Thaddeus

I was just talking to myself in the kitchen when I looked to my left and saw a pair of feet with a blue sock and a black sock on walk by. I didn't get to see the body. When I said hello, no one answered. I would have been surprised if someone did. I live alone. No wife, no kids, not even a goldfish. My flat is on the top floor of an eight floor brownstone; it’s a walkup. I’m fairly certain even the rats digging through trash cans in the alley below wouldn’t climb those flights without getting lightheaded from the lack of oxygen at that height.

I have to admit, I didn't think much more about the stocking feet and went on talking to myself. The topic was a greasy burger or a dry salad. I pulled the ground steak from the refrigerator when I saw the feet again out of the corner of my eye. I’d remembered my Mom telling me Grandpa was dotty because he was old and had “hardening of the arteries.” I put the meat back in the frig and grabbed the fixings for a salad.

Later that night, I’d fallen asleep watching a ball game. It was a boring game. I woke with a start when I heard footfalls in the kitchen. As they say, third time was the charm. It was time I investigated those feet. As I approached, I saw the blur of blue and black run under the table. I still hadn’t seen who was attached to them. They could have belonged to a neighborhood kid from another building. By this time,  I started talking to myself again. I was rationalizing with myself that with three dead bolt locks that often kept me out, a child couldn't have just snuck into the apartment without me knowing it. Although a child could open any child-proof cap the pharmaceutical industry came out with, I began to doubt myself.  I looked under the table and saw the feet. They were too big to be a child’s feet. It was possible they belonged to a teenager, but, I told myself, I would see a body attached to those feet.

I remember a time when my Saturday nights were spent at the corner tavern with a group of friends. Instead, I sat on the floor looking at a set of feet wearing a blue sock and a black sock. I leaned forward and squinted at those feet. Upon a closer look, I recognized those socks!

“See here,” I cried. “You’ve my socks! Come out this instant.”

To my surprise, a diminutive little man, with incredibly large feet, emerged from under the table. He pulled off the socks and handed them to me. I’d rattled off a string of questions to help me understand exactly who he was and what the devil he was doing under my table. He had quite a tale to tell.

His name was Thaddeus. He was a gnome. He was in the middle of doing his job when I had inadvertently carried him up eight flights of stairs to my kitchen by way of a laundry bag. He’d been dashing about the kitchen trying to find an escape route. The poor little fella. I gave him the socks and gave directions to the Laundromat I frequent.

Thaddeus, you see, is the little gnome who grabs your socks, giving you that odd sock every wash day.