For the last two years I’ve indulged every other week in a shoeshine at the barbershop in the lobby of the skyscraper where I work downtown. Walking in I say hello to Rio, the shoeshine man. “Need a shine?” he asks softly, his form thin and bent, face drowsy-looking, smoking a cigarette.
The shine is thoroughly relaxing. It’s an inexpensive luxury of sorts, handily justified as prudent shoe maintenance.
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During the shine I’m sharply aware of Rio’s technique. He starts by soaping the shoes with a sudsy, soft-bristled brush. After wiping away the foam–leaving the leather damp and receptive, like a warm wet face ready for shave cream–he uses a cloth to rub black polish in little circles and swaths all over the shoe, the scent rising pleasantly to my nostrils, releasing memories of my dad’s basement workshop, where he kept his shoe creams in a wooden box among the tools and the smell of sawdust.
Rio doesn’t say much. When I ask him how it’s going, he always says, “Oh, pretty good.” Once he answered that he had suffered some sort of muscle spasm in his leg and his wife had left work to take him to the hospital. That’s all I’ve heard of his family life.
“Thank you very much,” he says, stressing “very” in a breathy tone.
“Was he in the hospital near the end?” I asked.
He finished the job perfunctorily, elaborating on his theory that Rio’s place was more enviable than his own. He described how one layoff after another had landed him in his current miserable position.
