shoe shine box

So he cleaned the car. Big deal. People do it every day. There’d been empty polish tins clanking around under the front seat all week with used brushes and stiff, smelly shine cloths riding shotgun. It was driving him nuts. Every time he climbed out, there were leopard spots of shoeshine on his hands, stained bristles like cactus thorns hitchhiking on the cuff of his pants.

He didn’t have a chance of finding a job, not with smears of Kiwi black on his dress tie.

When she found out, his daughter was livid. “Why did you clean his car?”

“Um…because it was dirty?”

She threw her hands up. “He said you think he’s a slob.”

“How does Artie know what I think? Is he a mind reader?”

“Dad! Don’t call him Artie. He hates that. His name is Artemus.”

What a name. Artemus Frank. Liz must be rolling in her grave: their daughter married a shoeshine boy.

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