Phoenix Language Association

"C'mere boy. Yeah, over here. Lemme show ya sompin. Looky here, we gonna teach you 'bout leather. Shoe leather. You is ready, I know. You'z ol' enough ta be doin' it, so dis is it.
"See dis here pair a boots? We gonna show you how to make dese boots shine."
"Granpa, how old are you?"
"I am so old that if I tol' you, you couldn' even unnerstan' how old. Das how ol' I am. But you never mind dat, you jus' listen up, y'here?"
The coal black of the old man's eyes shone brightly, and the smile pulled deep furrows in his cheeks as he gazed down upon the clean, smooth face of the child. His voice fairly rumbled as it worked its way around the short, fat, nearly black cigar that had simply always been there.
"You see, when people gets as ol' as me, purty soon dey gotta go." The old gentleman paused a moment, the impact of what he had just said causing him a small, but definite, butterfly in his stomach, right next to the place where all the pain was coming from; between there and the place where he held the terrible knowledge that his life was nearly at its end, and that he had only these few days, weeks, or years--or minutes left.
"Go where, granpa?"
"Go to heaven . . . or to hell, or maybe somewhere in between, dependen' on whose story ya been listenin' to. But ya DO go. Everbody 'grees on dat! An' purty soon I gotta go too. But before I do, I gotta show ya sompin'."
"Don't go, granpa," the boy pleaded with childlike urgency.
"Just tell them that you don't want to go, and just stay! Please?"
"Sorry, boy. Don' woik dat way. But anyhow, don' worry 'bout dat now. Jus' pay 'ttention here fo' awhile. I got a job ta do. So you he'p me out here an' pay 'ttention."
"Yes, sir."
"Foist, you takes the fois' boot an' put it over you han', see? Like dis. Here, you take da other one an' do jus' like me. You feel dat down dere? Well das' called a shoetree. Hah, yeah! A shoe tree. Shoetree. Funny, ain't it? Well das' what its called. So grab it soz you can turn da boot aroun' easy. Yeah, das it. Now wit' my right han' I takes dis stiff brush an' brush all da dirt offin it. Not da bottom, but right up to da edge. Like dat, see? Dis is soz we can get all da ol' street dirt off 'em.
"Okay, now we open dis stuff. It's called saddle soap. We use dis here brush wit' da yella handle. Fois' I'll do mine. You watch real good. Den you do yours. Got it?"
The five year old smiled and nodded. His eyes widened as he realized that he was going to actually get to use the brush. This was getting important. He decided that he must do his very best.
The old man dipped the soft camel shoe brush into the jar of water.
"See here," he said, "you dip in da water jus' a bit, an' den you let da extra run back out. You jus' need da brush to be wet soz dat soap will woik up a bit a lather. See? Den you woiks it into da soap like dis. When ya got a purty good lather goin', ya washes up da boot."
Patiently, the man taught the boy, step by step, to clean and polish the boots. First by example, then by gentle coaxing, and often a guiding hand. The boy was rapt within his grandfather's spellbinding words. It never occurred to the child that his own command of the language was greater than that of his grandfather. To him, that was just how granpa spoke. And granpa was the smartest man in the whole world. He must be. Because his dad was the smartest man in the whole world that he had ever seen, and granpa was HIS father. (His mother had explained that to him again just yesterday. He had understood it since he was three, but often asked because he loved hearing how he fit into the scheme of things with his father and grandfather.) And there was another thing. Inside his little body there was a certainty. An egoless, guileless, wonderful certainty that, out of all the people in the whole world, of which granpa knew almost every single one, granpa loved him best of all. It feels good when the smartest man in the whole world loves you better than anybody else in the whole world.
After perhaps half an hour or so the job was completed. Although there was some discrepency between the quality of the two jobs, there was a small but definite shine on the toe of the right boot.
"Dere now. Lemme see how dey look." With bones snapping and crackling like a pile of dried leaves on a warm day in October, the old man bent to pull on the boots. His fingers were knurled and misshapen, but still strong. The tips of his fingers were dried and cracked; his nails were short and clean. He stood and looked down carefully, inspecting each boot in turn. The boy's face was wide with anticipation. Then, as a large grin grew across the old, deep-lined face, another one grew below it. Then, for an instant, the grins were identical in feeling . . . they were one.
"Now, mister," he took the cigar butt from between his stained teeth and gazed deeply into the child's eyes, making a connection that would remain firm in the memories of both for the rest of each of their lives, "I can go in peace. I have done my job, an' you have all you need to live a happy life. An' whenever you shine a pair a boots or shoes fo' the rest of you life, you will remember me, won't you boy?"
The old gentleman drew himself up to his full height, something he had not done in quite some time, wincing as his old muscles stretched and old bones shifted. "You remember what I teached you here today an' you will never go hungry or thirsty, or without a place to sleep you whole life, you hear me?"
The child looked up in awe, not nearly comprehending the words the old man had spoken, but certain that this was the smartest, happiest, wealthiest man in the whole world.
And, in that moment, that is exactly how the old man felt. And, in that moment, perhaps he was.
He patted the boy on the head, and then limped away in his forward-leaning, shuffling, arthritic gait, allowing his shoulders to resume their accustomed posture. Clamping down tightly on the black butt between his teeth, he snatched the newspaper from the table with one hand and his well worn baseball cap from the hook by the door with the other. On the walk out front he stopped and turned back to see the clear eyes of his grandson beaming through the screen door.
"Don' chew fo'git!"
They smiled to each other and then he was gone.
On the corner he caught the R.T.D. and rode out the circuit, ending in the station downtown. As he stepped from the bus he inhaled deeply of the air, heavily mixed with the fumes of the busses, and the odor of the people who had been riding them. His eyes sparkled. He felt at home. As he walked through the station, he waved often to familiar faces with the rolled up paper in his hand.
Reaching his destination, he stepped up onto the small platform and took a seat, where he began to read the paper. He waited for a customer, while the sign above his head silently called out to the terminal, SHINE.