You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy!
How cool an act of kindness can make you feel.
DATELINE: FORT WORTH, TEXAS
It’s midnight and emotions are running full tilt in this swanky texas town. The Texas Longhorns have just beaten the Nebraska Cornhuskers on a last second field goal to win the Big 12 Championship and gain a spot in the national Championship game.
3/4 of the crowd is jacked on liquid adrenaline and ready to bust a serious groove.
With the clock ticking and last call fast approaching, our group heads into the night.
Ready to take this celebration to another level, we cab it to the White Elephant in the city’s historic district known as the Stock Yard. This place is famous for its honky tonks, and this bar is one of the most famous.
The entry way is narrow like a submarine galley. But as you get to the bar, the pageantry of the venue reveals itself and the ambiance of the White Elephant swallows you whole.
Beautiful women and Wrangler wearing cowboys are stacked 3 deep. Cowboy hats and Cowboy boots and big buckles are the norm in this beer joint.
The sounds of a slide guitar fill the old rafters that are decorated with hundreds of cowboy hats.
In the rear of this venerable haunt is a shoe shine stand. The shoe shine man is the only black man in this country music haven.
One by one we sit on his wooden bench and let that old leather cloth work its magic. Brown dust is quickly replaced by a sheen so reflective you can comb your hair in this brown mirror.
The old black man has a gap toothed grin that would make David Letterman and Michael Strahan wince.
I don’t know Shoe Shine Man’s name, but his energy is furious and his skill obvious. He buffs, and reloads his cloth with polish, all the while snapping that rag against the leather.
His old worn hands grip the boot, sliding over the ankle, down to the toes. Shoe Shine Man presses the polish into the boot’s fibers like a surgeon massaging a heart.
Shoe Shine man doesn’t look up. His gaze is constant, like a protective mother bear watching over a cub. To look up means he has not given the boot the concentration that it deserves. To look up means he is cheating his customer out of a shoe shine that feels so good, it might be considered a misdemeanor in Utah.
All the while, a positive energy swirls around Shoe Shine Man. There is a country music twang in the air, and it’s hard to hear yourself think. Shoe Shine Man talks, but his words are hard to decipher. He speaks into the cloth, into the floor, his words whistling through the empty space in his teeth. But through it all, there’s a smile on his face, a zest in his step, as he chucks and jives and snaps and prances all around the bench.
Then its over and he looks up at you with a face so proud, so pleased, you want to take it home and show your momma. Then the next boot wearing cowboy jumps onto the stand and the rhythmic dance starts anew.
A shine goes for roughly 5 dollars, perhaps a small tip is acceptable. But our group, fresh on the love of a big 12 championship and a few shots of fire water takes the tipping from acceptable to stellar.
The first member of our group, forever known as Double-A, wasn’t even wearing boots. He is wearing white tennis shoes.
“Can you polish these?” the beer keg of a man asks.
Shoe Shine man smiles so broadly you can see his esophagus through the gap in his teeth.
I think the answer is yes, because he reaches into his work bucket, pulls out a can of special polish and begins going to town on Double-A’s tennis shoes.
Big Joe is up next. He is wearing an expensive pair of boots. They all ready look good, but when Shoe Shine Man is done, you could hang them in the Dan Post Hall of Fame.
Shoe Shine Man wipes the beads of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He looks at our motley crew and his eyes search for the cash.
Double-A drops a green back in Shoe Shine Man’s hand. Shoe Shine Man doesn’t realize it’s a
C-Note. Before he can look, Big Joe greases his palm with a 2nd hundred dollar bill.
After a couple twangs on the steel guitar, Shoe Shine Man’s brain catches up to the reality of the moment. What would have been a 15 dollar gig at best has suddenly become a 200-dollar wet dream.
Suddenly Shoe Shine Man’s eyes grow wide as the shoe polish lids that line his bench. His gap tooth explodes in a swirling vortex of elation. His head fills with an ethereal light that seems to light up the darkest corners of the White Elephant.
Shoe Shine Man is whooping it up and dancing a crazy shoe shine two-step. This tavern of whiskey and outlaw stories has suddenly become a cathedral of good will and pure emotion.
But it’s not over yet. From polisher to polishee, Big Joe screams at Shoe Shine Man. “Get on up there big boy, and I’ll polish your boots.”
With the alacrity of a jungle cat, Shoe Shine Man leaps up in the chair that has always been reserved for others. Big Joe begins buffing Shoe Shine Man’s boots. Joe doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing and nobody gives a damn. The moment is priceless as we cheer for the boot man.
Like an old episode of Arsenio Hall, Shoe Shine Man whips his arm around in a circle over his head. His gap tooth smile is beaming so brightly, the band is blinded and bar tenders over pour their shot glasses.
And then with a few high fives, it’s over. The Shoe Shine Man jumps off his perch, screaming as if he won the Superbowl of shine. He races to the front of the bar, presumably to call his wife and tell her to warm up the bubble bath, because “daddy is coming home!”
The rest of the night is a blur. But I know one thing, the look on Shoe Shine Man’s face and the joy I felt watching him will last a lot longer in my memories than the luster on my boots.