My blue shoes were kind of beat-up and scruffy-looking, but they were so comfortable I didn’t want to throw them out. So when they started to fall apart, I took them to a repair shop in Old Town. When the elderly clerk told me this simple repair would cost seven dollars, I considered giving the shoes to the Salvation Army, but then I told him to go ahead. “How about a little polish? We’ll make them look real nice, almost as good as new.”
Two weeks later I returned to the store. This time a young, chubby female clerk was in charge. Poking through the stacked and ticketed brown paper bags, she asked, “How long ago did you bring your shoes in?”
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“No, mine have low heels, and the tops are made of woven straps. Those shoes are about three sizes too big.”
“Look,” the clerk responded, “I can’t do anything more for you. They don’t pay me very much; I’m just a clerk. They left me here alone on a Saturday! You’ll have to talk to the manager on Monday.”
“These aren’t your shoes?”
“Yes!”
