What my father taught me. by Wesley

2-12-15

I am "The Boot Black".  I have been many things in my life:  archaeologist, lawyer, student, sailor, kid, son, husband, father, shithead, but I have never been "The" anything before.

"The Boot Black" is a very nice way of saying "The Shoe Shine Boy/Guy/Man".  I don't mind it.  I like to shine shoes.  I shine the boots and shoes of guards, staff, police, and ADA's.

I'm really good at it, too.  In a way, sometimes it's embarrassing.  I will work on boots or shoes, carefully rubbing polish in circles while gently spritzing, not spitting, the leather with water.  Guys will stop and stare and compliment the shine.  They "ooh" and "aah" and heap the praise and ask about technique.  It's a bit too much.  It is, after all, only a shoe shine.

One of the trustees on my shift has asked me to teach him to do it, and I have decided to take him as my shoe shine Padawan.  I am the Yoda of Shoe Shining.

It really is a labor of love.  I tell my young Padawan that my method is akin to rubbing the reflective quality of water into the leather.  patience is the key.  I am very gentle- a light touch is required.  First the spritz, then dab a little polish on a soft cotton cloth, and begin rubbing in small circles.  Over and over and over again.

When I am asked where I learned to polish shoes, I tell people that I was in the Navy for 9 years.  You must know how to polish shoes and boots after spending that much time on active duty.  Everyone knows how after that much time.  It really only takes boot camp and "A" school, but I honed my craft over nearly a decade.  Like I said, it takes patience!  That is not the whole story, but its all that I give.

The truth is, the only lesson I remember is my father giving me was the value of taking care of your shoes.  He didn't teach me to dress.  He didn't teach me to drive.  He didn't teach me to defend myself.  He didn't teach me to read.  He didn't teach me to mow the grass.  He didn't teach me to love.  He didn't teach me to be a husband, and he certainly didn't teach me to be a father.  Or a man.

I'm 100% certain that my father died within the last couple of months and nobody has told me.  I don't ask, and they don't say.  I really don't know that I want to know that I missed my father's funeral.

I can't stand the fact that he would have been buried with a sparse attendance.  Apathy, the reward for a dubious (at best) lifetime of decisions.  Even though we have been distant for years, I would have been there if only so he would not be alone for his final act.

So, I will go forward in ignorance and that's okay.  Perhaps my final tribute to my father is the care I give to shoes of strangers.  It isn't much, but it might be all he honestly deserves from me, or my family.

When I'm dome with each shine, I can see my face looking back at me.  Okay with that, I am.