Shoe Shine Boy

Spit. Shine. Spit. Shine. It’s where they get the term spit shine from. Jack Williams thwacked his cleaning blocks together and a cloud of solvent burst into a loose cloud and fell onto the sidewalk. Glancing up at his customer he recommenced his labors and collected the worn nickel.

Whistling, Williams gave the pale by the chair a smart kick and it turned upside down and he took a seat. He was happy to get the nickel but the man, Mr. Franklin, was as reliable as the rain and he may not get another customer on a Tuesday. Most men got a shine once a week, depending on weather of course, be it on Sunday or Monday. Business became inconsistent starting Tuesday. Maybe Mr. Franklin had been taking an interest in young Jack, but maybe he just enjoyed one-upping his colleagues by out shining them on the floor level.

Williams shrugged his thoughts away and procured a harmonica from within his well worn navy blue vest. With his left foot he slid a cup containing two pennies out in front of him and began to blow “Ballin’ the Jack”, tapping his right foot in time. He made four more pennies over the next hour and took a break to rest his lips which had become raw. He pulled out a rag and rubbed the harmonica down; nodding to a man that tossed a penny at his cup but missed badly, sending it rolling into the crowded sidewalk.

The man had instantly looked the other way so Williams got up to search for the penny and found it inches from the storm drain. He picked it up, flicked it with his thumb, grabbed it out of the air and spun on his heel to return to his perch. A minute later an elderly man stepped up to the chair and Williams offered a greeting before rubbing and brushing his way to another nickel and another meal.

Reassuming the pale, he starred at the frayed hems of his pants legs. The back of his pants were once plaid brown like the rest but now appeared black from being stepped on so often. The pants were easily four inches too long he speculated. He couldn’t be picky as they cost him nothing, but he decided to perform some alterations and with his pocketknife, he removed three of the worst inches and made plans to hem up the other inch once he got back to the riverside. Marlene would certainly have some thread to spare and had already taught him basic sewing. Stretching out his arms he looked around as the sun began to rise in the sky and bring heat to the town. He thought about his name and how much he liked it. He had had many good ideas for a name, but Jack Williams was his favorite. He even made an I.D. card using a roughly cut rectangular piece of cardboard. It felt good to have a name and on this day, Jack was feeling especially fine.

After the sun set, Jack returned to the river with a loaf of bread and a brick of cheese and set about to fix up his pants. Marlene gave him the necessary thread and he was finished with the little project in under an hour. He stood up and looked down at his handy work admiring the repairs. He shoved his hands in his pockets and lifted his toes up in the manner of someone satisfied.

Just then Jack heard shouts of excitement and ran down to the river to look at what all the fuss was about. Three row boats containing men in the unmistakable uniform of police officers were fast approaching the small community of gypsies. They had already been here for one month and it seemed as if the eviction notice was on its way. Jack Williams made for his belongings and hopped on the first barge to push off.

And We Thought of Home

It’d been raining on and off for two weeks by then; more on than off. No deep thunderstorms as we had been accustomed to in the mid-west. In the mid-west you could expect a dozen or more high powered storms every year but here we languished through the kind of rain that is no fun to watch from your window and no fun to be out in. I remember hearing the wind in the early morning in place of the traveling horn band that occasionally played past our window in the street below, headed for the main square.

We secured our jackets and made our way out into the rain. I made a comment about the food but I can’t remember what exactly. I was getting sick of the meat and potato routine offered at the local restaurants. I remember there being a time when I was certain I could never need anything but sausage, potatoes, and cheese.

The wind battled with our recently acquired umbrella. The umbrella was very nice as I recall. Someone had left it near the entrance to our building and after giving it a fair 30 minutes to rediscover its original owner, I made my claim. I’m not sure if the resulting smashed-in mail boxes nearby had been a reaction to my decision, but either way; I wasn’t taken to stealing anymore and forgave myself this rare offense.

The rain was producing an enjoyable aroma and the grass and trees in the park around the market square were a deep green and showed clear signs of a bountiful spring. The wind dancing through the thick foliage harked me back to a magical summer some years ago where I spent much of my time out on a farm consuming psilocybin. Thoughts of home were a regular occurrence for us. No new friends and crummy weather weren’t helping. A recent trip to Liverpool had been excellent but too short. In any event, it reawakened the travel bug within us and we looked forward to fall when our lease would be up and we would go to many places together.

We stumbled through the door of an Irish pub and looking like wet rags, looked around for a table wondering if there was anything here for us. The sandwiches were decent and the prices were decent too and we made our visit strictly business and were out in half an hour. I suggested a stop on the way home for beer and she obliged, looking forward to getting something sweet as well. They were substitutes for friends, really. We had nothing to do at our apartment anyways. We had both taken to reading a lot and surfing the internet, waiting impatiently for the skies to clear up while expecting no such thing. Visitors were due in a couple weeks time.

We had a quick chat about our legal status in Poland and had already decided that we were being avoided because of our nationality and stuck to this conclusion. The information that should have come our way already was being delayed; and perhaps deliberately. But perhaps not. Maybe it was a symptom of our bleak outlooks forced upon us by the stubbornly low clouds that moved deceivingly swiftly. Just then, a strong gust pulled rain beneath our umbrella causing us to stop and huddle closely for a second before it eased up and passed.

We didn’t see it right away, but we heard the screeching of the brakes and we stopped in our tracks. A sopping wet mutt yelped and bounded out of the road and scurried past us with its tail tucked tight between its legs. Meandering through the side streets, avoiding the numerous puddles, I was thinking about home.

A Delibrately Ignorant Hypothesis

You just can't keep a sign like this from entertaining me. Of course the true meaning is lost in translation when I relate to what I know of warning signs in the States, and I'm quite sure I know what the intention of this particular sign is; but that said, I have a mind to make things as I want, and this sign shall become fodder for my thoughts as we roll down the rails eastbound from Krakow.

A bottle angled at 2 o'clock in the foreground and an open window in the background and all this encircled by a thick red line. "You are encouraged to dispose of all empty bottles by way of an open window." That one is easy enough. As if inebriated Poles on their way to a Football match needed anymore encouragement, here it was, and circled in red too so no passing eye should be deceived!

To the right of this image was another small sign. This one also featured an open window and had a stick figure resting his elbow on the pane and gazing out. This too was encircled in bold red. I took the image's location to mean that, like the majority of written "western" communication, it should be interpreted following the information to its left. Therefore, it seems necessary that "Following the expulsion of trash from an open window, one is encouraged to observe thoughtfully their recent actions." Once again, there can be no doubt as to this message for it has been emboldened by the red circle around it.

Now, from what I know about warning signs in the U.S., it is customary to not only circle a particular action in red, but to extend a cross member through this action if you wish to have it avoided. This cross piece is what makes it evident that the message being conveyed by the image is undesirable and perhaps illegal. It loudly states "Attention! You can not do this!"

If we were to remove that cross piece, well, we'd have cars entering into oncoming traffic and children grabbing high-powered electrical wires by the dozens! Not only is this bad for the mortality rate, it opens the door for general disorder. There must be a clear message so people can save themselves from themselves. The cross member is that life preserver. So is it therefore conceiveable that a large mistake has been made aboard this Polish train? Are lives in danger?

The answer is no. As long as you follow clearly highlighted instructions. I am certain that if, at some point, it is determined unsafe for people to whip beer bottles out windows and watch the effects, there will be a thick line cutting through the heart of these images. And that line will be red.

Author's Note:
Red, as well as black, are typical signs of danger in many societies. This as well must be taken into consideration, but after contemplation, I can find no direct reason for why if you weren't to follow these strict instructions as displayed aboard Polish rail transportation, you should come to harm.

Cribbage

“Fifteen for two.”

I took my back peg and leap-frogged the leading peg two holes.

“A ha!” she said. “Twenty for two.”

Horse’s ass. She always has my number.

We played out the hands and took our points. Once again, with a cute sort of victory smirk, she had won. The notches under the board were favoring her by a couple, although it was clear that on occasion of a victory for me, I was skunking her rotten. Take that as you may.

It was my deal last so she dealt the first hand of the next game. If you happen to leave the cribbage arena, a.k.a. the table, stool, or any other varietal of surfaces on which a game of cribbage might be enjoyed, for any length of time, the deal is dead and you must re-cut for it. I wasn’t going anywhere. I needed a “W” for the sake of my ego.

And so it began. While pegging the first hand I smote her Jack with a Jack of my own and drew first blood. Although this is generally a moment to briefly relish, my shack of confidence was quickly toppled when she counted her two hands and gained a 16 point early advantage. But ah! Determination ever present I shuffled fluidly and doled out the cards, certain, without a shred of evidence, that I had given her the worst kind of garbage. My own hand was looking swell and bolstered by the cut 8 of hearts, I felt keen to the task.

She played a 7 and I countered with an 8, taking two holes and praying she’d bite the bait. She did, and after playing her own 8 and taking her measly two I made my move.

“31 for eight!” I exclaimed, dispelling the last of the 8’s and advancing my little green soldier accordingly.

We counted our hands and I found myself in the lead by a considerable margin despite my previous lollygagging. But oh! The whims of the cruel goddess of cribbage are not to be trifled with! She takes you for a ride as she pleases and leaves you up, then down, then mired in disrepair, your best friend a 5 for which she’ll give you no 10’s! No, this deity is not to be underestimated, with her constant bedfellows Luck and Skill, neither of which she prefers.

A few more hands were played out and I retained my lead. I was determined not to stall out in the home stretch as had been my peculiar curse since my days of European cribbage had begun. But my headstrong woman, ever the competitor, was giving me fits. Seemingly finding diamonds in a salt mine she threw down for a quick 18 pointer and was just like that, nipping at my heels; and in the driver’s seat, no less!

It was her crib and it was not only a time for action, but a time for prudence. I carefully selected the cards I would give her.

“Feed my sheep,” she egged me on, tapping her fingers on the crib cards in a cribbage move made popular by my cribbage-dominating father.

“I hope your sheep have an appetite for arsenic,” was my reply. I deposited a 4 and a Queen and got down to business.

We pegged and counted our hands. My lead was still safe but both of us being less than ten holes from the finish, and my rival to count her hand first on the next round, I was concerned about my odds. She had clearly been trained too well.

I shuffled and shuffled and shuffled some more in an effort to appease that cribbage goddess and curry her favor. I knew the deck held a hand in it that was absolute rubbish and it was this hand, which once given to my opponent, that would spell my victory. I held my breath and dealt the cards. Funambulating, we each put in to the crib. The deck was cut and up came a 5! Great graciousness but what a time for that! If she had anything in her hand at all, she must certainly have a ten!

I could feel the pangs of defeat, once again, as we pegged our way through the hand and she, revealing her previously meaningless Jack-Queen-King run of three, came within four holes of the finish. It was her count and it was her game. Frustration led me from the table, where I left my bruised and salted ego for another time and another game.

An Apartment Dinner Scenario

I sipped whiskey for the first time in well over a month abroad. It slid, like napalm, through my innards. I was staring out our new window and admiring the view and feeling rather European about the whole situation; except for the whiskey. Whiskey always takes me home.

“What should we do about dinner?” I said, pouring another drink.

“What should we do? I told you to eat earlier at babcia’s. I’m not hungry.”

I grunted and shuffled through the fridge locating the kielbasa behind the bread and taking the bread as well. I fished in the breadbox for an onion and smartly sliced it. I sent the butter into the pan with the charge of frying the bread, kielbasa, and onion. As the pan began heating up the smell was permeating the apartment and my clothing and her clothing too. God, she hates that brand of smell on her clothing. I was ready for an issue to develop and took a strong pull of the whiskey. I could swear someone cut the whiskey with vodka. Maybe I’ve been drinking too much vodka.

“Can you shut the kitchen door?” I heard from the other room.

“Of course; you sure you don’t want any?”

“Uh huhh.”

I smiled and mixed my sputtering dinner pushing the door closed with the side of my foot. I turned the bread, now toast, with a fork and mixed the onions and sausage around. I was certain that bread, or potatoes, accompanied by onions and sausage were a king’s meal. I felt like a thief in a royal kitchen and had another whiskey to celebrate.

Our floor boards were old and worn and creaked when walked upon. The whole place has a feel of history to it and you could almost pretend you were watching 1940’s Poland from the warped and scarred windows. I chewed on that thought and on my food as well, taking special delight in the fried toast. Cleaving it with knife and fork, I admired my own cleverness.

The rugs were well worn too and threadbare at spots on the edges. I could imagine the many pounds of dust that had been ground into the fabric and knew that it could never all be removed. They were one and the same now, the dust’s soft gray history and the fibers of the rug. The rich smell of onions, butter, and kielbasa had recently joined that parade although I suspected it was not the first time.

I tidied up the kitchen and sucked down the dregs of my glass. I stood looking out the window, engaging my mind’s eye in a European exercise. I imagined the summer and I imagined teaching. I finished the bottle and read a few pages of Twain’s Connecticut Yankee. Now there’s a guy who’s got it together, thought I.

I sighed and climbed the stairs to the loft where my lady laid waiting.

A Transfer

Black flashes of lightning bit into the damp air hanging loosely over Vysocany, spitting sheets of water onto the shadowed streets. The water, highlighted under a streetlamp outside the window, danced for us as we held our breath, waiting for another flash bang to delight our senses. The rain began to turn peculiar; its dancing had slowed as if it were aware of an audience and wanted to put on its best display. The individual droplets of water began to twirl with one another and pass through the glowing light in a rhythm wholly unique to nature’s whims. The dancers grew larger as the storm seemed to be blowing past us. Their final act was a brilliant nod to the capabilities of a rogue pressure system, leaving the street sides and walkways pale in the corners and reestablishing the cold we both knew would persist for another week. A comment was made regarding the short night of sleep that was in store for us and we curled up, together, thoughts of the past month’s activities raw in our minds.
The morning has an awful habit of sneaking up on the human race. We trudged, burdened by luggage on our backs and in our hands, and fought for the bus station. The bus drivers were jovial and skinny in a uniquely Polish way. Smoking cigarettes they helped us stow the luggage in the compartments beneath the windows. I had forgotten how comforting it is to hear the language spoken and to be a part of the camaraderie that Poles seem to share when grouped together on long distance transportation. They always clap when a plane lands safely.
Our ride went on uneventfully although we had hoped the ten hours would give us a bit more of an opinion on the Czech countryside. Not until the bus made the border and began to wind through the low-lying Tatras were we rewarded for our decision. I had seen beautiful Czech landscapes painted by Czech artists a hundred years ago and more. We had been to St. George’s and the art museum there and it had made the choice of a ten hour day trip easier. I thought we must have gone the wrong way.
We arrived in Krakow just 30 minutes behind schedule. Being on the outskirts, none of the magic I associated with the city was visible, only the graffiti any respectable city can claim. Football is big here. Football is the only team sport that receives any amount of attention and that includes being the topic of the vast majority of the graffiti. The buildings of southern Poland tend to max out at ten stories, and this is rare. None of the beautiful streets and buildings I knew were waiting for us was within sight although we both seemed to breathe easier, aware of their presence nearby.
We knew we had been waiting two years for this moment. Prague is a beautiful city to be sure. It’s steeped in history, beauty, and tourism; the latter being the only quibble in a land that values beer first and the food you may accompany it with second. Great and troubled artists have thrived there and produced there but artists of the same ilk have done so everywhere. Something about Krakow though…
In Krakow the smell of the Second World War still lingers in the nooks and crannies and occasionally reaches out to kick you in the jaw. In a language I don’t know, Poland spells “resilience”.
Two days later we caught the sun winking at us from atop the famed Cloth Hall. Pigeons in heat displayed their wears for potential, although unappreciative, mates. Shimmering colors expanded from the male’s neck as he dragged his tail in full fan. Folks pass by, arm in arm. Every stone that composes the streets and the square is as it should be. If it’s not, blue overalls indicate a correction and young men operate the cranes. We came here to teach English.