Klonsky's Shoe Repair
Ira Kaplan hadn't returned to the old neighborhood since he went off to fight in Vietnam. During a business trip to New York he visited his old neighborhood on 170th street in the Bronx, noting that everything has changed over the years.
Where once there was Edelstein’s Delicatessen, there was now a McDonald’s; where Fleischman’s Dry Cleaning (One-Hour Martinizing) used to be, a Korean nail salon and spa now was; where Ginsberg’s Department Store was, there was now a Gap. Nothing was the same, except for the narrow storefront of Klonsky’s Shoe Repair, which, dimly lit as ever, was still in business.
As Kaplan passed the shop, he recalled (such are the quirks of memory that he does not know how) that just before he was drafted to go off to Vietnam, he had left a pair of shoes with Mr. Klonsky that he never bothered to pick up. Could they, he wondered, possibly still be there?
A small bell tinkled as he entered the dark shop. Mr. Klonsky, who seemed old 40 years ago, shuffled out from the back. He was hunched over, wearing a leather apron, one eye all but closed.
“Excuse me, Mr. Klonsky,” Kaplan said, “but I used to live in this neighborhood, and 40 years ago I left a pair of shoes with you for repair that I never picked up. Is there any chance you might still have them?”
Klonsky starred at him and, in his strong Eastern European accent, asked, “Vas dey black vingtips?” “They were indeed,” Kaplan only now recalled. “And you vanted a halv sole, mit rubber heels?” “Yes,” Kaplan relied, “that’s exactly what I wanted.” “And you vanted taps on the heels only?” “Yes, yes,” said Kaplan, “amazing! Do you still have them?”
Mr. Klonsky looked up at him, his good eye asquint, and announced, “Dey’ll be ready Vendsday.” |
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