He partnered with the owners of an old school shoe factory in the city and sold his designs to shops and department stores from the trunk of his car. Once, he woke up naked in his new apartment’s hallway - waddling down to the lobby for help with his manhood in hand.ĭespite his benders, Madden was – at least by day - building a shoe empire. He would pass out in clubs, restaurants and even on top of women. The Coleman Federal Correctional Complex in Coleman, Fla. “I was out late every night and came home high, stumbling around and crashing into furniture in the lobby,” he writes. Getting loaded was all that mattered.”Īfter his father yanked him out of school, he went so wild in New York that the management at his parents’ building kicked him out. “I learned an addict’s trick: taking pills on an empty stomach so nothing would interfere with the high. “ where I first fell in love with Quaaludes,” he writes of his stint at the University of Miami. But his budding obsession was derailed by a failed foray at college. Known for his brash Long Island intensity, Madden’s book shows a more timorous side of his personality and delves into the lowest points of his addiction to Quaaludes, financial misdoings and time in prison.īorn the youngest of three boys, to an Irish Catholic father who ran a textile factory and a Jewish homemaker mother, Madden felt that his mixed heritage made him “an anomaly.” He struggled in high school, preferring his job at a shoe store in Cederhurst. “I woke up to the feeling of water lightly misting my face,” he writes of his first day in a holding facility on his way from Elgin to the much harsher Coleman Federal Correctional Complex. Madden writes about the experience in his new memoir, “The Cobbler: How I Disrupted an Industry, Fell from Grace & Came Back Stronger Than Ever” (Radius Books), out Tuesday. “They sent me to another prison that was more ‘prison-y.’” “It was the worst moment of my life,” he said. He lost the “case” and with it his furlough and reduced sentence. The warden held a mock “trial” for his offense, he said, with prison guards playing prosecutor and defense attorney. In seconds, Madden lost everything all over again. You aren’t allowed to do that and somebody told on me.” But he had no money to buy soap, detergent or little things. “There was this kid named Belly,” Madden told The Post. But money, the very thing that put him in the slammer, got in the way again. Good behavior and six months in a drug and alcohol program had earned him an eight-day furlough and whittled down his sentence by 18 months. It was 2003, and the shoe designer was doing time for stock fraud at Eglin Federal Prison Camp in Florida. Steve Madden was 13 months into his 31-month prison sentence when his personal hell got even worse.
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