November

Issue 50

Taking the elevator from the parking garage seems like forever, my last conference. Finally arriving, I turn a corner and see a chair on a platform, shining like a red and gold throne. I’ve arrived early and have time before check-in. Looking down I see in the hurry of leaving how I've neglected my shoes:  scuffed, dove gray Travelers.  Wanting to look my best, I step onto the platform and sit down. Little old guy in an ancient, three-piece appears out of nowhere, "Welcome, welcome," he says, "Call me Pete," takes off his jacket, unfolds a rag, and starts shining my shoes. "I'm here for the conference," I say. He nods, keeps on working, humming an old gospel tune. What is it?  Oh!  "I come to the garden alone..." remembering Grandma's piano, (been a while since she ...)  I've never done this before, but I can tell right away it's the real thing; his every move perfected, his wingtips see-yourself shined. "You've been doing this a long time?" I ask, making conversation. "Long time, honey, long, long time." Despite my degrees and tenure, "Honey" doesn’t bother me, it seems right this time. "Fished the lakes a few years," he adds, "hard work, not much reward. Fishin' for people now." He grins.   I smile back, losing myself in the crinkles 'round his eyes. As he brushes polish onto my shoes, I feel lighter—newer and softer. "Good to be here," I say, easing back against old leather, "I feel better already." The conference isn't so important now. The last is a soft shammy buffing 'til they shine like burnished gold. "Oh my!" I say, "They’ve never looked this good!" He stands back, admiring his work, "You’ll do," he says. I fumble in my purse. "No charge," he says, smiling. "No charge?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. "No charge," he reaffirms. "If you get as far as Peter's Shoeshine, there’s never any charge."