, as though studying it. I could not make out exactly what it was so I moved in closer. I was sure not to make my presence known. As I parted some branches in the brush, I saw a most incredibly sight. A fully-constructed skeleton of a cow! The construction was crude to be sure, but, missing only the head and feet, it was well-formed and highly commendable. I remembered throwing them bones now and then, and I could recall several of the dogs seemingly analyze it before accepting it, I looked along the ground and saw several of the books I had thrown out months before. They were well kept and stored upright. Most were reference, but I recognized several of the better novels. Then I noticed some dogs all facing something and sniffing judiciously like connoisseurs would sniff wine. I could not make out what they were looking at as a bush blocked my line of sight. I moved ever so slowly through the underbrush, with such caution that it took me a full ten minutes to travel five feet. Then, with some trepidation, I lifted my eyes at the object of the dogs' curiosity and saw. . . My God! . . . THE LOST MONET!
	The Diarrhea Gardens of El Camino Real Outside San Diego, just across from the old mission, there sits a plot of land of particular beauty, the famous Diarrhea Gardens of El Camino Real. The Diarrhea Gardens were founded in 1573 by mission Indians when they first ate food of the white man. Later, when stuff missionaries tried to rid the Indians of their customs and traditions, the Diarrhea Gardens were spared because their removal was, to quote Father Serra, "piled high with difficulties." When the Gardens were rediscovered in 1952, everyone turned conservationist and did their best to preserve the land for the thousands of tourists they knew would flock their. Even Howard Johnson refused to build a hotel on that spot in order to preserve the land. So, as it often is with areas of rare beauty, the Diarrhea Gardens still lie in the shade of the magnolia trees, and still give their aroma to the wafting sea breezes that head up the coast to San Clemente.
	Turds The Turds never became accepted in this country because of their name. The Turds, or people from Turdsmania, were people of healthy stock. They were tall, with long straight hair; the men robust, the women bold and beautiful. The first Turds arrived on these shores in fifteen eighty-nine, one year after the defeat of the Spanish Armada. They were unjustly blamed for the defeat of the Spanish Fleet when a Spanish admiral remarked, "No wonder we lost, we had a bunch of turds managing our cannons!" When finally in America, they also had trouble with lodgings. Most boarding houses had a sign on the front, "No Turds." The Turdsmen naturally interpreted it to mean, "No people from Turdsmania, please." They consequently felt rejected, as would any turd. Even those who decided to return to Turdsmania had a rough time going back. Once on the bother, they would ask, "Where do the turds stay?" And a mate would innocently reply, "Why, in the can, sir," thinking it was some kind of Navy test. The Turdsmen would spend the rest of the voyage huddled in the men's room. Once back in the homeland, however, their lot became a happier one. Each man and woman could pass each other on the street and proudly say, "I'm a Turd!"
	The Undertakers Old Pops had been stone cold dead for two days. He was rigid, gruesome and had turned slightly green and now he lay on a slab at the undertakers, about to be embalmed by two lovable old morticians. "At least he lived to a ripe age," said one. "Yep," said the other. "Well, let's get to 'er." Suddenly, Old Pops bolted upright and without opening his eyes, began to utter this story: "In 1743, Captain Rice set sail from England with an unreliable and mutinous crew. After three days at sea, the mast of the mainsail splintered, and then broke completely in half. The ship tossed about at sea for two days; the men mutinied, and the ship tossed for another two days. At the end of the third day, a ship appeared on the horizon and rescued them and good Captain Rice failed to mention to the admiral the incident of the mutiny, and his crew became faithful and hard-working and devoted themselves to their captain." Old Pops laid back down on the marble. "Well," said one mortician, "there goes the old saying, 'dead me tell no tales'!"
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