Discalced

The word “discalced” comes from the latin, discalceātus, meaning “unshod,” or “shoeless.”

And so it was that a friend wrote me recently to celebrate the fact that we will no longer be required to remove our shoes at TSA airport check-ins. Huzzah!

I remember when that all began.

In the wake of 911, some nutcase showed up at an airport with a wire leading from his sock, connected to… nothing. In the end it didn’t matter that it was connected to nothing. The fact that it might have / could have been connected to something, (an explosive something) was all that really mattered. Overnight, all of us — old, infirm, man, woman, child, and space alien — were removing our shoes at airport security, spreading our cheeks for strangers to have a look. Nope, nuthin’ up there beyond the odd gerbil or hairbrush. Maybe a lost sock or two.

This madness continued until its recent reversal. (Please, don’t anyone get any funny prankster ideas. Leave the wires at home and keep our shoes on.)

But it has all got me thinking about shoes, and lack thereof, which brings me to…

Once upon a time, in the port of Odessa, in a land called Ukraine, before the present day madness…

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As performers on cruise ships, we musicians were considered “merchant marines” allowing us to ramble on our own, without escort, in the old Soviet Union. This was at a time when the Wall was showing cracks, but had not yet crumbled. Passengers could only set foot in the old USSR in sanctioned, tightly controlled tours, lead by friendly (KGB?) authorized guides, so wandering on one’s own in Crimea felt like a peek behind the Wizard’s Iron Curtain. Even so, one always felt “eyes” upon them, watching, real, or imagined, a niggling feeling of small hairs standing up on the back of one’s neck. It felt dangerous and sexy. Naughty. Forbidden.

As I walked down a street near the port of Odessa, a barefoot fellow came flying through a plate glass window, landing at my feet, which for some odd reason made a crowd of onlookers laugh. Odd custom, I thought, as the fellow picked himself up amidst broken shards of glass. All I could think was, be careful! That’s broken glass you’re standing in barefoot! Then the man said something that got an even bigger laugh. That’s when I noticed a film crew hiding in the shadows. I must’ve looked an English-speaking foreigner, because suddenly there was a guy standing next to me speaking heavily accented English.

“Don’t vorry,” the man said, “ees not real. Ees famous comedian making, how you call, com-mer-she-ul.” Could this be the invisible KGB agent assigned to keep an eye on me, the American devil, walking around like he owned the place? I smiled, managed a small laugh, and thanked the apparatchik.

The window with break-away glass belonged to what looked to be a department store. Figuring it might be interesting to see the inside of an eastern-bloc Bloomingdale’s, I went in. Any resemblance to Bloomies instantly evaporated. The pickings were slim. Beyond slim. Anemic. Bored, gray women stood around with little or nothing to sell. I took a rickety elevator to the top floor to work my way down. A long line of hopeful shoppers was cued up at what looked to be a refrigerated meat case, the kind you’d find in a butcher shop. I looked to see what was on offer. Several people were in-line waiting for exactly two items. A pair of black nylons with a sexy bead running down the back, and… I kid you not… a scrawny soup chicken, with some pin-feathers still attached, displayed side-by-side in the otherwise empty case. I don’t think the case was refrigerated so the nylons might’ve contained a whiff of raw chicken. One lucky shopper would have soup that night; another, lingerie. If the purchaser was lucky enough to buy both, he might have a bird cooked by a woman wearing an apron over black stockings.

At that moment, the elevator opened and the barefoot comedian from the film shoot poked his head out and called something to the sales attendant, who answered, eliciting a huge laugh from the line of shoppers. Was everybody in on this? I looked around and saw no cameras, when who should appear at my side, but my smiling KGB agent / translator!

“He says,” nodding to the comedian actor, “ees thees no-shoes department?” And other man says, “No, thees is no-pants department. No-shoes department ees on second floor.”

I’d seen enough for one day. I exited the store leaving the chicken, the nylons, the shoeless comedian all behind, feigning nonchalance while walking purposefully away. I glanced behind occasionally. Neither the shoeless comedian or my KGB translator followed. Too bad. Back on board ship, the poolside buffet borscht was excellent that day. They might have agreed.

Bear feet versus…

… bare feet.

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Then there was the time…

… a drummer from my youth in Pittsburgh, HB Bennett, was taking the plunge, the first of our generation of young lions to make the move to the Big Apple. New York City. Mike and I drove up with him as help and moral support. We drove at night with puffs of this and snorts of that to pass the trip pleasant. Early in the morning, sleepless, zonked and excited, we arrived at his new digs in Brooklyn. HB would be joining a household of musicians already living there, paving the way for his entry into the competitive marriage of making jazz and rent in NYC. These roommates included Eric Leeds’ big brother, Alan, who went on to a top-notch career in music management; one that included James Brown and Prince. After introductions and off-loading HB’s stuff, everybody settled in for a hang.

Everybody except me. For some reason, possibly fueled by substances and youthful sleepless energy, I wandered off, unnoticed, drawn into the near-distance of the Brooklyn Bridge, not knowing or caring that I had no shoes on. Discalced Alki.

The Brooklyn Bridge is massive. Even at distance, its size can fool you into thinking it’s closer than it is. And so I walked. And walked. Barefoot in the toxic, dangerous streets, littered with germs, bodily fluids, dog feces, and broken glass, enthralled by the wonder of it all, delirious by life’s adventure and sleep deprivation. I walked to the bridge and seeing no good reason to stop, I didn’t.

And so I crossed it. On the Manhattan side I turned right, passing by City Hall, heading up Broadway, because it was a recognizable street name, and thus, a reasonable thing to do. Not the only barefoot person on the streets of New York, no-one gave me a second look. Passing Macy’s, I felt right at home. I’d seen MIRACLE ON 34TH STREET. Santa wasn’t around but other than that, things were going great! Eight blocks north was Times Square with all that it offered in the grittiest heyday of its grittiest days. I continued north, when what should appear before me but an oasis? The green sanctuary of a park. Central Park.

By now, I must’ve been feeling a little tired so I lay down in a great greensward called the Sheep’s Meadow. I fell asleep instantly, my face pressed into a cool grass pillow. There were no sheep in the Sheep’s Meadow, and none to be counted in sleep. When I awoke, hours later, I was done in, feeling like three layers of a shit cake, disoriented, hungry, with no idea where I was or how I got there. And… shoeless. Around this time it dawned on me that maybe my pals might be wondering where I’d gotten to. I exited at 72nd street by a castle right out of a Vincent Price horror movie. A spooky, formidable edifice called The Dakota.

That’s when I knew I must still be sleeping because across the street I saw John Lennon and Yoko Ono, walking, hand-in-hand, almost like they lived there. I rubbed my eyes but they refused to disappear. I knew I must be hallucinating. Later, when I recounted this vision to my friends, they didn’t believe me either. None of us yet knew that the famous couple did live there, at the Dakota, along with Lenny Bernstein and Rosemary’s Baby.

By the greatest stroke of luck, on a crumpled piece of paper in a sweaty pocket I found the phone number for the Brooklyn house. Cell phones had not yet been imagined, but pay phones were ubiquitous. I dropped a quarter and Alan answered. Frantic, his voice strained with worry, he asked where I was. “Uh, let me see,” I said. “Looks like Central Park West, and 72nd St.”

“Okay,” he said, “here’s what I want you to do.” Giving me directions he instructed me to walk down to the Carnegie Deli, 7th Ave., across from a world-famous Music Hall sharing its name. “By the time you get there, I’ll meet you.”

Alan was good to his word. Standing outside the iconic deli, my yenta waited, more relieved than angry. “Stand behind me,” he said, entering. “Two,” Alan said, engaging the hostess’s attention so she never looked down at my bare, blackened feet. I tucked them discretely away while tucking into a bowl of sour pickles an old waiter had set down. I’m not sure, but I think it might’ve been Bernie Sanders. Starving, those pickles remain to this day the best thing I ever put in my mouth. Alan’s largesse, my Jewish angel, bought me my first of many deservedly world-famous Carnegie Delicatessen corned beef sandwiches. I ate like a starving sadhu.

After fressing, my savior Alan stood me to my first subway ride “home,” back to Brooklyn. Somehow, miraculously, I’d made it there and back, shoeless, without puncturing my blistered, filthy feet.

Alan Leeds is a very cool cookie. How cool? Well, he never even asked me how, or why, I’d done what I’d done. He understood. For him, it was enough that he’d found me and brought me home. There were no sheep in the Sheep Meadow that day. But there had been a shepherd.

CODA - Feeding my penchant for “light play”, I offer these three short videos, shot in my ol’ pal, Bettie’s, carriage-house cottage behind Kathi and Tim’s place in Brat, VT. Shan and I wandered this way, this week, for too few days trying to see too many people. But any time in VT is time well spent. You may remember Bettie from a previous Substack piece I wrote about her a while back, BETTIE, posted May 11, 2025. I think she resides in these light visions.

Hey. Thanks for stopping by. See ya’ next week. - I am Alki