Buff

... and busted.

Mr. Alexander, at the dry cleaner’s, gave me the shoe-polishing device that the store had for customers. It had a motor, and when you pressed the top of your shoe against one of the two spinning cushiony things — one red, one black — they kind of gave them a shine. Apparently I, a little kid, was one of the only people who ever used it. I’d turn it on now and then, as I chatted with Mr. Alexander while waiting for my mom to come back from work, and buff the tops of my shoes. I can’t remember if he gave it to me because they got a newer model or because they just didn’t want it there anymore.

At home I buffed my shoes constantly. Red side, black side.

Then one day my mom took me to Joseph’s Shoes, to get new shoes. The salesman, Joseph, son of the original Joseph, asked me if there was something in particular I had in mind. I said I wanted Buster Browns. I’d seen ads for them. The logo had a kid named Buster and his dog on it. It was cool.

Joseph brought me a pair of shoes.

— But are they Buster Browns? I asked.

I didn’t see the name or logo anywhere.

He smiled.

— Way down in there, he said, pointing inside one of the shoes, toward the toes.

— But I don’t see it.

— It’s very far up there. It’s dark. Don’t worry — it’s there.

I was dubious, but he was an authority.

I wore the new shoes home.

In our apartment, using my machine from the dry cleaner’s, I buffed them and I buffed them. I possibly thought that the buffing might somehow activate the Buster Brown logo inside each shoe, make it seeable.

Finally I took the now-incredibly-shiny tip of one shoe and angled it so it reflected the ceiling light into the other shoe. For the first time I could see all the way down the shoe’s interior.

There was no Buster Brown logo.

Joseph had lied.

I understood this to be true, but it didn’t break me. I just accepted that everything my parents had always told me about the evils of capitalism was correct. Joseph was just a pawn.

I kept those shoes super-shiny until I outgrew them.