I had a ninth grade English teacher — a dead ringer for Mr. Feeney — who wore these exceptionally pleated pants, so pleated they gave him a pear shape. And he had an aversion to “boy feet,” so in that 1994 heyday of Tevas and Birks he’d go around doing “shoe safety checks.”
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Even back then, I was already missing two entire nails — there’s nothing there — and one day I was wearing some Reef sandals and the teacher took notice and began saying, “yuck yuck, Mr Pink Foot” and thereafter called me “Pinky,” a nickname that didn’t follow me out of the class
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