[This is the conclusion of my Wildwood story, following part 1 and part 2.]
To recap, my 1967 summer of joy in Wildwood, New Jersey, had turned into a mini-disaster. I had lost my promised dishwashing job and ended up flat broke in a kid’s paradise that required a constant supply of coins for the boardwalk. Then I failed miserably at being a lifeguard’s errand boy. My last hope was to become a productive shoeshine boy, a feat that my younger brother Mike had already accomplished.
I eagerly awaited the arrival of my father for a weekend visit from Philly. He was bringing a shoeshine box for me to use. When I saw my ticket to riches, though, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was simply the ugliest shoeshine box that had ever existed. Mike’s box was cool – unfinished wood and a footrest in the shape of a foot. What Dad had brought looked like – and probably was – a relic from a different age.
It was tall, narrow and spindly, and was painted a dingy green color. Later, when I compared to the other kids’ boxes, I saw that it was much taller than all the rest. A customer really had to lift his foot to get his shoe into place. It soon became an embarrassment to lug around, but I knew it was my only path to get money for the boardwalk.
When you get right down to it, though, my box wasn’t all that ugly, and I guess that it did serve the purpose. It soon became evident that my main problem was that I was afraid to ask people if they wanted a shine. Whereas Mike had no hesitancy in soliciting business from all who passed, I sized up folks before asking. I only asked kind-looking older men wearing leather shoes if they wanted a shine. Each “no” I received felt like a personal rejection.
My first day out on the sidewalk was not good. I stood there up against the wall in the shade, not far from Vince’s Sandwich Shop, and had at least a dozen people decline my services.
Mike had previously coached me up to just keep asking. Most of them would say “no,” but when they said “yes,” then you had a dime and a tip if you’re lucky. So, I kept asking.
Finally, an older man with brown footwear said, “Sure, sonny.” I was surprised. He stepped up to my box and put a foot on the rest. Nervously, I pulled out a new can of brown polish, bought with money loaned to me by Dad, and popped it open. I dabbed the applicator brush deeply into the polish and turned my attention to the man’s shoe, looking at it closely for the first time. Turns out he wasn’t wearing a pair of regular leather shoes. Instead, his shoes were made out of thin strips of leather loosely woven together. I could see his white socks through the gaps between the weaves.
With the innocent exuberance of a shoeshine rookie, I decided to go ahead and give him a regular shine. I liberally applied the polish and put into action all of the tools of the trade – shoeshine brush, shoeshine rag (rough and soft sides) and buff brush. First I attended to the one woven shoe and then the second. I gave him a wonderful shine and even calmed down enough to tell him he was my first customer ever. Only then did I notice that much of the polish had travelled through the openings in the weave and ended up on his white socks. Luckily, the old guy didn’t seem to notice, and he gave me a quarter.
“Keep the change, sonny,” he said. I thanked him and then high-tailed it back to the apartment, certain that when he discovered the mess I had made of his socks that he would be coming back for me.
That’s how my career in shoe shining started, and, to be honest, it never got much better. I did not have Mike’s personality, confidence and ability to ignore the torrent of “no, thanks” in search of the next paying customer. I made a bit of money, but it was never enough to fully enjoy that summer at the beach.
As a kid, I didn’t appreciate the valuable lessons I learned during those weeks. But they burrowed into my subconscious. That sure thing dishwashing job turned out not to be a sure thing, and I had no backup plan. To be a successful shoeshine boy, you had to accept a lot of rejection, and I had no coping mechanism. Shyness, it became obvious to me, is a huge detriment to someone selling a service or product. I also saw through the example of my younger brother Mike that with some confidence and a bit of boldness even a kid could be successful as a solo entrepreneur.
If Frank had retained his co-ownership of Vince’s, that learning would not have taken place. And although those lessons were important, I would have much rather continued washing dishes and enjoying myself every night on the boardwalk. In 1967, I wasn’t looking to learn lessons, I just wanted to enjoy a full summer at the beach. I guess that life holds a lot of surprises for us – another lesson.