## Chapter 1

# Prologue: The Blessing of Attention

"There are no strangers here; only friends you haven't yet met." — William Butler Yeats

The shoeshine stand is small.

Two tall leather chairs sit high above the floor. They're like thrones, I suppose — carved from cedar, facing out toward the endless motion of the airport. And there is so much motion. Travelers pass in waves. Suitcases rolling. Boarding calls echoing. The faint hum of engines just beyond the glass.

But here, in this little island of pause, time slows down.

I know that sounds poetic. Maybe it is. But spend a day in these chairs and you'll feel it too.

Each chair has its own rhythm. The left foot rests first. The right follows. Jeans roll up twice — always twice. Laces tucked inside the boot. Polish brushed in circles until the leather breathes again.

The air smells of vinegar and acetone. Sharp. Clean. Alive. It mixes with the airport air, which carries its own strange perfume — coffee from the kiosk down the way, jet fuel, and sometimes curry from the restaurant across the concourse.

There's a comfort in that mixture. I can't explain it any better than that. It's the smell of work. The smell of the stand.

From my spot below the chairs, I see the world from an unusual angle. People elevated above me. Feet at my chest. Stories at my fingertips.

Each pair of shoes tells a different one.

The polished brogues of business travelers. The dust-caked boots of miners. The sneakers of parents running late with kids in tow.

Every scuff. Every crease. Every shine. It's a record of where they've been.

When I was younger, I used to think this was just a trade. Polish and brush. Buff and wipe. That's what it looked like from the outside. And for a while, that's what it was.

But over the years, I realized it's much more than that.

The stand isn't just a place of work. It's a point of contact. It's where strangers stop being strangers.

Maybe it's the height of the chair. Maybe it's the waiting. I don't know. But something about sitting still while another person works on your shoes — it opens a door.

People talk here.

They tell you things they might not tell their friends. Or even their families.

I've heard confessions whispered between flights. I've seen laughter turn into tears and back again. Stories about love. Loss. Faith. Fear. All of it, right here in these two chairs.

I've met miners leaving home for one last run before their baby is born. Lawyers fighting for the wrongly accused. Athletes chasing meaning after the gold medals have been hung up. Chiefs carrying the weight of their people with quiet grace.

I've shined shoes for the dying and for the newly married. For people running toward life and others running from it.

Every day, a thousand different lives pass through these two chairs. And for a few minutes, our stories overlap.

There's a sound to the stand, too. The soft whir of the brush. The snap of the rag. The rhythm of footsteps on the tile floor.

And my own voice, calling out.

"Free shine, you pay for the seat!"

Or, "Left foot's free!"

Sometimes I hum along to whatever the airport pipes through the speakers. Old Christmas carols in winter. Some catchy tune I can't get out of my head. And sometimes I sing. Just to keep the day light.

It's funny. People think we're just shining shoes.

But what we're really doing is paying attention. We're listening. We're seeing people who might otherwise go unseen.

Maybe that's why the stand has lasted.

Three generations. My grandfather built it. My father carried it forward. And now it's mine to tend.

Not just as a business. As something more. A kind of living archive. A space where humanity still shows up in its rawest form.

At the shoeshine stand, time falls away. Class falls away. Titles fall away.

A CEO and a janitor get the same polish. A millionaire and a miner sit in the same chair.

The act of service levels everything. It's a small reminder that no matter how high we climb, we all stand on the same ground.

People call it old-fashioned. Maybe it is.

But in a world that's constantly rushing forward, the stand is one of the few places left where people slow down long enough to talk. To connect. To remember they're human.

And maybe that's why, after all these years, I still love it.

Because the stand is more than a place I work. It's where I witness the blessing of now.