Dan, Dan the Shoe Shine Man

I was walking around being a typical tourist in New Orleans when I crested the flood wall to get a view of the Mississippi and discovered it was not so mighty this far south. I know it has the ability to be devastating despite my disillusionment, but compared to the crossings I’ve made at St. Louis and reflecting upon my memories of the mighty Mississippi near Memphis, I was more than a bit annoyed by its complete lack of grandeur.  I had seen the Hudson look more majestic back in New York, but this unexpected site explained why I had somehow missed crossing it during the night as we drove in. It merely blended in with the other “minor” tributaries we crossed on our approach. I looked around at the tourists and nodded politely to a few, wondering if they were equally disappointed. A man to my left was leaning on a handrail and when I made eye contact and wished him a good day, he nodded at my shirt that consists of a rather patriotic American flag fabric complete with the image of an eagle.

“I like your shirt, man.” He grinned with a smile only half-filled with teeth and offered his hand.

What was I to do but shake it in return and say, “Thanks! My wife bought it for me.”

“I like your shoes, too.”

He didn’t let go of my hand, and as I looked down at my sneakers doubtfully, trying to figure out why anyone would like those shoes, alarm bells began to go off in my head. Too late. Sure enough, the hook followed:

“I bet I can tell you where you got ‘em.”

Now I’ve been around the world and seen enough carnivals and conmen to know better. I’ve also spent years in the recruiting world and perfected the art of opening conversations while asking open ended fact finding questions. I knew exactly who I was dealing with at that moment, and 99.9% of the time I would normally walk away at this point, disengaging from whatever scheme he had in mind.  But part of me registered his claim as to knowing where I got my shoes, and I didn’t think there were any telltale signs that would allow him to figure it out.

I snuck my other hand in my pocket to clutch my wallet, fingered my ID Card to make sure it was still there, and hesitated just long enough for him to set the hook.

“Are you an honorable man? You look like you’re in the military. Are you in the service?”

This wasn’t an open ended fact finding question, this was an emotional hook. How could I possibly say I wasn’t? How could I possibly deny the life I have lived for 20 years?

“Are you an honorable man?” he asked again.

“Of course I am.” I smiled, resigned to the fact I was now going to have to ride this con to its conclusion and hope it didn’t hurt my wallet too bad. But I also had confidence that there was no way he could guess where I got my shoes.

“Okay, then,” he said. “I’m going to tell you where you got your shoes. Now notice I didn’t say where you bought ‘em, or where they were made. I just said I could tell you where you got ‘em, and you got ‘em on the bottom of yo feet.”

I couldn’t help it. I had to laugh. As an English teacher, I pride myself on paying attention to words, and as a general rascal, I derive great pleasure in playing with words myself.  He got me good, and we both knew it. But he also knew I was under no real obligation to entertain this game any longer, so he quickly dropped my hand, bent down and with a deftness I hadn’t anticipated, began to apply some milky liquid to my tennis shoes.  Now I began to get annoyed, but sensing this as well, he dropped a bomb on me.

"I knew you were in the service, Sir. I can tell. See, ‘cause I was in the service, too. Did eight years in the Army.  I was a 91B and jumped into Panama in the invasion.” He stood quickly to lift his shirt and show me several scars scattered from his midsection to the right side of his chest. “I took shrapnel in that one, even though I was just a medic.”

He bent down to continue rubbing the milky liquid on my shoes as I resignedly looked out upon the Mississippi that swirled angrily around the nearby bend in the river. What the hell was an eight year veteran doing in New Orleans scamming tourists?

“This here is saddle soap. It’s all natural and will clean and protect your shoes from the rain. You know it’s gonna rain soon, this is New Orleans, so aren’t you glad you got protection, now?”

“Sure.” I mumbled as I looked at the interwoven cloth material the tops of my sneakers were made of while he vigorously applies his concoction to the small pieces of synthetic leather on the sides.

“My name is Dan, Dan the Shoeshine Man. I done two shoes, two for twenty. That’s the going rate. Normally I do two for forty, but because you’re in the service, I’ll give you a break. Now we made a bet, and it’s not wise to go back on a bet in New Orleans.”

“I didn’t’ bet you anything.” I retorted.

“Now you said you was an honorable man, and I told you I bet I could tell you where you got your shoes. And it ain’t wise to go back on a bet in New Orleans.”

He was right. He did say that. But of course I hadn’t thought of it as a monetary bet. It didn’t matter at that point. I had had enough of this and turned the tables.

“What is a military veteran of eight years doing down here working like this?”

“A man’s gotta eat.”

“Why’d you get out?”

His entire countenance changed as he reflected back on his career. “I was in the 82d Airborne for all eight years, and one day in a jump, somebody went under me an’ stole my air. I dropped about three stories, did my PLF, gathered up my chute, jumped on the back of a 5-ton, and only then did I notice my leg start to swell. I broke my femur, so they medically discharged me.”

We talked for at least thirty minutes, and in the end I gave him some small cash for his story, not his con. But I also left him with some other financial advice that if he listens will preclude the need to hustle on the streets. I gave him my phone number and told him to call me after he took a few steps along the path I laid out for him. I walked away and back through the flood gate both mad and frustrated. Why does a veteran turn to hustling for his money? This guy was receiving $2,200 a month in disability. I know there are other programs to help veterans. I know he could go to college. He wasn’t dumb. He gave me his real name once I broke past his charade. This is a man that can easily become more than he is. I have used every benefit the Army offers to rise through the enlisted ranks, achieve a higher education, and become an officer. I know about the benefits people can take advantage of. But what I don’t know is why people don’t take advantage of these opportunities. Why do people settle for mediocrity or even less when there are programs in place to help them? I read in USA Today that there are an estimated 170,000 Iraq and Afghanistan veterans unemployed. The numbers run from 11.9-15% unemployment rates for veterans, to include ones with undergraduate degrees. They say that some employers see military service almost like “a felony.” I find that last bit hard to believe, but I’ve seen crazier things I didn’t believe in. Why can’t veterans get work? 170,000 unemployed veterans just from these two wars is unacceptable and incredibly frustrating. The Army is an institution I believe offers one of the most powerful and rewarding careers with a plethora of benefits that should prevent these issues of unemployment. What is the disconnect? How can we fix it? I am frustrated because I don’t have the answer, and these are my brothers and sisters in arms. Dan the Shoeshine Man may or may not take the advice I gave him… Either way, I wish him luck. He was a smooth cat.

~ Shawn Neely