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The Man in the Green ShirtPublished on April 14, 2005
Mauricio was stationed in front of the Million Dollar Theater, the shuttered downtown movie palace at the corner of Third and Broadway. Watching over him, from 30 feet above on a molded cornice, were a pair of terra cotta grotesques, winking devilishly. He was wearing a kelly-green T-shirt, Adidas jogging pants and white running shoes. A multiÂcolored beach umbrella provided a spot of shade, Rod Stewart the soundtrack. Mauricio motioned to a high chair, the kind you’d find discarded in an Office Depot dumpster. I sat down, placed my right foot on a small pine box with a built-in shoe rest, and instantly recognized where I was: Mexico City. Mauricio was keeping faith with the tradition of those street urchins who tote wooden boxes the size of rat’s coffins in search of a pair of Ferragamos along the streets of the Zona Rosa.
Earlier, I had got to thinking that the scuffs on the toes of my Red Wing oxfords were undermining my casual yet orderly dress code. After a brief stop at the Criminal Courts Building, on Temple and Broadway, I’d set out to find a shine. It wasn’t easy. Service, let alone courtesy, is strictly verboten at the CCB, more of a lockup than a courthouse. Likewise, so I ascertained, at the Federal Courthouse, on Spring, and at the state’s Stanley Mosk Courthouse, on Hill Street. Caught in a loop of my own sepia memories, I’d pictured the wide terrazzo ground-floor hallways of these civic institutions as having shoeshine stands. Somewhere near the door, there would be a wooden platform with padded Naugahyde chairs and iron footrests, and a man in a smudged, waist-length smock putting aside his newspaper as I approached. But all I found were pistol-packing guards, X-ray machines and electromagnetic portals. I ventured toward Bunker Hill, whose soaring towers contain downtown’s highest concentration of lawyers, accountants and deal makers — and, therefore, expensive leather shoes. On notoriously vacant Grand Avenue, not a pair of Allen-Edmonds in sight. In fact, at 9:30 in the morning, I saw just six pedestrians between First and Third, all of them wearing sneakers. Following them wouldn’t lead to a spit-’n’-polish kiosk. I crossed Grand Avenue, wandered onto Wells Fargo Plaza, then briefly peeked into the KPMG Tower. The gimlet eyes of security-desk officials steered me away before I could even begin to utter my question, “Is there a shoeshine stand in the . . .” It was on my way down the library steps, en route to the Biltmore Hotel and Pershing Square, that it dawned on me: I could find a shoeshine, like everything else downtown, on Broadway. At the Grand Central Market I asked the unarmed security guard, who was busily chatting up a well-endowed woman sipping a soda. Leaning his head out onto Broadway, he pointed up the block and said, “The man in the green shirt.” That was Mauricio, who was now swirling a brush in a tin of saddle soap and quickly washing my shoe. With a horsehair brush, which he wielded like a baton twirler, he swiped away the residue of soap. Next, he applied a swab dipped in dye. A tap on my toe said, “Time to switch shoes.” He repeated the preliminary steps. Another tap, back to my right foot. Mauricio loaded his left-hand fingertips with black shoe wax and burnished the polish into my pebble-finished leather uppers. Two more stages of brushing, and then, without much flourish, and with just an occasional snap, he buffed the shoes to a glowing finish. “How much do I owe you?” I asked. Palm down, he spread the five fingers of his right hand. As I got ready to get up, a man in evident need of a shine walked past. Mauricio, catching the man’s eye, nodded toward his shoes, diffidently, partly asking but partly telling him he ought to stop for a shine. The passerby didn’t know what he was missing. With tip, I’d paid $7 to let my mind drift with the uncomplicated ceremony of wash, dye, wax, brush, polish and pay. I’d purchased five languorous minutes to gaze absently at a parade of wool-suited businessmen, plaid-shirted laborers and ragged-trousered panhandlers. I’d call that an inexpensive restorative. Later I learned that I’d missed two higher-end stands, one in the Wells Fargo atrium, the other at the Gas Company Tower, on Fifth Street, catering to the wingtips hurrying down the halls of those corporate office buildings. No matter. Now I knew about Mauricio and his outdoor room from which I could observe the labyrinth of the city at a turtle’s pace. —Greg Goldin
Runaway Chain-Saw Mom
If any one figure in early punk embodied the healthy Valley Girl gone very bad, it would have to be Cherie Currie, the lingerie-clad, platinum-blond jailbaitery who fronted the legendary Runaways. So it’s oddly fitting that Currie’s current occupation is chain-saw artist. With Makita in hand — or maybe an Ekko — Currie can reduce a piece of redwood, pine, palm, elm or cedar into a carefully carved work of art, generally at the rate of about two a day when she’s really cranking.
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