On the corner of Flatbush and Lenox, a white woman in tattered tie-dye asks you for change.

You shift your brain into manual to size her up. Her face is caked with dirt. On one side of her is a trash bag; on her other side, a dog, a sad-eyed, old mutt whose long experience on Earth seems to be his only leash. They both look hungry, so you hand her some ones.

“That’s all you can spare?” she asks.

You grumble something about the economy.

“For socks,” she says. “Socks. A basic necessity, essential for a foothold on life. But they cost twenty-six dollars. Or $21.80 with code COMFORT20.”

You look at her feet. She’s standing on the sidewalk in socks, but not just any socks, the Muhammad Ali Greatest of All Time socks by Bombas, an anti-microbial, moisture-wicking combination of red, white, and blue long-staple yarn fibers. The stitching on the back spells G.O.A.T.

Coincidentally, you’re wearing the same pair. You wonder if this was the pair that was donated when you bought yours. You would never say this. But you wonder it.

Someplace inside you, a strange mixture of shame and pride brews. That inner place is called your heart, and it is not to be trusted. You bite your tongue.

“I know it sounds like a lot for socks,” the woman says. “But these are the Bombas x Cotopaxi Merino Wool Hiking Calf Socks we’re talking about. A pair of socks like that can be life-changing.”

Life-changing? You imagine a long chain of causes and effects, where the first cause is a new pair of socks. Socks lead to shoes, and shoes lead God-knows-where. If a kingdom can be lost for want of a nail, surely one can be gained for having socks.

She winks. “Invest, and your interest will compound.”

The wink, amid all this apparent misery, is unsettling. Still, you pull out your wallet, quickened by the vague anticipation of sorcery evoked by the words “interest” and “compound.”

“Great! So, twenty-six dollars. Would you like to enter a discount code?”

“Enter?”

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

“Uh, COMFORT20?”

The woman types something in her phone. Though you would never, ever say it, you’re beginning to wonder if she’s actually homeless, or just a hipster. Here in Brooklyn, wealth has imitated its opposite in more fantastical ways.

“Okay, it’s $21.80 minus the three dollars you put down up front, so your total is $18.80. How would you like to pay?”

“All I have is, uh…” Sheepishly, you reach for your debit card. Now you’ll have to find an ATM, and your day will really be derailed. But the well-equipped woman produces a card reader.

“Fear not!” she says. “I have Square.”

She swipes your card then pulls a pair of socks out of the garbage bag next to her. They’re cerulean with complementary streaks of fiery orange. A little gaudy, as far as socks go.

“Enjoy,” she says, but her eyes are already scanning the neighboring sidewalk.

“Wait,” you say. “I thought they were for you.”

“Oh, honey,” the woman says. “I don’t need socks. I’m with the Hive.”

“The what?”

“The Bombas sales team, the Hive. I don’t need socks. I get them for free.”

You narrow your eyes, then look to her dog, but it can’t explain a thing.

“He’s a rental,” says the woman. “We’ve found that incorporating a mangy dog in the pitch increases sales by 12%. Thank God for Google Analytics, am I right?”

“Look, I thought this sale was a donation, alright? Will you just refund me?”

“At Bombas every sale is a donation, and vice-versa, because every Bombas purchase comes with a donation of—”

“More socks. I know how Tom’s Shoes works. But this is fucked up. Give me my money back.”

“Hold on. Before you decide, I think you should see the impact your purchase is having on your local community.”

She grabs another pair of the same socks, bites the tag off, and grenade-lobs it over the traffic on Flatbush Avenue. It lands on the opposite sidewalk, near a camping tent.

A savage light flickers in the saleswoman’s eyes. “This heretofore unfortunate man will awaken to find his fortunes reversed!” she proclaims. “It may be small, but this surprise bundle is one thread in a long-staple yarn of utilitarian good.”

“I want nothing to do with this,” you say.

“Think of the utils!” she says. “And you still haven’t seen your purchase’s impact.”

“You mean they really do explode?”

.     .     .

On the other side of the street, your gut is doing 360s. So many unsaid things knotting themselves inside you. You should leave, you know that, but you can’t. Something binds you to this woman. Is it politeness? Or something less pathetic?

You need to do something good, something concrete, so you pick up a plastic water bottle and silently vow to hold it until you find a recycling bin. The bottle, now a totem, soothes you.

The Hivewoman approaches the camping tent and awkwardly knocks on the flap.

The flap unzips and a hand pokes out, palm open.

“Yes, yes, but first I was hoping you would show your donor how much our socks have changed your life.”

The hand disappears. You hear some grumbling from within, then a man emerges, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Take a look,” the man says. “Not a bad come-up.” He unzips the flap further to reveal an impressive, even monstrous pile of Bombas socks. Each pair is folded into a smooth round shape, filling the tent with bright colors like a children’s ball pit.

“928 pairs,” he says. “I’m boss of this neighborhood. The name’s Brad.”

“Brad is almost to our magic number!” the Bombas rep exclaims. “We make a good team.”

Brad gives you a long, quizzical look.

The Hivewoman interjects, trained to knife through silence. “Oh! I almost forgot!” She goes to get the Bombas x Cotopaxi Merino Wool Hiking Calf Socks from their landing place, but they’re gone.

She purses her lips at Brad in a way that says as-usual-this-is-not-my-fault-but-I’ll-fix-it-anyways and strides off.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Brad squeezes your arm. “Get her out of here,” he says.

“Huh?”

“You too. Leave. The block is too hot now. I’m too hot. People hear I’m loaded, so they come to rob me, but all I have are socks.”

“And socks aren’t worth shit anymore. Everyone around here’s got socks.”

You pause to ponder sock inflation. Maybe socks don’t always lead to shoes.

“It’s getting violent. I warned the saleslady a dozen times, but she won’t listen. She’s not leaving until she sells 1,000 pairs. Apparently, that wins her some big bonus.”

In the distance, the Hivewoman pulls the blue and orange socks off an elderly woman’s feet.

“Why does she only give them to you?” you ask.

“I’m more at-risk than Francesca over there. That means even more bonus for Miss Busy Bee.”

You stare at Brad for a moment. His expression seems to hold back a great deal of emotion. Restraint, you feel, is his default state. Meanwhile, some inner wound festers in your chest, threatening to eat its way out.

“Please,” he says. “Just get her out of here. I don’t want her to get hurt.”

The Hivewoman returns with the socks neatly balled up. “The feet of the unhoused are the lynchpin of the System,” she announces, tossing Brad the socks. He adds them to the pile.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” you ask her.

You and the Hivewoman walk far enough away that you can pretend Brad doesn’t hear. “I don’t know if this is helping,” you begin.

“Sure it is!” she says. “Bombas is doing great. I’m doing great. We’re all doing great.”

“Well, actually you’re ruining Brad’s life. Do you realize the danger you’ve put him in?”

“Brad is one person. And what he does with the socks once we donate them is not up to Bombas. What’s important is that the business is helping people. Bombas gives consumers the gift of guilt-free purchasing. Everyone wants to buy things, but no one wants to think about all the icky things that had to happen for them to be able to buy them. Do you think all that stress is good for society? Better to spread positive emotions, to focus on the feet you’re warming. It’s a relief for millions.”

“You might not see this, but you’re in danger too.”

She looks over at Brad. He’s building what appears to be a chair out of socks. “We’re so close to 1,000,” she says.

“But you can give the socks to anyone. If people actually want socks your job shouldn’t be hard.”

“Well news flash: they don’t. But I work in Distribution. Manufacturing demand is Advertising’s cross to bear. Anyways, my answer to you is No. Now run along to your moral high ground. You’re interrupting my work.”

When you return to Brad, he has finished his sock chair. Now he’s tying socks into a long, brightly-colored chain.

“I figured,” he says. “Well, we tried.”

In a way, you’re proud of yourself. You did try. Usually, you avoid conflict. At least, that’s what you tell people—you call yourself conflict-averse—though privately you’re not sure what exactly qualifies as conflict. You wonder if there was any more you could do, and this time, you wonder aloud.

“Nope,” says Brad, tying one end of the chain to a streetlight, another to a No Parking sign. “Well actually,” he adds. “It would help if you left.”

On your way out, you see him kick his tent over. Underneath it, the “chair” is tied into the middle of the sock chain and loaded with a dozen balled up socks. It’s a giant slingshot.

The first shot peppers a neighbor’s tent with a barrage of red, white, and blue socks. The tent collapses. A man yells. Now, sock slingshots appear all over the block, some encamped on rooftops and balconies. High-powered socks fly in every direction. It’s all-out war for the block. Slingshots shoot on slingshots and pedestrians alike. Brad blasts a hole through a Starbucks window, and the Starbucks launches holiday socks back at him. The Hivewoman takes a pair to the ribs, gasping. She ducks behind a Volkswagen.

“Told ya I’m boss around here!” shouts Brad, whose slingshot is definitely the biggest.

You run like hell, car alarms mixing in with the dull thuds of merino wool on glass.

When you make it to safety, you’re relieved to find, in a small alley beside a Nike store, a recycling bin. Finally, you can let go of that water bottle.

Some time later, weeks or maybe months, you pass by the block again. Glass still litters the sidewalks. Cars still honk. But though the storefronts are fixed, the people are gone. What remains of their presence is a spiderweb of community seen from above: coats passed from cold back to cold back bridging the gaps between cardboard pallets, tents standing resilient, doubled over their stakes like only the wind was knocked out of them—and, connecting all of that, a rainbow threading of sock chains, wet and weathered and draped across everything, reaching out for one another like boxers in the twelfth, desperate for embrace.

When the fight is gone, what’s left looks a lot like love.

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