I’m tired, groggy, and agitated that the lines at Starbucks are quadrupled since the start of the school semester, and my favorite barista girl has quit. My head still hurts a little bit in combination of the hangover from the day prior, and not having a good night’s sleep. And then a guy gets in line behind me, and is on his cell phone, and propagates black stereotypes by speaking as loudly and as animated as he can.
So it’s no surprise that I overhear his conversation; I’m pretty sure people at Piedmont Park could hear what he was saying at this point. But being right in front of him, his words are crystal clear, and I’m trying my best to ignore it until I hear his idea for a business model: A sneaker bar.
A bar that instead of serving drinks, serves shoes. Sneakers. Kicks. Cruisers. Jordans.
And this guy was quite verbally convinced that this kind of business would thrive. I’m envisioning an establishment with classy cherry wood floors, a wooden bar, and bar stools. Behind the counter is a hip-looking black man or woman that looks like Aisha Tyler. Instead of bottles of varying countries, ages and glass shapes, would be stacks and stacks of Nike and Adidas boxes. According to this gentleman, he only wanted the place to have “high-end shit,” like “Air Force Ones and shit.”
No doubt this kind of place would mean the death of Foot Locker and Foot Action and Finish Line and Champ’s Sports. Nevermind the fact that bars are typically places where people hangout and consume things, and I don’t think there are too many people who want to hang out at a sneaker bar and casually buy another pair of shoes every 15 minutes, let alone run the risk of getting hammered on shoes and accidentally wake up in the morning with a pairs of Saucony or Pumas or whoever made the Hakeem Olajuwon shoes, instead of some Air Kobes or the latest Lugz.
I probably had the funniest look on my face when I overheard this conversation. The girl at the counter greeted me warmly when she thought I was smiling at her, when I was really just trying to hold back my laughter while I ordered. When I walked out of Starbucks, I bust out laughing at the absurdity of what I had just listened to.
“Excuse me sir, could I have a pair of the 1992 Jordans, with a splash of the 1996 Penny Hardaways?”
Right here is where I’d say if a sneaker bar were to ever open, let alone become successful, I’d do something humiliating and something I really, really don’t want to do, but considering what culture manages to amaze me with on a fairly regular basis, I’m going to have to refrain. Shoe freaks are already stupid enough to plunk down $300 every year for the latest Air Jordans, so it wouldn’t be that surprising if the concept of a sneaker bar actually takes off and comes to fruition.
