'Twas a cold, rainy September night. Portland's vegetation was stunted on account of the oppressive temperature, but the weather had no effect on commerce in east Multnomah County… the air was ripe with it. Middle-aged, chemically impaired men with unkempt facial hair flocked like swallows to the shop. Sleeping silently in their beds, the owners knew not their shop’s source of revenue.

Taking advantage of the store's liberal exploitation of the thermostat, many men took up residency in the booths that night. When they emerged, they opted for our shop's “to-go” option, renting or buying a film so that they might continue their hedonistic journeys at home. The freezing temperatures outside only served as a vessel from which to temper their desires, much like a skilled blacksmith forging a fine blade.

Later on, when the city lights fade and the streets empty out for most of society, all that's left for a pornsperson to do is to organize one’s wares, occasionally greet the occasional customer, and lavish oneself with Dr. Pepper.

While the shop stood as a beacon of tasteful debauchery, a trading post it was not. The bustling center of currency and sexual goods shifted into something else that night when the door creaked open at 4am.

A drug-addled gentleman ambled towards the counter, gripping a white shoebox under one arm. When he found my platform, he opened his shoebox to reveal a pair of women's Nikes (approximate size: 8; color: purple). He looked at the shoes, then at me. He then raised one eyebrow, anticipating a favorable response.

“Hey there, partner,” said the man. He squinted his eyes as he cleared his throat and coughed, failing to cover his mouth. “You got a girlfriend? These would be perfect for her. I'm lookin' to get ten or twenty bucks for 'em.”

My mind raced as I considered offering him ten dollars, just to thwart his poorly planned sales pitch. However, I had no girlfriend at the time, and my feet were too big to fit into the lilliputian shoes. Even had the shoes been the right size, they were adorned with far too much purple for me to wear them.

Informing him of our strict policy, known as,“Hey, I'm doing the selling here, pal,” I asked that he leave and not return. He obliged — for the moment.

Almost exactly an hour later, the man returned to the shop, this time clutching a much, much bigger white shoebox under his arm with the same fervor as the first box. He struck me as more focused, likely because his last sure-fire plan had backfired. With care, he laid the gargantuan box on the counter and opened it, his eyes meeting mine — his with the glow of a shrewd entrepreneur, mine with a collected, but latently aghast glower.

“How 'bout these, a little more your speed?” he inquired, pointing at the huge Nike basketball shoes (approximate size: 18 plus).

“How about you leave and never come back?” I retorted, pointing at the door with a vitriolic sneer.

“That's a no, huh?” asked the man.

“Get out,” I repeated. He did, both a broken man and a failed shoe peddler.

In tough times, it's important to keep a keen disconnect between that which is a necessity and that which is a luxury. Local businesses are in the throes of death, and many people can no longer afford that which they do not truly need. When a cheap pair of shoes comes along, it is vital that you examine the situation. Does one need a new pair of shoes five or more sizes too big, even if they are cheap and come from a trusted source? I say no. The time for frivolous spending is over. Let us remember the tweaker-couriered goods as a valuable source to consider, but only when we must.