At first glance he seemed like any other disconnected businessman, absorbed in his paper, the world his oyster. He paid no heed to the black man with his grey flecked beard who shined his shoes - and likewise the shoe shiner to his customer. The pair could have hated each other, known the other for years or simply be two ships passing in the day. It was a scene played out a thousand times a day in Manhattan. But a subtle and perceptive was eye needed to notice the difference here.
The suit was as fine as any in New York. Tailor made in London, its simplicity spoke of a timeless elegance but with a sharp sense of style. He loved the suit for occasions like this, when he had business dealings with those who'd be impressed by mere linen. To him it was an actor's costume, but to others it lent a meaning of credibility and social worth - at least in their own lives. And because he was in a suit but not of the suit it made him seem all the more imperious.
And that was an edge. "Always good to have an edge" he'd say, for he was a Mystery Man. He knew exactly what those around him were feeling because he felt the same way too. He had a different air, like he should be somebody famous, as if he were traveling incognito, an international spy at the least or a man of high art at the most. He watched the gears turning in their minds, trying to place their finger on it, never able to identify what that certain something was - but there was definitely something.
Yet it was a mystery even to himself, that magic feeling he radiated. Once in a while a brave or cravingly curious soul would smile and snap his fingers asking, "Say, aren't you...", trying to get him to tip his hand. But how does one tip a hand never seen? He'd smile shyly back, shrugging his shoulders, explaining he was nobody known almost as if he were apologizing. For outside of his sixty two million American dollars, what provable worth had he?
A shoe shine had at one time been the sort of pampering he'd never allow himself regardless of his cash. Giving in to such luxuries meant dropping your guard and besides, it surely was an act of affectation anyway, a superfluous taker of time. Comfortable men would have them to feel important or a pathetic sense of power, an illusion of control over the world. But over time he found it was not the giving in that was weak, but the denial of oneself was. This shine served a purpose in his life.
The routine of the shoe shiner was one of ancient practice. He was not cursory or sloppy or disdainful with his work. To him as well, the shine served a purpose. And even though he quickly surmised his client was not a talker, he did not feel the wall he usually felt - or worse, the false polite patter of a man who'd be horrified to have this blue color black man in his home. Truth be told, he preferred the blatant snobs to the subtle ones. But a rare bird this client be, and a sense of dignity and respect came over him as these two men committed this transaction of mutual competence.
What's this I'm feelin? It's like I'm a kid again, runnin' the streets when I was free. Back when I had hopes and knew nothin' 'bout life. I fer sher thought God loved me back then and there be great things ahead a me. I don't feel no rules comin' down from this man. Sorta like when I dun that famous actor - only I felt like him was just actin'. This be an old feelin', a feelin' that makes me wonduh who I am.
By the time he was done, the suited man's magic feeling had firmly embedded itself in the shoe shine man, filling him with anticipation for some final revelation. His client certainly didn't have the rushed air of a yuppie, or the bloated self-importance of a mid-level manager or the self-centered obliviousness of a lifelong New Yorker. And even without talking beyond the minimum, he'd gained an unspoken rapport with the man, even liking him. He trusted his instincts, there had to be a reason his defenses dropped.
Announcing the shine was finalized, he saw a crisply bent one hundred dollar bill proffered with instructions to "Keep the change." This offended him.
"No, suh." He waited for the man in the twenty thousand dollar suit to meet his eyes, recognizing him as a man of substance and style that cannot be purchased. "No suh, I don't take no charity. Don't need no handouts."
"Duly noted," replied the man as if he'd just been told the price of tea in China. The bill remained extended.
The shoe shiner's instincts told him it was OK to take it, but he just couldn't get his head around it. Both his insecurity and his pride demanded he not be insulted but rather treated as an equal. "Well, what do call that if you don't call it charity?"
"Revenge."
The faraway look in the suited man's eyes spoke of a time before, a vicious time of unrepented cruelty branded upon his soul. This man's feet had touched the scorching earth, feeling the burn and caring for it not. So any chance he got to soothe the burns of the world, he did so. The eyes and the matter-of-fact sound of the voice relayed this story to the shoe shine man and he took the money as one club member from another trying to survive a world gone mad. They never saw each other again, but neither forgot the other.
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Back in his swank east side apartment, Harry took off the costume of his suit and breathed deep. With a mirthful smirk, he muttered, "All the world's a stage" and donned the clothes of a street bum - clothes that let him breathe. His business deal at the hotel had gone OK that day but he was bitterly disappointed once again no one had recognized his alias of 'Edmond Dantes'. Actually, his true frustration was something else. The spark was gone. Matters of dead men's money could never interest him again. The incident with the shoe shine man sealed the deal.
It has been five long, quick years since he had won the lottery - an event that had both given and taken away direction in his life. Time has come for something different. Something new - and real. Something that explains this magic feeling with nowhere to go...
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