Walk A Mile In My Shoes

Brooks is as tight as Midas’s fist when it comes to everything else but with his shoes, he’s flat out profligate.

My business partner, Brooks, has a strange habit. Whenever he buys a new pair of shoes to wear to the office, he throws the old pair away. He changes shoes every couple of months. Always the same brand, Florsheims. And he consistently buys the same type, black leather wingtips.

Brooks is as tight as Midas’s fist when it comes to everything else but with his shoes, he’s flat out profligate.

He even has this fellow (Sonny) come up to the office twice a week and shine his shoes. Sonny is delightful! He brings a little box with all his polish, brushes and rags. Sonny kneels down in front of Brooks surrounds himself with all his polishing paraphernalia, turns his box upside down, puts one of Brooks’s shod foot on it, then the other. He’s a real showman. Dabs on some pasty polish, then goes to work. Twirls his brushes, and damn near plays music with his rags. Sonny gives a 5 minute show and after he’s done the shoes — glow.

I’ve even started to depend on him to shine my shoes every other week, just for the entertainment value of the experience.

This day, Brooks asked me to go out to lunch, then accompany him on a visit to Florsheims for a new pair of leather wingtips. We took about an hour for both of those activities.

Brooks was wearing his new shoes with the old ones in the box that formerly housed the new ones.

Mid afternoon Sonny unexpectedly entered to the office. He was a day earlier than his normal routine would dictate. He mentioned his son was graduating from kindergarten on his normal day of work. He asked if he could do our shoes a day early.

Brooks and I always welcomed Sonny to our office.

We both told him we needed shines. Me first this time. Brooks took his old shoes out of the box and put his new shoes in the box. He then laced up his old wingtips to be polished. Sonny put on his customary show and did his usual great job with the shine.

After a bit more business, both Brooks and I left to catch our respective trains for home.

The next day in the office we share, Brooks assumed his normal work position; feet propped up on his desk, leaning back on his chair, speaker phone blasting.

All of a sudden:

“Ah, SHIT! “ it was Brooks

I was inundated with the sound of Brooks wildly dialing his speaker phone.

“Brooks Bar,” Brooks daughter answered, her little joke.

“Cindy, you know how I usually throw my old Florsheims out when I get new ones?” Brooks exclaimed in a voice that showed urgency and sense of purpose. “It turns out that Sonny came by the office yesterday and shined my old shoes so well I wore them this morning and put my new ones out for the trash!”

“I AIN’T NO GARBAGE PICKER,” Cindy yelled and slammed down the phone.

Brooks, returning to his unflappable, salesman-like demeanor. He redialed his home number. After a few rings, Cindy’s younger brother Zach picked up.

Reassessing his approach, “Zach, Zach, I need your help!”

You could tell, young ears perking up hearing Dad’s plea for help.

“Zach I threw my new shoes out by mistake. They’re in the black garbage bags in the trash cans out front.” Remembering his daughter’s reaction and refining his parental direction, “All you have to do is feel the outside of the bags. If there’s a big lump in the bag, just pull the whole bag out of the can and take it in the garage and leave it,” Brooks directed.

“Ok, Dad,” Zach said agreeably.

An hour went by.

Then another.

Around 3:00 in the afternoon, I heard the loud beeping of Brooks dialing his phone.

“Spider-Man,” Zach said amiably.

Brooks, “Zach, did you get that garbage bag and take it in the garage?”

“Oh, no Dad,” exclaimed Zach in a forbearing manner, “ I was having breakfast and the garbage men came and took it away.”

Saying nothing more, Brooks gently hung up his speaker phone, sat in silence for about 5 minutes then: cleaned up his desk, packed his briefcase, donned his skimmer and left the office.