Obama Took My VFFs (But Gave Them Back)

I had a dream last night, a very odd dream. Normally, during the course of any individual night, my dreams center around awesome things, including but not limited to: zombies, swords, flying for no reason, and dragons. But last night was a dream of a different flavor. I dreamt that President Barack Obama stole my Vibram Five Fingers.

It was a dark and stormy night (as most nights told in recollection are). I was sitting in my bedroom that had been turned so from attic space. The rain tapped an incoherent song on the hexagonal window on the far wall. Under the spotlight made from my reading lamp I sat, idly turning the pages of a novel that had no rememberable name.

The door bell rang.

Placing the novel face down on my desk, I stood up; the gilded lettering on its spine glared briefly and spotted my vision. The rest of the house was dark, save for intermittent sparks of white from the lightning outside; long shadows jumped up and down the walls. From the front door a silhouette stood dark in the diamond shaped window. The bell rang again.

Nervous, I flipped on the vestibule light and opened the door. The figure stepped forward into the light.

“Hello citizen. I am President Barack Obama.”

My eyes still adjusting, the figure quickly took shape. Sure enough, no other than our commander-in-chief stood at my doorstep. Outside two other dark figures loomed menacingly in the grass, each touching one hand to their ears and mumbling inaudible words from time to time.

“Come in,” I motioned. The President wiped his feet on the mat, but otherwise was dry as a bone. “Please have a seat,” I said. He sat in an upright chair in the living room. “So what brings you to these neck of the woods?”

We conversed for a time, but I never did fully ascertain the reason for him stopping at my house. His head turned towards the shoe rack near the door. “What are these?” he asked, pointing to my Vibrams.

I gave the answer I give most people when they ask that question: “Shoes.”

“Is that so?” The President stood up to inspect them closer. “Do you mind if I try them on?” When the most powerful man in the world asks you if they can try on your shoes, the proper response is to let them.

For whatever reason, the shoes fit. He stood in the vestibule, shifting his weight from side to side. “These are comfy,” he boasted.

“Yes they are,” I re-boasted. Smitten with his newfound discovery, the President walked in a few circles around the house, expounding on their comfort and flexibility which echoed through the empty halls. He soon made his way back into the living room. “Well, citizen, it’s been a pleasure.” And with that, he shook my hand, turned, and left.

It was minutes before I realize what had happened. The odd but pleasant feeling of meeting the president and “shooting the shit” with them for about half an hour blinded me to the fact that he had literally walked off with my shoes! On the one hand, the thought of him doing backflips in the Oval Office in my sweet-ass shoes was pretty fun; on the other hand he had taken my sweet-ass shoes!

Unfortunately, I couldn’t really do anything. Who do you call when the president steals your shoes? I resigned myself to pouring a nice drink and making my way back up to my desk when the bell rang again.

“Now who could it be this time? Gorbachev?” I thought. Another shadow stood behind the door. Opening it revealed the answer.

“The President would like to apologize for the accidental removal of your footwear,” said a man dressed in black, complete with shades. He held out a box in his hand. Inside the box were my Vibrams; they were soggy, but they’d seen worse. “He also told me to give you this,” the man said, extending his hand for a bro-filled fist bump. He then turned on his heel and began to walk. A flash of lightning brought the neighborhood into daylight, the reflecting darkness engulfed the agent; he disappeared.

“Right on,” I said. “…Right on.”