The Man Who Invented Socks: A Short Story

This is a work of fiction.

Little Georgie Jennings and his best friend Wilbur Nelson sat quietly on the monkey bars during recess, like they did every day, eating their sandwiches. Georgie and Wilbur could not be bothered by hide-and-seek, tag, or. red rover. They were focused on the bigger picture in life. What Wilbur did not know is Georgie was about to tell the most epic (yet completely false and historically inaccurate) tale of innovation, violence, revenge and success.

“Did you know my great great great grandfather invented socks?” Georgie uttered.

“No he didn’t” Wilbur snapped.

“He did, and I have the story to prove it” said Georgie.

Wilbur conceded “Alright, well I don’t think I believe you, but clearly I have nothing else going on so I’ll bite. Please tell me how your great great grandfather invented socks.”

“Great great great” Georgie said.

“What?” said Wilbur

“He was my great great great grandfather.” Georgie exclaimed. “You said great great grandfather.”

“Just tell the stupid story.” Wilbur shouted.

It was 1873 in the small Western town of Canyon Diablo, Arizona. Canyon Diablo was no ordinary town, it was the meanest town in the Old West. Originally a railroad town connecting to a bridge that was never built, Canyon Diablo was a hotspot for outlaws to run wild and live a life of debauchery and degeneracy. Canyon Diablo was such a hellish landscape, the main road was called Hell St.

“Wait” Wilbur interrupted “Did you just look up meanest Wild West towns, and are now regurgitating what you read?”

“No.” said Georgie.

“Whatever” said Wilbur as he took a bite of his salami and cheese. “Keep going.”

Residing in Canyon Diablo was none other than my great great great grandfather Waylon Jennings.

“Like the country singer?” Wilbur interrupted again.

“Unfortunately no relation.” Georgie responded. “If we were related I sure as shit wouldn’t be sitting on the monkey bars every day eating sandwiches with you. No offense.”

“None taken, I guess.” Wilbur said.

“Now please save all questions for the end. I want to get through the story before recess is over.” Georgie exclaimed.

Wilbur did a zipping motion over his mouth (throwing away the key of course), indicating a green light for Georgie to continue his tale.

Waylon had a problem. He was no outlaw. He was just a simple ditch rider. Every day he avoided shootouts, robberies, fights, and other general mayhem. Unfortunately for him, Canyon Diablo was the only place he could stay. He didn’t have enough money for a horse, and the stagecoach wouldn’t travel outside the town line, which in hindsight makes for an awful business model. Like does he only take you from one saloon to another? The town wasn’t very big so who is even traveling with this guy? Anyway, I’m getting off track. The main problem facing Waylon wasn’t his money troubles. It was the fact that he couldn’t even walk to a better place because his feet were so worn out from wearing his boots all day with no protection. You see, in 1870 there were no socks. You’re probably thinking, “Weren’t socks created by the Ancient Greeks as early as 1500 BC?” The answer is no. That is a very common misconception. The truth is the Ancient Greeks only invented the idea of socks, but those very same Greeks were executed for heresay because the Greeks believed that comfort and safety was an affront to their Gods. The story of the executed Greeks carried on for thousands of years and spread like wildfire. People of all races, religions and creeds believed in the superstition that wearing socks was sacrilege. Imagine every major historical event. Now imagine them with no socks. The bloodshed of the Civil War, the beauty of a William Shakespeare play, the creation of the United States, all with foot to leather contact.

Waylon knew that something needed to change. He could not bear another day in this Hell they call Canyon Diablo. That’s when it hit him. What if there was a way to mend the pain and blisters on his feet, just enough to give him the strength to walk his ass away from Canyon Diablo. Luckily for him there was a way. Socks.

Waylon’s wife Margret was a highly skilled seamstress, so one day after lugging water to the farm just off of Hell St., Waylon pitched his idea to Margret.

“Maggie, honey?” Waylon said.

“Hello Waylon. How was your day?” Maggie yelled from the kitchen, which was also the dining room, living room, and bedroom.

“It was dog shit, what do you think? I lug water across town all day. Running water has not been invented yet and it SUCKS! My feet are killing me! I was robbed twice, shot at thrice, and I don’t know how much more I can take! But I do love you and appreciate you for asking. How was your day?” Waylon said.

“It was fine. Sewed a dress.” Maggie said.

Waylon sat down at the table and pried his boots off. The smell coming from his feet was foul. They were used to it though, remember, no socks.

That is when Waylon mustered up the courage to pitch his idea to his dear wife.

“Now, Maggie, I had an idea today, but you might think I’m crazy.” Waylon said “What if we shear the coat off of Gregory (yeah the sheep is named Gregory) and use the wool to make a sort of shell for my feet to protect them from my boots the elements?” Waylon pitched.

Maggie gasped and nearly passed out.

“I know what you’re thinking Maggie, but haven’t you had enough of the bloodshed in Canyon Diablo?” Waylon continued.

Maggie begins to gather herself to conjure up a response.

“You want to make socks?” Margret whispered.

“SHHH” Waylon interrupts. “Somebody might hear you. If we do this, it’s gotta be top secret.”

Margret responded “What is God going to think?”

Waylon squinted and looked off into the distance… For some reason.

“We’ve lived in Canyon Diablo for 15 years. There is no God.” Waylon said.

Maggie nodded solemnly. She agreed to make the socks. After some tinkering with the design process, Maggie and Waylon eventually landed on a primitive version of the modern day tube sock. Maggie began working to sew or knit or crochet or whatever you do to make socks. She made a pair for Waylon and herself. That was their ticket out of town. Unfortunately for the couple, this process took about a month to complete and execute. Even worse for the couple, word travels fast in a small town.

Waylon and Maggie began their journey up North to get as far away from Canyon Diablo as they could. They packed their belongings and left. Right as they approached Hell St. they were stopped by a gang of masked men. Waylon was no stranger to this gang. He could recognize the Dirty Water Boys from a mile away. The leader of the gang, Ol’ Shooty McClain approached them.

“Now just where in the hell do you two think you’re going?” Shooty asked.

“Who? Us?” Waylon asked back as he looked around.

“I don’t see any other dead men walking on Hell St.” Shooty snapped.

“Now please don’t get mad at what I am about to say Mr. McClain, but there are several corpses over by that horse hitch.” Waylon uttered.

“Oh shut the hell up Waylon. You know damn well I was talking to you. We know about your little “invention” alright? Word gets around and now you and your pretty little wife are gonna have to answer for your sins!” Shooty yelled. “You and me are gonna have a good old fashioned duel on Hell St.! Just like in the movies!”

The rest of the Dirty Water Boys began cheering and whooping. The townsfolk quickly poured out of the general stores, saloons, and brothels.

“What the fuck is a movie?” Waylon asks, but it’s too late. Shooty McClain is already lined up, dangling his fingers around his holster, waiting for the high noon bell.

Waylon begrudgingly waddled into place. He stood there, shaking in his boots.

As he anticipated his almost certain death, he heard a sharp crack, then an echo, then nothing at all. When he opened his eyes he saw the townsfolk in shock, as Shooty McClain’s lifeless body slammed against the dirt, creating a cloud of blood dust. This was the work of a rival gang, Four Eyed Frank’s Posse. The town broke out into utter bedlam, bullets flew, bodies dropped, blood sprayed. The cloud of gun smoke created the perfect diversion for Maggie and Waylon to make a break for it. They ran and they ran until they arrived at the nearest train station. They snuck onto the train headed for Denver, Colorado. Denver would be more open to new ideas. The people of Denver were more progressive, thus ending a 3000 year superstition regarding socks. They were home free. Until a mildly sharp dressed man sat across from them on the train. He had a great mustache that curled at the edges. He wore a giant belt buckle and cowboy hat. Waylon had no choice but to break the silence.

“Can I help you mister?” he said.

The man just looked at Waylon and Margret. He then slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a badge. He placed it on the table of the train.

“You know who I am?” the man said.

“No sir. A cop?” Margret responded.

“My name is Walter Jackson. I’m a U.S. Marshall. I came all the way from Lovett, Texas to find you. You are Waylon Jennings, correct?” the Marshall said.

“Yes, sir.” Waylon answered.

“There’s been a bounty placed on your head. Something about betraying your God and countrymen. I could give a shit. The point is I’ve been following you and I’m here to claim the bounty.” the Marshall said.

Waylon shook in his seat. He needed to think fast.

“Okay sir, but may I ask?” Waylon said. “How much is the bounty on my head?”

“$12” the Marshall said, as he pulled out a flyer with Waylons face on it that says “WANTED: DEAD”. (It was 1870. so the drawing was horrible).

“You traveled all the way from Lubbock, Texas to Arizona to claim a $12 bounty on my head? Well Mr. if you spare my life I can get you ten times the amount on that there bounty.” Waylon exclaimed.

“Oh yeah? How?” the Marshall questioned.

“We’re headed to Denver, Colorado with a revolutionary invention that will create wealth for generations to come. I respect lawmen, and would never try to fight. If you spare me today, I will owe you a great debt, and that includes a cut of our profits.” Waylon pleaded.

“Well that sounds mighty enticing young man. I did travel all this way, I sure as shit would like to leave with more than $12.” the Marshall said with a smile. “Say, could you let me in on what the idea is?”

“We’re going to Denver to make and sell… socks.” Waylon said.

The Marshall’s smile disappeared.

“Did you just say socks? SOCKS?! I cannot believe this! I am a God fearin’ good ole boy from Lubbock, Texas and you’re talking about socks?! You must have me mistaken for some heathen, boy! If you thought for a Gotdamn second that I can let this sock nonsense go on in MY great nation you are sorely mistaken! Now you’re gonna have to face judgement! Your day of reckoning has arrived Waylon Jennings!!!” the Marshall screamed as he stood up in the train and emptied his revolver into my great great great grandparents, killing them. The real kicker is the Marshall went on to steal their idea and make billions.

“That whole story was complete bullshit.” Wilbur said.

“Ehh, I call it revisionist history. I think recess is almost over.” Georgie replied.

“Whatever. Same time tomorrow?” asked Wilbur.

“Oh yeah, definitely.” Georgie answered.

The End.

Follow @oneayemm on Instagram!

Thank you all!

-CJ