Spit Shine

Wayne Bowman

 

 

Nobody shines shoes no more, but back in the late ‘50’s I had to fight for my territory in the “war-zone.” My spiel was on the dime, “If your shoes look good, you look great. If your shoes look bad, you look like hell and you feel like shit.” I didn’t rhyme but it made every one of those dumb-asses look at their shoes. I said crap and heck if there were ladies around. Shining shoes was better than hobbin’ bottles for my jack.

 

I sang out in my best boy soprano, “Straight shine’s a nickel, super buff’s a dime. Spit shine’s cheap, two bits, a quarter, twenty-five, two bits, a quarter, twenty-five, two bits, a quarter, twenty-five.” The hardcore drunks, who really did feel like shit and look like hell, always went for the spit shine. I split my tips with the whores who were nice enough to send their “Johns” reeling in my direction. That was what they called their tricks, and we shiners called our customers “Joes.” Whatever they were called, they got a good screwing either way.

 

My routine never varied. In order to make the kind of jack I wanted, I had to get there early to call dibs on the Silver Dollar, Pappy’s, or Corky’s. Those were the joints with bars a block long and a payday on every stool.

 

I didn’t smoke, but to be cool I rolled a pack of Lucky Strikes up in the right sleeve of my white T-shirt, gave my pompadour a lick or two and touched up my duck’s ass. It was also popular with the older cats to stuff a sock down their pants so the girls would notice. I figured if one was cool then two would really wow the chicks.

 

My old man always kept a gross of rubbers under the bed, so just to be safe I grabbed three or four. I blew one up and tied it to the side of my kit as an advertisement. The hard-ons bought them if they were hot to make it with a piece of strange. Most ’50’s chicks wouldn't do it without one. If the chick was knocked up, guys still wore raincoats for fear they’d get the clap. I got as much as a buck a piece for those cheapo rubbers.

              

A quick dose of Lilac-Vegetal and I was out the door as soon as I tucked my straight razor in my back pocket. I never knew when one of those crazy alkies would try to snatch my cash.

 

I kept my kit stashed at Bob Malley’s store because my Mom didn’t want me to go into the bars. It was common for me to earn as much in one night as Mom made in a week of hard labor at the casket company.

 

Malley couldn’t do enough for me after I caught him banging T-Bone’s old lady one night right on the meat counter. Every time I ordered a pound of “bloney,” I thought of him slicing off a piece of ass right there on the cutting board. The discount he gave me after that added up to the price of the picture show.

 

That kit earned me thirty-five bucks a week, and if I got lucky somebody gave me a sawbuck and passed out before he got his change. I figured that was just God giving me a tip.

 

I learned some great tricks from the colored shiners downtown at Batsac’s. They made horsehair brushes whinny like they were still alive, and rags smoke so much it drove off the gnats. Colored shiners worked up spit that they squirted from between their teeth onto shoes throughout the shines they cut for the rich white cats.

 

I used a Fuller brush I filched from my old man’s sample case to sweep off customers. You’d a thought they was the Duke of Earl the way they acted when I bowed. I kept a tin cup chained around my neck that I was quick to stick out, though I had to be on my toes because they either tossed in spare change or they backhanded me.

 

A fat punk had just thrown a fist full of coins into my cup when I noticed my best customer pimp through the door. Everybody knew him as “Ace.” His son was “Little Ace,” but his real name was Herman and his son was Herman junior. Even though he claimed Little Ace, he never married his mother. Word on the street was that he was a well-known cherry popper from way back who once had three chicks knocked up at once.

 

I looked like a miniature Ace that night, which made me the second coolest cat on the street. The only difference was that he must have had three socks stuffed in his shorts. He caught my eye and grinned real big as he clicked his tongue and pointed at me, which was the signal for me to get the hell over there and give him a double hot wax spit shine. He was the only guy I shined who wanted the polish melted so it would penetrate as deep as possible. The guy knew how to treat leather.

 

I set up a can of Cat’s Paw on a small metal stand I carried in my kit, and lit a can of Sterno under it. On slow nights I drained off the juice from the Sterno can and sold it to the real drunks. That shit would knock your ass right out of the socket faster than anything I ever seen.

 

Ace acted like he had all the moolah in the world. While I was getting ready he bought me a grape Nehi. Ace worked the crowd while I performed magic on his shoes. He always said that he wanted them to be shiny enough to reflect his girlfriend’s snatch when they danced. Everybody always got a big kick out of that “reflect her snatch” gag when he ordered up a shine.

 

He grabbed his crotch a lot when he was on the make, and that night he never let it go. All the girls eyeballed him as I worked up spit to do the shine justice. I dipped my special brush into the liquid polish and looked up to get my usual wink of approval.

 

That pumped me up as I began to work the crowd with a little dance and a lot of rhythmic hand action using my double brush technique. The crowd began to gather around and cheer me on. I didn’t even mind that a busty redhead had stolen Ace’s attention. When I did my shoe brush handstand the money started rollin’ in.

 

Somebody put “Great Balls of Fire” on the juke-box to get the place jumpin’. It rained money all throughout my handstand, and when I went to one hand and used the other to brush Ace’s shoes it became a flood. Corvette Utah couldn’t be bothered with the argument that had broken out just above my head. The shoes were gleaming, and I wasn’t done yet when it was all ruined by a spurt of blood.

 

I couldn’t believe I got a damned nose bleed at that moment. I couldn’t feel it, but that was what it had to be. Ace jerked at his shoe, but I was determined to finish the job. I grabbed his foot and held on screaming, “It’s just a little blood. Won’t take a second to clean that up.”

 

That was about how long it took this huge guy to ride Ace down on top of me. I suddenly found myself pinned under Ace, who was being stabbed repeatedly by the asshole who tackled us. A sharp pain in my side made me flinch. The bastard had stabbed me, and then I felt it again in the arm, and again in the thigh as I brought my leg up in defense. It turned out to be a lucky thing that I had stuffed a pair of socks in my shorts. If I hadn’t, I would have been singing with the sopranos for life. I couldn’t tell how much blood was mine and how much was Ace’s. My eyes filled with yellow splotches then they snapped to black.

 

I woke up in the hospital and was relieved that my mother was scowling at me. She never would have done that if I was dying. It turned out that the busty redhead had been messing around with Ace while her giant, crazy, jealous, knife-wielding boyfriend went to the can.

 

I was still in the hospital when they buried Ace, and when I got home my shoeshine kit was all there. Somebody had scooped up the cigar box full of money and wrapped it in a bar towel before tucking it in my kit. When I un-wrapped it I found that Ace and I had bled it full. Without a thought of what the blood symbolized, I took the box to the sink and ran it full of water repeatedly, and though it was washed clean, I never could bring myself to spend the money. I finally gave it to Little Ace in a round about way. I put the money in my kit and left it outside his door. I figured it was the right thing to do since his old man wouldn’t be slipping him change no more. It was the least I could do for my best last customer.