My Fingers Are Covered in Shoe-Black

My fingers are covered in shoe-black. I think that’s what it’s called. There’s a small, flat disc inside a small, flat can shaped like a tin of chewing tobacco. I think that’s right. I have not used shoe black or chewing tobacco, so I am hazy on the details.

The shoeblack appears to have once been a paste. Now, it’s a shrunken, tarry puck too small for the can.

You are supposed to smear this stuff on your shoes, then buff the shoes with a cloth that came with the paste. The cloth is so little it’s cute.

I am not sure what you are supposed to use to smear the stuff on. Paintbrush? Sponge? Paper towel? I am an unartistic, stinky-sponge-averse environmentalist. I settle on the only disposable paper product in the house.

There is a milonga tonight, and I’m taking no chances on staining my hands. I need rubber gloves but have none. I wrap my fingers in the only disposable paper product in the house.

* * *

My fingers are covered in shoeblack.

I am polishing my lovely, lovely Comme il Fauts. They are black leather, with a strip across the toes, a cup around the heel, and a skinny strap across the ankle. They are adorable, black leather bikinis.

These shoes have seen better days. Between leather’s natural stretch and a recent mishap that blew out my best buckle-hole, the bikini bottoms are downright baggy.

The bikini top, too. It sags—the right one does, anyway. I have stuffed two gel pads in there and am considering a third.

The gel pads fill the space, but they do not solve the problem: My shoe slides off-center, so that Roast Beef, Had None, and Ran Wii Wii Wii All the Way Home dance on the bare floor. They do not like it, and the heel complains.

This is easily remedied: Whenever I get a spare split-second, I collect with a little kick, that is, I smack the bunion of my left foot with the bunion of the right, to force the shoe back in place.

I believe the leads do not notice... or, they admire my innovative adornment. Yes, that’s what I think!

This solution has two shortcomings:

1. It hurts.

2. All the leather is worn away from the shoe-bunions.

The intake nurse at Dardano’s shoe repair shop points out some ripped stitching on the left shoe. Also the whiskers sprouting from the remaining buckle-holes, and the threads and flotsam that trail from the straps as seaweed from a ship.

[I trim the whiskers and weeds almost weekly. A cuticle scissor would do the trick, but I don’t have one. Sewing shears and paring knives and teeth make poor substitutes.]

Thirty-five dollars to replace the straps, $3.95 to outfit the bikini with enough padding to stop the slip-slide, she says.

Deal! I say.

Next Friday, she says.

Deal-breaker!

The Strawberry Moon milonga is Saturday. Sunday, Patricia’s house party. Tuesday, a private lesson. I could give all that up, but on Thursday I fly to Michigan—home of the University of Michigan tango club--and I am taking my shoes!

I need an interim measure.

If you’re selling a car that has seen better days, the first thing you do is wax it. If you’re wearing battered shoes to the Strawberry Moon milonga …