The cobbler's bedside manner

Today I took shoes in for repair.  Same little place, same Mr. Kadinsky, same cluttered workshop, same smell of glue, same customer service.

"I glue.  No guarantee."

I haven't worn those shoes for a while, but they are my only pair of Cole Hahns, and it's winter.  I could use a closed toe shoe that used to fit.

"$5 each".  

"Plus tax".

"Pay now."

In the old days, he used to insist I pick up my shoes the next day.  That's because, in his old shop, abandoned shoes were groaning on every shelf.  Then he solved his problem by collecting up front. Now he has no shoes for sale, just a few assorted handbags hanging on pegs by the carts overflowing with tools, cans of paint, bottles of unlabeled liquid.

I pulled out a $20, starting digging for coins, eyeing the cups of change on the edge of his cluttered desk.  He followed my gaze.

"No problem.  I give you $9 back."

My mind starting doing the math.  Sales tax, 8.25%.  That 82.5 cents.  He's shorting me 20 cents and making it sound like I'm getting a deal.  I considered pointing this out to him, thought the better of it. I like those shoes.  He filled out the claim check.

The next morning I remembered another pair of shoes that needed repair.  I took in the broken one.

"Never bring just one shoe."

"The other one is not broken."

" I fix and clean up, not look the same."

"Ahhh...."

"One shoe, $8."  He didn't mention the tax this time.

"Are my other shoes ready?"

"What shoes?"

"I was here yesterday, remember?"

"I don't remember yesterday."

Later in the day, I found the match to the second shoe and dropped it by.  This time there was recognition in his eyes.

"Sit."

I sat.

I've known him for years.  I knew this was his way of saying my shoes were ready.