The man’s suit was a fine cloth, but the cut was a little dated.  His beard was white, close-cut on the sides, but extended at his chin to square his jaw. His shock of white hair was thinning on top. He sat on the sun drenched park bench, newspaper folded beside him and a blackthorn walking stick with a filigreed silver handle leaned against the bench arm.

Shine, sir? The boy smiled.

“Well, let me see. Do my shoes look like they need a shine?”

“Better than most, sir, but might do with a freshening.”

“Well perhaps, then. How much for such a service?”

The boy stated the price firmly.

“Seems fair.” The man smiled back.

The boy unshouldered the shine box strap. He retrieved his saddle soap, brushes and cloths, a bottle and copper cup, bootblack, and an orange and black tin of Shinola. He closed the box,  and said “left foot first, sir.”

The man placed his foot on the wooden footprint on the box.

The boy turned up the cuff on the man’s pantlegs. He poured some water in the cup, dipped his brush in it, and worked up a lather with the saddle soap. He cleaned the film of soot from one foot then the other, lightly tapping the man’s foot to signal to change feet on the box.

“You seem mighty young to be kneeling in the dirt at people’s feet, son.”

“Not so young as y’might think sir. I’m ‘most ten.”

“Well, you are almost grown then, but still young to be working so hard.”

“I like it, sir. I get to meet people an’ we all help since Da lost his job. Ma takes in laundry an’ Sis helps with the mending. We all must help out since the Panic.”

“What did your father do?”

“He worked the trainyard, movin’ boxes and people’s trunks, but since the Panic people don’t travel or ship so much. Nowadays he sometimes gets a day’s hire. Or he goes downtown to sell pencils and Ma’s jams.”

“And you help out. Did you make that box yourself?”

“I had some help from Da. He got the box from the trainyard and showed me how t’cut out the foot shape. He gave me his ol’ belt for the hinges an’ strap I did all the paintin’ myself though.”

“Where did you get the Shinola and bootblack?”

“Da fronted me and I paid him back. Now I buy it from what I make.”

“And you contribute back what you earn.”

“Well most. If there’s enough after the rent, and food,  I save some for treats and presents.”

“Well it looks like you’re a regular businessman!”

“No, Sir! Da says businessmen caused the Panic.”

“I see. Well, I do not wish to contradict your father, but it is my considered opinion that not all businessmen caused the Panic, just the greedy and gamblers.”

“Oh?” Said the boy as he dried the right shoe, tapped the sole, and unscrewed the bottle of bootblack.

“How would you define a businessman?”

“Gosh, I dunno, sir. Maybe a man dressed like you. Say you aren’t a businessman are you. I didn’t mean nothin’ . . .”

“No – no, don’t worry, son. A businessman is just someone who earns his living by selling something. He might sell something he made, like the harness-maker. He might run a shop, like the greengrocer, selling the farmer’s produce. Or he might sell a service like you do,  doing something for someone they could do for themselves. Some people shine their own shoes, correct?

“Sure, Da shines his Sunday shoes..”

“Why does someone hire you, instead of shining their own shoes?”

“Well maybe they’re downtown, all dressed up, and got coal dust on ‘em, or maybe I do a better job than they do.”

“Yes,” said the man. “Let’s say you charged double for a shine, what would happen?”

“People mightn’t get a shine, or not as many would.”

“But what if the price of Shinola or bootblack doubled?”

“Then I’d have to go up too.”

“Right. What if all the shoeshine boys decided to double prices even if your costs were the same? Would people pay it?”

“Some might, I suppose; most’d shine their own shoes”

“But what if the grocer did that?”

“Ma’d say they was thievin’!”

“That’s what I mean by greedy businessmen. Some raise their prices just because their customers don’t have a choice. People stop buying. Then everybody gets worried. Things slow down and people lose their jobs. People buy even less and worry more. That’s why they call it a Panic.”

The boy used the polish brush to put the black Shinola on each shoe and while it was drying he asked the man, “What is it you do, sir?”

“Well, right now, I’m taking a holiday, but I used to be a banker.”

“Ma says ‘a banker took grampa’s farm in the last Panic, ‘fore I was born’”

“Remember I said a businessman sells something?”

The boy nodded, brushing up a luster on the man’s left shoe.

“A banker sells money. Like your Da fronted you the money for bootblack, a banker loans money for supplies for a business or land to farm. He makes a little money on the loan as it’s paid back.”

The boy tapped the sole and began brush work on the right shoe.” So if people don’t pay the banker loses?”

“Yes and he sells whatever property guaranteed the loan to offset his loss.”

The boy sprinkled a few drops of water onto a soft cloth, snapped it to remove the excess and began to buff. Soon a mirror shine appeared on the black toe cap. He buffed around the sides and the heel.  He maintained a steady rhythm,  popping the cloth periodically for punctuation as he spoke.

“Why would anyone borrow (pop) if they knew they could lose their property?”

“Because they don’t think they’ll lose. Remember you borrowed some money from your father for Shinola?”

“Yeah, but I knew I could pay him back from the first few shoeshines.”

“And a farmer borrows because he knows he’ll have crops to sell, and the greengrocer borrows because the produce will sell. And it all works . . . until it doesn’t.”

“I’m never gonna borrow.”

“Well, that might be one answer. The more prudent one might be to not get greedy. A debt is a gamble, you see. You are betting that you’ll sell enough later to pay. But if you place too big a bet you might lose big.”

“Is that what caused the Panic?

“Well, son, bankers and governments get greedy too, and when they gamble it’s a very big bet indeed.”

The boy tapped the sole for the man to switch feet. He dampened and snapped the cloth, and buffed the right shoe. The mirror-black toe soon matched the left. He buffed the rest,  turned down both cuffs, and tapped the sole.

The man stood. “Well don’t those look bright now,” smiled the man, reaching into his pocket.

“That’s too m-mu-ch, sir,” stammered the boy.

“The rest is for you, son. It’s for the way you’re pitching in and staying positive, which is the antidote to the Panic. That’s found money now, and you know what they say about found money – it’s not for spending, but for saving for a rainy day. May not look much like rain today, but more rain is coming.”

The boy and the man walked away in different directions, to different lives. Each had a new shine, enjoying the sunny day.