Step lively, kid, you're a Saturday shoe salesman in Newark

By Anthony Buccino

 “I don’t want to put anybody down but I haven’t had anything to eat in four days.” His words took on two meanings and I trembled thinking he would maul me with his toiled hands right here before the light turned green.

I worked in a shoe store on Broadway at Bloomfield Avenue in Newark. The storefront was a stone’s throw from respectable houses and a brick’s throw from crowded, dirty streets haunted by minorities and double parked cars and abandoned houses with degenerated people sitting at windows smoking cigarettes.

We were near an intersection at a traffic light, a couple of doors away from a Thom McCann chain shoe store and a record store where I spent most of my pay compiling a Bob Dylan record collection.

Inside the showroom of our store the cracked walls and peeling, chipping paint had been hidden by paneling. In the back room it wasn’t quite the same. There was no paneling and the decor was “institutional green” peeling flakes of what was once paint.

It wasn’t a modern store. If you wanted modern, go around the corner to Thom McCann. There they had tiny numbers next to the shoes in the window display. We had to go outside with the customer and memorize the shoe she pointed at. That wasn’t too bad but by the time I walked through the paneled customer area and into the decrepit stockroom I often forgot what I was looking for. I often found a way to sneak back past the customer who sat admiring the paneling and back to the window for a second chance to remember how the shoe looked.

One time while searching for a pair of baby’s sneakers, I brought out the requested size according to the description on the crusted box. Perhaps I should have looked into the box first, but I hadn’t. One sneaker had been in the window display; it was sun-faded and covered by dust. It was the last box in that size, and we lost the sale. It didn’t bother me much, I wasn’t commissioned, just earning the going rate of $3.75 an hour.

One day, I went to mail a letter at the mailbox across the street near the bank. It was about an hour before lunch, the hot dog guy was just setting up his cart. Before I could cross the street, this man who seemed about eleven feet tall came up to me. Like a pass pattern, he was down and out. I prayed he would only ask directions and let me be on my way.

His clothes had seen a lot of wear. He had on a tight-fitting jacket that was too small for him. Stains and dirt disguised the real color of his trousers. I was wearing a brand new shirt and a tie to match. That may have been what attracted him to me.

He inched forward as he spoke. I stared at his two giant fists wondering if he would crush me to bits right there on the street. I stepped backward as he spoke. I was trying to decide if I could outrun him. Maybe I could make it back into the store?

My calculations aside, I stood there in the hopes that he might be an eccentric millionaire. He might even be a publisher in search of an eighteen-year-old writer, I only hoped.

“I don’t want to put anybody down but I haven’t had anything to eat in four days.” His words took on two meanings and I trembled thinking he would maul me with his toiled hands right here before the light turned green. I was pretty sure he wasn’t a publisher, but an editor -- maybe?

 “I was wondering,” he said in slow deliberation, “seeing how well-dressed you are -- if you could give me some money that I could save up to buy some food.”

He wasn’t an editor, I was sure. But at least I knew what he wanted. I slipped my hand in my pocket and from an arm’s length handed him all my change.

Now, I didn’t wait for any reply, I just got away from him as quickly as I could. Safely back in the store I stood, letter in hand.

At lunch time I mailed the letter. I ended up with more change in my pocket from the hot dog cart.

After lunch I was waiting on this girl and her mother when in came this weathered man. He was slouched over and slovenly dressed. He handed the three of us American Flag Pins. I tried to ignore him and sell the ladies some shoes.

The ladies ignored me and fished in their purses. As they handed him dollar bills, I read the piece of paper attached to the pin I was trying to return to him.

It read: “This Good Article Courtesy of Deaf Mute Pay 50 cents Consideration Will Be Deeply Appreciated.”

“We always give,” the mother of the girl told me. I dug into my pocket and handed him two quarters. I said nothing to the woman and the deaf mute gave me a hi sign to say thanks.

He left. The girl and her mother bought two pairs of shoes. I didn’t tell the boss about the deaf mute. I was sure he knew and hid in the back room like he did when the Gypsy lady came in.

This Gypsy woman came in as I waited on some other customers. The boss was caught in the paneled customer area and she asked him something about slippers. He said some prices, the lowest ones in the store.

She asked for something lower still, trying to chew him down.

“Sorry, I can’t help you,” the boss said, and walked through the curtain into the back room where in the clutter we kept the incoming cartons of new shoes, the helium tank for the kiddies balloons and the broom handle we used to stretch tight shoes.

The Gypsy woman asked him why he went behind the curtain when she was talking to him. She turned around and walked out of the store. I saw that she had on two different slippers in two different styles. One shoe was gold, another red with beads.

Newark is no place for a young man to work. Between the shops and the bums and the unfortunates, the paycheck never makes it home. I only worked there about a month but it was more than enough for me.

Copyright © 1976 by Anthony Buccino

Cherry Blossom Press

Nutley, NJ, Books

Belleville, NJ, Books

Military History