Read Online Problems with People by David Guterson - Free Book Online
Authors: David Guterson
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“Have a nice day?”
“No.”
“Yes,” said the boy. “Not as nice. And now, I clean your shoe.”
“No.”
“Yes, yes, please,” said the boy. “I clean.”
He looked at his shoes. Sure enough, as the boy had sought to suggest, there was copious dog shit on one of them. Yellow-brown, shiny, slick, and fresh, and smearing both the sole and the leather below the laces. “Great,” he said. “Dog shit.”
“I clean,” replied the boy. “Please.”
They were in front of a shop where, among other things, you could have gotten a vacuum cleaner repaired if there was no strike. It was closed, or nearly closed; the metal roll-door was open about two feet at the bottom to let air in on someone who, he could tell by the clink of tools, was working today. Here the boy pulled two plastic bags from his pocket. With one he made a clean place for his client to sit, spreading and smoothing the plastic fastidiously. Then, just as carefully, he removed the offensive shoe and, holding the shoeless foot up, set the other bag under it, and set the shoeless foot down on that. And so, via two bits of plastic produced from the boy’spocket, his pants seat and sock were buffered from contact with Kathmandu.
He watched. The boy appeared neither humiliated nor disgusted. With the point of a stick, he worked steadily on the dog shit while squatting with an enviable comfort and flexibility that, ubiquitous here, were rare in America. He also had an incredible head of hair, glossy, black, thick, neatly cut. And an unwrinkled, clean, short-sleeved rayon shirt. And clean shoes. And patience. And deft technique with a worn brush and a rag. And he was so thorough about cleaning the shoe that when he was finished there was absolutely no sign of dog shit. Not only that, the shoe looked better than it had for a long time—about the way it had when it came out of the box. Lacing it up, inspecting it, he was impressed by what this boy had accomplished with so little in the way of equipment or tools, impressed enough that he unlaced his other shoe and asked the boy to clean it, too. A deferential waggle of the head; two hands, as if the shoe were made of glass; the boy took the shoe with these signs of subservience and then, silently, moved his plastic protector under the newly shoeless foot. And so the second shoe was cleaned as well, with the same polish, efficiency, attentiveness to detail, and pride as the first. “How much do I owe you?” he asked the boy, who answered, while cleaning his hands by rubbing them together, “Twenty-five rupee.”
Twenty-five rupees—a little over thirty cents. “That’s a steal,” he said, and doled out a hundred. Strangely, the boy looked at it with graphic consternation—the way someone at home might look at a parking ticket. “Please,” said the boy. “I am taking one hundred rupee and I am bringing seventy-five rupee. Please,” he said again. “You are waiting.”
“No, no, no. At home that’s called a ‘tip.’ You get to keep the extra.”
The boy didn’t argue, but he didn’t go away, either. Instead, he began asking personal questions. What city? Bellevue, Washington. Is it near New York? No. What work? LASIK surgery. Lay-sa-lick sur-jur-ee? Helping people see better. How many childrens? Three children, all grown. What are their years? Twenty-six, twenty-four, and twenty-one—no grandchildren. Your wife, you have a peek-chur? No picture of my wife. The boy ran out of queries in this vein and began, instead, to float proper nouns—hopeful points of reference—terse utterances that were meant to provoke, from his American interlocutor, just what response? What was he supposed to say to someone who said to him, simply, “Michael Jackson”? Or “Liberty Statue”? Not knowing what to say, he asked the boy what he did when he wasn’t cleaning shoes. Answer: the shoe boy was a student of English, math, and computer programming, but there was no school today, because of the
“No.”
“Yes,” said the boy. “Not as nice. And now, I clean your shoe.”
“No.”
“Yes, yes, please,” said the boy. “I clean.”
He looked at his shoes. Sure enough, as the boy had sought to suggest, there was copious dog shit on one of them. Yellow-brown, shiny, slick, and fresh, and smearing both the sole and the leather below the laces. “Great,” he said. “Dog shit.”
“I clean,” replied the boy. “Please.”
They were in front of a shop where, among other things, you could have gotten a vacuum cleaner repaired if there was no strike. It was closed, or nearly closed; the metal roll-door was open about two feet at the bottom to let air in on someone who, he could tell by the clink of tools, was working today. Here the boy pulled two plastic bags from his pocket. With one he made a clean place for his client to sit, spreading and smoothing the plastic fastidiously. Then, just as carefully, he removed the offensive shoe and, holding the shoeless foot up, set the other bag under it, and set the shoeless foot down on that. And so, via two bits of plastic produced from the boy’spocket, his pants seat and sock were buffered from contact with Kathmandu.
He watched. The boy appeared neither humiliated nor disgusted. With the point of a stick, he worked steadily on the dog shit while squatting with an enviable comfort and flexibility that, ubiquitous here, were rare in America. He also had an incredible head of hair, glossy, black, thick, neatly cut. And an unwrinkled, clean, short-sleeved rayon shirt. And clean shoes. And patience. And deft technique with a worn brush and a rag. And he was so thorough about cleaning the shoe that when he was finished there was absolutely no sign of dog shit. Not only that, the shoe looked better than it had for a long time—about the way it had when it came out of the box. Lacing it up, inspecting it, he was impressed by what this boy had accomplished with so little in the way of equipment or tools, impressed enough that he unlaced his other shoe and asked the boy to clean it, too. A deferential waggle of the head; two hands, as if the shoe were made of glass; the boy took the shoe with these signs of subservience and then, silently, moved his plastic protector under the newly shoeless foot. And so the second shoe was cleaned as well, with the same polish, efficiency, attentiveness to detail, and pride as the first. “How much do I owe you?” he asked the boy, who answered, while cleaning his hands by rubbing them together, “Twenty-five rupee.”
Twenty-five rupees—a little over thirty cents. “That’s a steal,” he said, and doled out a hundred. Strangely, the boy looked at it with graphic consternation—the way someone at home might look at a parking ticket. “Please,” said the boy. “I am taking one hundred rupee and I am bringing seventy-five rupee. Please,” he said again. “You are waiting.”
“No, no, no. At home that’s called a ‘tip.’ You get to keep the extra.”
The boy didn’t argue, but he didn’t go away, either. Instead, he began asking personal questions. What city? Bellevue, Washington. Is it near New York? No. What work? LASIK surgery. Lay-sa-lick sur-jur-ee? Helping people see better. How many childrens? Three children, all grown. What are their years? Twenty-six, twenty-four, and twenty-one—no grandchildren. Your wife, you have a peek-chur? No picture of my wife. The boy ran out of queries in this vein and began, instead, to float proper nouns—hopeful points of reference—terse utterances that were meant to provoke, from his American interlocutor, just what response? What was he supposed to say to someone who said to him, simply, “Michael Jackson”? Or “Liberty Statue”? Not knowing what to say, he asked the boy what he did when he wasn’t cleaning shoes. Answer: the shoe boy was a student of English, math, and computer programming, but there was no school today, because of the
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