Well, as they say, character is what you do when no one’s looking. But when fall gets chilled, yes: the ties will return. In the depths of the pandemic I would put on a tie to go sit in an empty office tower, for the same reason Charlton Heston played chess alone while the zombies howled outside in “The Omega Man.” But I always wore a tie, because I worked downtown. I have a dozen pairs of Chuck Taylors in various hues, and they match my shirts. The effect is the same, but I suspect it doesn’t last as long.
Nowadays I use a different method that requires less work. He had a stiff brush, tins of Panama or Kiwi polish, and he attacked the shoes with the brush, as if they needed to be taught a lesson. He wore work shoes all week, but church – or perhaps a lodge meeting – required a high shine. I remember my dad sitting at the bottom of the stairs to the basement, polishing his church shoes. The kind you touch up with a Kiwi bottle with a sponge on the end. A lot of the young people who’ve come back – well, Nikes, or maybe Target dress shoes. There used to be a population of grown-ups downtown, kitted out in corporate battle gear. The number of men who suit up, cinch the tie, poke the dimple, run a hand down their front to smooth themselves, check their shine – it’s off, ninety percent. The office workers haven’t returned in sufficient numbers.
She wears out a pair of tennis shoes every other week maybe we can work with that? Thing is, the shoe-repair trade is dead.
PILLS AND POTIONS FIX ME UP MEME FULL
Her company went full remote, all the time. He called me up the other day and asked if my wife had any shoes in need of repair, and alas: no. They would suffer from wear, and my friend would perform his magic. This meant she needed matching shoes, of course. She was always put together, as they say, and every time she came home from work is was like watching a combination of Leslie Caron and Audrey Hepburn turn the corner into the kitchen, always a different outfit. Like Carter’s has little pills, she has shoes. Over the next year or so I gave him my shoes to fix, as well as my wife’s. An elegant throne where customers could get a shine, a cabinet full of potions and glues and cleaners and dyes that could take the most battered brogans and make them fit for an emperor. Moved here, rented this small place in the skyway: his dream. In recovery a man taught him the trade of glorifying footwear, and he took to it. I did, and I did again, and over time he told me his story. He invited me to drop by his shop one day. She was a fan, which meant I was okay in his book. I met him when he showed up at one of my State Fair shows with his wife and kids. He had clients who came in for a shine and some clever palaver, or just to drop off dead leather, knowing he’d lazurus them back to life. In the pre-pandemic days, it was next to a Starbucks, between two office towers. The main banking lobby is the lobby / bar, with magnificent stylized light fixtures, gorgeous wood, a late 40s vibe unmatched downtown. It’s a good location, in the skyway, located in a hotel that used to be a bank. He just reopened his shop after the long lockdown. This guy is a wizard: you could drop off shoes from someone in Napoleon’s army who retreated from Moscow, and they’d look like they belonged in a Gucci store window. I’m going to pick them up on Monday, and I expect they will shine brighter than the day I took them out of the box. He’d done what he could with an old pair of Chucks.
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