Bootblack

The old man sat on his worn stool, the midday sun warming his back as he surveyed the street. He’d been shining shoes here, outside this very barbershop, for close to fifty years. He’d seen fads come and go, empires rise and fall, all reflected in the polished leather of the shoes that rested on his stand. Today was slow. A couple of tourists, eager for a photo op more than a shine, and a hurried businessman who barely spared him a glance. He sighed, the leather of his apron creaking in protest. He missed the days when a shoeshine was a ritual, a moment of connection. Then she appeared. A young woman, barely out of her teens, wearing scuffed combat boots. Not the usual clientele. She hesitated, then approached. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice soft. “Do you…do you think you could do something with these?” She pointed to her boots. He examined them. They were caked in mud, the leather scratched and dull. “I can try,” he said, his voice raspy. “But these have seen some miles.” She sat on the opposite stool, her face troubled. “They have,” she agreed. “They’ve seen a lot.” He set to work, the familiar motions soothing him. The rhythmic snap of the cloth, the subtle scent of polish, the satisfying gleam emerging from the grime. As he worked, she began to talk. About hiking trails, about protests, about a cross-country trip searching for something she couldn’t quite name. He listened, offering occasional words of encouragement. He heard the yearning in her voice, the determination, the vulnerability. He saw his younger self in her, searching for meaning in a world that often felt meaningless. Finally, he finished. He held up one of the boots, the leather gleaming like dark mahogany. “There you go,” he said. “Good as new.” She gasped. “They…they look amazing!” She touched the leather reverently. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes shining. “You’ve given them a new life.” He smiled, a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Sometimes,” he said, “all things need is a little polish.” She paid him, more than he asked, and as she walked away, he noticed she carried herself differently. Taller, more confident. He watched her disappear into the crowd, a sense of satisfaction warming him from the inside. He picked up his brush, ready for the next customer. Maybe it wasn’t just about polishing shoes. Maybe it was about polishing souls, one pair of boots at a time. And in that moment, he felt the familiar rhythm of the city not just under his feet, but resonating in his heart.