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Warriors and Monks
Column
Warriors and Monks
Mr. Bootblack is a philosopher with distinct views of his own. He earns a living cleaning shoes. Once every two weeks he writes an article about footwear for GDS – and about the wearers.
When he came back again one day, hung his umbrella across the armrest as always and sat down in my customer’s chair, Danny apologised to me that he had disappeared for so long. “Do you know, Bootblack”, he explained, “I tried out a couple of things. I simply couldn’t come.” He didn’t look at me when he said that and I didn’t ask him about it. But he continued to speak on his own. Haltingly as if I had forced him to speak. “With my shoes”, he said. “What is it with your shoes, Danny?” I didn’t understand. And he said: “I tried out something. With my shoes.”
Danny is a sweet man. A genuine guy with a bald head which is just as round as all of Danny himself. You just have to like him, you just can’t help it. “That’s okay, Danny”, was all I said. But he couldn’t stop. He wanted to talk.
“I bought myself such shoes upon which one walks like a Massai warrior. Like being barefoot-just walking so … unsteadily.”
I tried not to laugh. Danny is just large and round, he also wears three-piece suits, horn-rimmed glasses and everything else which does not fit with these shoes with the round sole, upon which adult persons must once again learn to walk. It’s supposed to be healthy, but what do I know about it…
“The first three days, I fell down twice going down the steps to the subway station”, he said softly. I still was trying not to laugh, “but that was my fault.”
“How do you know that it was your fault, Danny?”
“I visited an Internet forum. Nobody else had these problems because I asked.”
I continued to massage cream into his wondrous, old monk’s sandals. Monks, which are low shoes with a buckle instead of straps, are underappreciated if you ask me. So elegant. Unique and formal at the same time. Not only can everyone run in them, everyone looks good in them as well.
“New York is not a good city if one is a heavy man who is lying cursing on a stairs landing of the subway station near the Natural History Museum on 81st Street!“ I couldn’t help it, I had to ask sometime. “What does that mean, Danny?” He looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “I wanted to go to the museum”, he said, “they have this exhibit with butterflies flying around freely.”
“I mean: What’s that with the shoes”, I said while I imagined Danny veritably flying freely down the steps to the subway station. The opposite of a butterfly. He grimaced. “I don’t know”, he said, “I guess I thought I would be a little bit healthier.” I have heard this phrase a thousand times. It is New York for losing weight. Unless one is a model, then it means gaining weight. But models will never use him.
“Bootblack”, he said with nervous despair in his voice, “it’s indeed very convincing – nobody has ever seen a fat Massai!” I nodded. “Correct”, I said and pointed to his umbrella which hung on the chair, “and don’t forget your spear, warrior!”
As he was about ready to leave, he turned around once again, pointed to his shoes and exclaimed: “It’s good to be back home!” I nodded. “Where one knows his every step”, I said-more to myself-while he buoyantly sprang down the steps to the subway station, “where one knows his every step.”
