Thwap-thwap-thwap. Flesh smacking flesh, the familiar, lusty soundtrack of vigorous sexual romps, often accompanied by feral grunts and ecstatic shrieks. In this case, however, the rhythmic thumping did not stem from any sort of carnal activity, alas, but from a far more base source- the detached sole of my left sneaker. And it flapped with every step I took, alerting my presence for a radius of no less than fifty feet. Attempts to ameliorate the situation- staples and Scotch tape, mainly- proved feckless. Ripping the rubber strip off, one clean shot, would render the shoe useless and the cost of another pair greatly exceeded my means. My monthly budget for expenses, after all, was limited to 15 dollars, a paltry sum for the bleakest days of the Depression, let alone a decade before the 21st century. Sadly, I was doomed to spend sophomore year in college, nearly three thousand miles removed from family and friends, with shoddy footwear that watermarked me for poverty as indelibly as a certain crimson letter connoted adultery.

I should never have been there, in Riverside. I had never visited, knew no one in the area, had zero ties whatsoever. The rudimentary act of picking out the medium-sized, medium-bold name on a California map proved to be an onerous chore, akin to fingering a suspect in a police lineup whom you’ve never laid eyes upon. Naturally, I assumed that a prominent river- several, perhaps, like Pittsburgh- weaved scenically through the city. My entire knowledge of Riverside, in fact, consisted of a single, negligible crumb of trivia: Butch Johnson, a wide receiver of my beloved Dallas Cowboys, attended UCR twenty years prior to my arrival. Imagine my disappointment when I learned that the university had disbanded the football program the summer after Butch graduated.

But there I was, traversing the oven baked, smog infested campus in my threadbare sneakers. Thwap-thwap-thwap. And they weren’t alone in deflating my sense of self-worth. A lurid stench of mendicancy clung to my clothes, much like cigarette smoke embeds itself in the attire of a tobacco fiend. My wardrobe was comprised largely of faded, second hand T-shirts and wrinkled cargo shorts riddled with tears and pen marks that endured long stretches of usage. Laundry was a luxury I could not afford, at least not at regular intervals. Any orphaned coins, found or scrounged, were commandeered to supplement the purchase of potatoes, rice, and ramen, the staples of my survival. A destitute outsider in a strange, balmy land, I abandoned all hope of a social life and focused relentlessly on my studies.

To combat my grinding impecunity, I secured a job at a UPS sorting plant, two and a half miles from campus. There, every weekday morning from 3 to 7, I unloaded a steady stream of boxes- some weighing upwards of 50 pounds- emptying one truck after another, clanging the packages onto a ceaselessly moving conveyor belt. My daily ritual consisted of waking up at 2, taking a quick shower that doubled as a caffeine substitute, showing a raw potato in the microwave (7 minutes for ideal softness), and scarfing it down while I intermittently walked and ran through the bone chilling darkness in my overtaxed sneakers. Thwap-thwap-thwap. It was backbreaking work, four hours of constant bending over and lifting, without a respite. When the sun finally peeked through the crags of the San Bernardino mountains, it signaled the last quarter of the shift. Then it was back to campus for an 8 o’clock class, the return trip at least aided with the warmth of sunshine.

Unfortunately, the pay wasn’t nearly sufficient to cover rent, books, and food (and tuition, well, that was covered with a series of bad checks that I’d make good later that summer). Asking my parents, factory laborers in Allentown, Pennsylvania, for any kind of financial assistance was simply not an option. So I took on additional employment at the UCR physical plant. This was where welding and carpentry and masonry and all those blue collar skills learned in shop class were legitimized in real world applications. Skills that were that undoubtedly mocked a mile away by precocious students vying for degrees with far less utility. The hours were 1 to 5 in the afternoon, completing a daily schedule that now ran non-stop from 2am to 5pm. The work was much less laborious than UPS, tidying up the cavernous warehouse being the principal duty. And it was there, during a routine cleaning, that I inadvertently became a criminal.

They were a scuffed pair of white, New Balance hightops, a gray ‘N’ stitched on either side. Size 11, too. Perfect. I found them inside a wooden tool box while dusting the work bench in the carpentry section. The sneakers were hardly in mint condition, well worn creases spidering through them like wrinkles on the face of an elderly peasant woman, but they were infinitely superior to mine. I lifted the shoes out of the box and set them on the table. For the rest of my shift, an hour or so, I deliberated on whether or not to take them. Every few minutes, while sweeping sawdust into neat piles, I stole affectionate glances at them. Surely the owner wouldn’t miss an old set of sneakers. And, heck, even if he did have a special affinity for them, I was certain he could afford to buy another pair. When five o’clock struck, I learned the industrial-sized broom against the wall, picked up the shoes- careful that no one was watching- and scurried home to my apartment, every morsel of my body consumed with a soul crushing guilt.

My compunction, though, melted away the next morning around 2:15 when I slipped my feet into them. What comfort! What style! The frosty trek to UPS was not only less arduous but downright enjoyable. The true benefit came when I strolled onto campus, tall and proud, no longer subject to the humiliating sight and sound of my forlorn sneakers. After my last class, I scampered home for a quick bite- a bowl of ramen soup, mixed with rice- and changed into my old footwear. Like climbing back into your crummy car after test driving a sleek Mercedes, my confidence tumbled. The moment I arrived at the physical plant, John, a beefy, athletic senior, summoned me over to the work bench. “Were you cleaning here yesterday?” I nodded. He opened the tool box. I gulped, hoping my crimson face didn’t betray me. “Did you see a pair of sneakers in here?” He asked it quizzically, without a trace of accusation. I shook my head, portraying all the small town innocence I could muster. “Uh-uh.” John closed the lid, perplexed. “Huh.”

It’s said, particularly in political circles, that the cover-up is worse than the crime. I can attest to the veracity of that statement. All I had to do was come clean, spew out the truth, clear my conscience. I didn’t know they belonged to anybody, sorry. I’ll bring ’em back tomorrow- no harm, no foul. But I didn’t. I lied. Right to his face, no less. No shame. What would my mom think? That’s not how she raised me. My God, she’s practically a saint, flinging her last buck in the collection basket every Sunday. And now her youngest son was not only a thief but a liar, two monumental blows against her precious faith.

For the next couple weeks, I wore the hightops to UPS and then to my classes, mindful to swap them out before heading off to the physical plant. This rigidity of habit gave me a feeling of security that I believed to be impenetrable. It was during this period of nonchalance that I spotted John on the main campus walkway, striding towards me. Though I should have contemplated the possibility of seeing him, I never thought of John as being an actual student. Face flushed with terror, I tramped into the nearest building, head down, praying that he didn’t catch a glimpse of me. Or worse, his sneakers on my feet. Only when I saw him loping past, from the safe haven of the library lobby, did my jackrabbit heart slow to a normal beat.

Then, one afternoon, a month or so after absconding the shoes, I forgot to make the switch. It was only upon wading through the layer of sawdust that habitually covered the floor did I notice my error. More tragically, John was hauling lumber off a truck parked outside the warehouse, some 30 feet away. I abruptly turned around and hightailed it to the military barracks-style bathroom, locking myself inside one of the grungy stalls. A few minutes later, someone walked inside. I lifted my feet, hiding the sneakers from view.

“David?” A voice called out. John. “You in here?” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Words would not escape my mouth. When I heard the retreating footsteps, I heaved a sigh of relief. I sat on the toilet for another ten minutes, pulse racing, pondering my escape. Finally, I sprang the door open and darted down the hallway, out the front door, into the open air. I sprinted the entire way home, never glancing back. At the green, industrial-sized dumpster in front of my apartment complex, I stopped, catching my breath. I yanked off the sneakers and chucked them into the bin. A warm feeling of serenity washed over me, cleansing my tarnished soul. I walked inside my door, shoeless, vowing never to return to a life of crime.

With a tip of the cap to the infamous Chicago Daily Tribune headline declaring John Dewey as our 34th President, this would be the prevailing caption Wednesday morning if the GOP had chosen its nominee with more prudence. While there’s no denying that 2016 has witnessed an unprecedented rise in anti-establishment fervor, the messenger of this (largely white, blue collar, male) discontent is so deeply flawed as to blunt its efficacy- especially when you consider the vulnerability of the Democratic candidate. It’s not easy, after all, to play the moral card when you’ve been caught time and time again dealing from the bottom of the deck. And then there’s the glaring lack of experience. As the New Yorker stated in its endorsement of Clinton: “Trump is manifestly unqualified and unfit for office.” To defeat Hillary, all the Republicans had to do was elect a credible, risk-free alternative. And no one in the GOP ranks fits that description better than Ohio governor John Kasich.

Supporters of Clinton, including President Obama  (heck, even William Weld, her Libertarian opponent), have trumpeted the claim that she is the most qualified person to ever run for the White House. The point is magnified when you contrast her experience against Trump’s. A Kasich candidacy, however, would negate these declarations. The governor was elected to Congress in 1983, a full decade before Hillary became First Lady. Kasich served nine terms in the House, including 18 years on the Armed Services Committee and six years as chairman of the Budget Committee. He was a key figure in the passage of President Clinton’s welfare reform, as well as the Balanced Budget Act of 1997. In 2010, after a near decade in the private sector, Kasich was elected governor. Four years later, he was re-elected in a landslide. An additional benefit of this vast experience is that it dilutes assertions of sexism; unlike against Trump, she would not be the more qualified candidate for the job.

Perhaps the biggest advantage of a Kasich ticket is the unquestioned authority to assume the higher moral ground. Measured and unassuming- his tenure at Lehman Brothers during its collapse in 2008 being his biggest albatross- Kasich would effectively prosecute the case against Clinton. While Trump has been forced to go on the defensive about his treatment of women- along with the litany of indiscretions he’s committed not only on the campaign trail, but throughout his life- Kasich would have free reign to attack Clinton on everything from emails to Syria without retribution. As the Art of War professes, the high ground is an advantageous position to wage a fight. Having the upper hand on experience and integrity is a formidable combination for securing any job, let alone the most powerful one in the world.

The electoral map would look different- and decidedly more crimson- particularly in key battleground states. Having won re-election with 64% of the vote and winning 86 of 88 counties, Kasich would almost surely the carry the Buckeye state- a must win for Republicans, as history suggests. Pennsylvania could also be flipped. Born in McKees Rock, an industrial town near Pittsburgh, Kasich boasts blue collar roots and speaks easily to the working class. And if he chose, say, Marco Rubio to be his veep, Florida would likely be in the red column, as well. Not only would Rubio rally Latinos (his sharp verbal jabs against Clinton would also boost the ticket), his running mate’s less incendiary, more substantive approach would appeal to older voters. While he wouldn’t draw the fiery crowds that Trump attracts, he would undoubtedly rack up more votes, especially with the help of popular ex-governor Jeb Bush.

In one of the primary debates, Rubio proclaimed that if Trump didn’t receive a $14 million loan from his father, he’d be hawking fake watches in Times Square today. Trump’s privileged upbringing and ostentatious style make him unrelatable to the vast majority of voters (though this hasn’t seemed to matter to his most fervid supporters). Kasich and Rubio, on the other hand, have far more humble- and identifiable- beginnings. The son of a postal carrier, Kasich’s parents immigrated from Eastern Europe. Likewise, Rubio’s parents were born in Cuba; his father toiled as a bartender. They both can pontificate about the American dream more convincingly than most politicians.

Most pundits agree that this election will be decided by women and Latinos, two voting groups that Trump has deeply offended. A Kasich candidacy would not have this problem. Sure, he would be attacked for his pro-life stance and support of defunding Planned Parenthood- popular positions in the GOP- but women wouldn’t be on a moral crusade to oust him. They would be no rape allegations, no groping charges, no body shaming. Women with a conservative bent or independent streak would feel no compunction punching their ballot for the Ohio governor. And there certainly wouldn’t be any talk of building a wall. Though Rubio was crucified in the primaries for favoring an amnesty bill, this pragmatic viewpoint would reap rewards in the general. With a welcome absence of racist rhetoric in the campaign- including the more subtle cry of ‘law and order’- African-Americans wouldn’t be mobilized to cast votes against the Republican nominee.

Unlike with Trump at the helm, the party would be united in its effort to defeat Clinton (it’s hard to imagine a “NEVER KASICH” faction). The Koch brothers, silent this election, would surely pitch in for the cause. Along with more capital at their disposal, the politicos behind Kasich would be more seasoned, more professional. They would be no micromanaging, no keeping the candidate on message, no apologizing for gross misstatements. In short, there would be little chance of the governor going rogue. Endorsements would come in abundance, too, from ex-Presidents and major newspapers- even some left-of-center ones dismayed with Hillary and the hefty baggage she carries.

Furthermore, Reagan Democrats and independents would give Kasich strong consideration. Along with running an issue oriented, toxic-free campaign, the governor does not tote the party line on two key issues that appeal to indies: climate change and gun control. Kasich believes that mankind is responsible for the warming of the Earth, heresy to many on the right. Even more heretical for Republicans, Kasich received an F rating from the NRA in 1997 after passing an assault weapons ban. While he may alienate Second Amendment fanatics, they’re not going to cast a vote for Clinton. Picking off enough disaffected Dems and independents, though, particularly in swing states, would be enough to reach the magical 270 number. And in this election year against a historically unlikable candidate, that’s more than a possibility. With a proven leader like Kasich competing against her, it’s all but a certainty.