Cranky Joe

My sisters and I shared a passion for shoes. We wore the same size, and would swap, depending on style, walkability, mood. We shared a shoe repair shop as well. It was a tiny space in a strip mall, identified only by Shoe Repair. I don’t know if his name was Joe. He sat in a battered rolling desk chair, crammed behind the counter, stacked with shoes with tags. Don’t remember if he smoked, but now I picture him doing that. A haze of smoke over the shoes with tags. He’d barely glance up. I’d mumble what I wanted. He’d sigh, open a drawer, get a tag, rip off my share, hand it over. “Tuesday after 4.”

I’d scurry out the door. We were scared of Cranky Joe, but he was good, cheap and whatever you’d dropped off to do, it would be done so.

I dropped off these gray braided Italian leather shoes to be polished. High heels would get scuffed at the back because a gas pedal was not designed for 3-1/2 inch-heeled operators.

“Tuesday after 4.”

I picked up the shoes. They were green. Not the gorgeous original flat gray. A green gray. Green. I stood aghast, holding these abominations.. I paid for the shoes, walked out, sat in the car, flummoxed. These things wouldn’t match the purse. Nor could I wear them with the outfits I had in the past.

I walked back in, leaving the shoes in the car.

Cranky Joe looked up, squinting around the smoke. I couldn’t speak.

Then. “I’d like some gray polish, please.”

Cranky Joe narrowed his eyes harder.

“What for? Those shoes are green now.”

I ran.