Tyrus The Foot Corn

Back in my early twenties, I worked at a shoe store with this guy named Tyrus—big dude, loud laugh, and feet that could clear a room. He was obsessed with his foot corn, which he’d nicknamed “Tyrus the Foot Corn” like it was his proudest achievement. It was this gnarly, yellowish lump on his big toe, hard as a rock and always peeking out of his socks. He’d prop his foot up on the break room table, peeling at it with a grin, saying, “Look at my little buddy—he’s growing up so fast!” The smell hit you like a wall: sour, cheesy, with a hint of wet gym bag. I’d choke on my sandwich and beg him to stop, but he’d just cackle.