Shoeshine
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I walked the way I always walked, with my head down, my cap pulled low. Avoiding any and all eye contact. I had a plane to catch, I was tired, wet from the rain, and I would be damned if I had to stop to talk to anybody. I was not in the mood.

I was never in the mood. Whenever I was stopped anymore, I had to bite my tongue in order not to say something I would regret. I probably wouldn't actually regret it, but other people would regret it for me. They always did. So I bit my tongue.

The airport was too busy. There were too many people with too many bags and too many kids that hadn't yet learned how to walk in a straight line.

And then there was me trying to walk in a straight line and realizing everyone else had to cross in front of my path at least once. Sometimes, twice. And sometimes, with their whole entire extended family.

I was tired of people looking at me. Looking at me and passing judgment on who they thought I was. It was a common complaint, sure. But I was coming to the point where I couldn’t deal with people who knew me, never mind those who didn’t. Couldn’t.

That’s what she said. She couldn’t. Her, with her fake smile, turning on the charm, thinking I couldn’t see her posing for pictures that weren’t even being taken, telling me thanks. Thanks, Nick. Thanks for letting me get to know you. And it dripped with sarcasm, every time, that last time, just like it always did.

And she was right, I didn’t let her in. I never did. Because I, the object, was simply an outsider in everyone else’s world. I had always been. Even when I got somewhere, I felt like everyone else had gotten there before me. I would never be as comfortable or familiar.

I had my chin down when I heard the voice asking me if I wanted my shoes to be shined.

It wasn't the usual. The, "Shine 'em up, mister?" that always had me quickening my pace just to pass by sooner and pretend that I hadn’t heard. It was a, "Hey there, good sir, it looks like you could use a shine today."

And it caught me like a shiny lure would a fish. Because, yes, I could use a shine. Sunshine, shoeshine. I wasn’t picky. If only it wasn’t just my shoes.

I found myself sitting up in the chair, my feet on the old shoe rests as the old man opened up wooden shoeshine kit, my heavy bag resting on the ground next to me for the first time all day.

I watched him go to work on my expensive, scuffed right shoe and realized I had never given these guys a second look before. They had other customers besides me, ones that probably didn’t give a damn who was shining their shoes either.

But I could.

And so I asked him how he was. He stopped whistling and told me. He was wonderful. I wondered how that was possible.

"Shoes," the man told me a few minutes later, "are the first things people look at. They tell a lot about a person."

I leaned my head back in the chair, raising my chin slightly for the first time and letting myself look around beneath my cap. Look at him directly.

"What do my shoes tell you?"

He didn't tell me. "I’ve seen a lot of shoes," was all he said.

I’m sure he had. I had seen a lot of shoes too.

A lot of shoes that had told me absolutely nothing about people.

Looking at people never told me anything. I had looked at people like him, and I had seen nothingness.

"You and I," I told him, "are in the same boat."

He raised his head a little, as if gazing at my costly shoes and wondering what could possible tie us together. He never stopped working though, even with the shift. He kept on shining.

"They look at us. They look and they think they know exactly who we are. But they don’t know shit."

The man nodded then, and I thought he understood.

"Look at your shoes," he said. "What do you see?"

I was confused. I looked at the old man again for a second, frowning, and then I looked down. He was finished. Two shiny pairs of shoes stared back up at me. Reflecting. It hit me.

"Me," I said, realization hitting me.

I could faintly see my reflection in my shoes.

"And that," he said, getting up from his position stiffly, as if he had rust in his old bones, "is all that matters."

I had nothing to say.

When he told me how much I owed, I gave him more than that, and quickly grabbed my bag, making my way through the people that were trying to walk in a straight line and failing miserably.

A second later, I heard his voice addressing the next man.

"Shine 'em up, mister?"

The End