Though it was a Monday holiday the shoe shop by the mall was open. An Indian family owned it and wasn't concerned with American observances.
Jillian had acknowledged my observation that we should probably drive, since walking shoes were the thing we lacked! This was our first pickup-truck shopping trip. She enjoyed the experience, window down, one arm out in the breeze, lazily feeling the wind as we cruised across town.
"There it is! That one!"
She probably didn't need me to point it out, as the giant neon sign in the shape of a shoe saying "Shoe Repair" was pretty hard to miss. It was a shop in a row of shops on the street flanking the mall, one of the few stores to survive the flood of chains and multinationals that came with a mall. The rest were thrift shops, seasonal specialty stalls, a coffee shop.
Shifting down expertly, swinging into the lot and parking neatly in front of the door, Jill set the brake and killed the engine.
"Before we go in, what are we here for exactly?" She liked to sort out shopping before we got deep into it. Avoided impulse buying she said. No fun I said. Anyway, how much trouble could I get into in a shoe store?
"Walking shoes. Replacement beach shoes - ours are getting pretty stinky." We liked to walk in the surf, which both washed away sweat and added oceanic life. Subsequently they smelled about like those piles of decaying seaweed you find on the beach.
"Sandals!" She was getting into it. "And I need something other than those red pumps."
I thought those red pumps were just fine, thank you. Red fuck-me pumps were my favorite style. She had her own thoughts on that subject.
"Not sure Mrs. Kumari will have all that. We can only hope!"
This shoe store was fourth generation. The Kumari clan apparently came over in the 1800's, servants to a British couple that emigrated to America. Opened a shoe shop. Been selling and repairing shoes ever since. Their granddaughter even worked at a big athletic shoe company, an engineer/designer.
That left Mrs. Kumari and her old employee Chatterjee in charge. Probably the last in the family line to run the shop. I don't know what will happen to it when they retire. They're both sound as a dollar, all that vegetarian food I supposed, so not worried, not gonna happen anytime soon.
We disembarked. Holding hands we briefly window-shopped, went in.
"Master Gregory! So good to see you! It has been too long!"
Jillian raised her eyebrows, smirked at me. She maintained my illusion of stealth all these years was either a polite fiction or evidence of senility on my part. Each time she met someone I had known for years she rubbed it in.
"And you must be Jillian! Gregory, you have excellent taste! Such a fine young lady! Such splendid legs!" Mrs. Kumari understood everyone by their legs and feet; the result of generations of training and experience I suppose.
Jillian played along, tipped one leg, showed off her gams. Very nice! Shorts, beach shoes, lots to look at.
"And you will be wanting?"
Jillian spoke up. "I need some walking shoes. This guy likes to hike everywhere, he's wearing my feet to the bone! Something good for miles of sidewalk?"
Mrs. Kumari asked her to kick off her shoes, walk across the floor to the counter and back. From just that, she knew everything there was to know about Jillian's stride, stance, walking style, footfall. Where her shoes were likely to wear and how. From ten seconds of observation, from being born to the shoe business.
Disappearing into the back she returned shortly with three boxes. "Sit, dear. Try these on."
The first were functional brown almost-boots, meant for hiking really. Stiff soles, so you could scramble over rocks without bruising your foot. Ankle support in spades.
Jillian slipped her naked feet inside, snugged up the laces, tied them securely. Mrs. Kumari sat on a stool in front of her, untied them, snugged them differently, retied them.
"Oh! That is better!" A thankful smile from Jillian, my consummate social sweetheart. She could charm the socks off nearly anyone. Mrs. Kumari smiled despite herself.
"Walk! Outside! To the street and back! Make sure they don't slip, the heel is secure!"
Jillian complied, the door jingling as she departed. Mrs. Kumari watched her go.
"You won't let this one get away, will you dear?"
I reddened. Mrs. Kumari had wanted to match me up all my life, since I was a teenager hanging around the mall. Was deeply disappointed in me for remaining resolutely single.
"I can assure you, I am doing everything in my power to win her over!"
A broad smile, approving nod. "She will make you a better man! Already I see improvement!"
How that could be I don't know. I felt the same, on the outside anyway.
Jingle-jingle! Jillian returned.
"Wonderful! My feet feel so strong! Like I could walk forever!"
"Good; good. You will try all three, compare them, choose which is better. That way you will get only the best!" Always a saleswoman, Mrs. Kumari.
Jillian sat, tried to slip out of the boots but couldn't, had to untie and un-snug them to get them off.
The next pair were more stylish but more flexible. Lower top, not so much ankle support?
Jillian tied them herself, to Mrs. Kumari's satisfaction this time. I just sat on a bench, admired her legs, tried to peek up her shorts, and generally perved on my girlfriend.
Standing, she moved her weight from foot to foot, feeling the difference.
"More cushion! Less stiffness! For city walking only!" Jillian listened absently, just getting the feel of them.
Without being told Jillian jingle-jingled out, headed around the parking lot, striding like she was going somewhere.
"I worry about the ankle support. But she is young, strong, weighs perhaps not so much as some, will not have trouble with turning an ankle like the rest of us."
I nodded, looking around the old shop. I'd been in it maybe a hundred times. Used to spend a penny in a gumball machine Mr. Kumari had by the counter, all those years ago. Mr. Kumari was long gone, bowel cancer, that had been hard to watch. Also gone, the gumball machine.
The stock room was well-supplied, which meant business was still good. I was glad; the independent shopkeeper was a dying breed. The community tried to support them, but it was hard going for most.
A rack in the back of the break room held bagged shoes, repaired, waiting to be claimed and paid for. This was much as it had been when I was young.
In fact, some of the shoes were exactly as when I was young. Still here, all these years later? Still unclaimed? Surely the owners were long gone, moved or dead?
The style of the oldest pair was indeed antique. Maybe even from before Mrs. Kumari's time? I had not noticed such things when I was a lad. While I could 'see' everything, Jillian joked that I saw hardly half of what I 'saw'. And she was right. My memory was no better than anyone else's. I noticed only what was interesting to me. Shoes had not been interesting to a young boy.
"How is the shoe repair business?" I asked.
She tsk'd. "Shoes these days! Not repairable! Designed to fail! Only last so many miles, no more. Hardly any leather; soles that are high-tech as to be more expensive than the rest of the shoe! I get hardly a pair a month, Mr. Chatterjee has become an idler! Spends his time drinking coffee in the mall! Perfectly good coffee shop next door! Just wants to look at the girls! Shameful!"
She always complained about Mr. Chatterjee, how little he worked. I was certain he would never be let go. As much a fixture of the shop as she was, without him she'd be lonely. Her only company after Mr. Kumari died, after her granddaughter went to college. A shop was about more than profit.
Jingle-jingle! "Also wonderful! Lighter yet! But yes, I can feel the road more, feel even gravel in the parking lot?"
Mrs. Kumari nodded, "If you wander far from the sidewalk you will know it shortly! Bruises on your soles, toes that cramp! Yet they are more comfortable on the level; a matter of personal preference, walking style."
The third pair were pretty lurid. Clashing colors, made mostly of foam and plastic, these were among the high-tech monstrosities she'd bemoaned.
Jillian looked dubious; even she knew these were ugly, garish. But she was game, struggled into them, laced them. Mrs. Kumari had to intervene again, these required different tension to fit properly.
Stepping forward, her feet fairly flew off the floor. She high-stepped, laughing.
"They weigh nothing! So strange! Like feathers!"
Mrs. Kumari acknowledged that, but her expression was sour. "Yes, almost magical in their construction. Like things of air and seafoam! My granddaughter designs only shoes like this now. She praises them endlessly!"
Jillian was amused, took off for her turn around the parking lot.
To pass the time, I continued on the subject of shoe repair.
"You must have some shoes that you repair, yet no one returns to claim? What are your oldest pair that you retain?"
She smiled, a subject she was comfortable with. "We have several from Mr. Kumari's father's time, yes! That long ago! Shoes of distinction, durable and endlessly repairable. Why anyone would leave them, I don't know.
"Yet the oldest pair unclaimed are the most remarkable. Let me show you!"
I let her fetch them, actually interested to see. Old things were a favorite topic of mine.
She returned with a large bag, clearly containing more than one pair. Unrolling the top, she extracted a slip, set it carefully aside. Like the owner might really return one day!
Next came out a pair of Oxfords, hand-tooled leather, Italian? Gleaming like the day they were put in there.
"So splendid! Mr. Kumari used to oil them, keep them in the best condition. I would say, why maintain them? Let them rot! But he was truly respectful of shoes, and would not let such a fine pair go to disrepair."
Clearly someone else had been caring for them; Mr. Kumari had been gone a decade and still they were in splendid shape.
"Do you ever seek out the owners?" I was really curious.
"Never! The policy has always been, let the customer wear out their shoe-leather retrieving the shoes. We do not wear our shoes, delivering them! We would become paupers, our feet bare, our shoes in ruins!"
That sounded like Mr. Kumari for sure.
The second pair came out - women's pumps, brilliantly green suede, brushed to look like kidskin. Beautiful! But tiny! For very small feet indeed.
Mrs. Kumari beamed at them; these were something she approved of.
"The workmanship! The finest! A work of art! Like sculpture! The flowing lines, the contrast of buttery-soft suede, the horn heel! It makes your heart flutter!"
