There’s a lot to see and do in New York City, my home town: Music at Lincoln Center, exhibits at the Metropolitan Museum, theater on Broadway and foods from every corner of the globe. And of course, there is also my family. But honestly, the main reason I visit New York is for a great shine.
I really enjoy a well-shined pair of shoes, though it appears I am one of an ever-shrinking population; the appreciation of a great shine is passing. It was not always this way. Before the age of Nike running shoes, Birkenstocks and plastic flip-flops, none of which take to a shine, the quick and nimble moves of sweat-browed men with blackened hands snapping shards of cotton towels could be seen and heard all across America. Immigrants beyond counting found their start in the American economy literally at the feet of the well-heeled. A wooden box hanging from a strap around their shoulders, they wandered the streets or set down their wares at the corner, where passing gentlemen could stand on one foot and then the other, and, for a quarter, walk away with flashing feet.
Next arrived the shoe-shine parlor, where whole squadrons of dancing towels and bustling brushes brought to leather the glistening brightness of heaven reflected. Men would walk in stooped, weary and down-trodden and walk out with heads held high, a snap in their step and dignity renewed. More than once I have seen magic in these parlors of perfection; shoes that looked three steps from the grave would be resurrected with a fine and glossy glamour that belied the thinning soles or worn-down heels. It makes one, almost, believe in miracles.
The notion of uplifting the spirit through attention to that part of us that is most lowly is not new. Jesus washed the feet of beggars, after all. Reflexologists believe that the health of every bodily organ can be determined on the bottom of the foot. It is through the foot, in upright stance, that we anchor to our mother earth, and every cowboy worth his salt wished to die with his boots on.
Yet, despite all this, despite the colorful history of shoe-shine boys and snapping towels, the shoe shine is in deep decline. It is not just due to the general trend towards shabbiness in attire. In New York, the cost of street-side real estate has doomed the shoe-shine parlor; $3 a shine is not enough to pay the rent. Luckily for me, one of the remaining parlors is just three blocks from my mother’s apartment near 59th Street at Columbus Circle. Directly across from the new Time-Warner towers, Dino’s Shoe Shine Parlor and Repair sports four worn leather armchairs raised, throne-like, a few feet above the floor. A signed 8×10 glossy photo of Robert DeNiro hangs above the cash register, testimonial enough from a native New Yorker.
Ushered in, the magic is performed and for a few dollars the great restoration is achieved. Four coats of wax, brushes, towels, and a little water combined with flashing forearms and adroit ambidextrous motion does the trick. Voila!
Back on the sidewalk in the sharp March sunshine, amid the faded and the scuffed I stroll; my lustrous feet float just above the ground.
