“My dog could use his tongue better!” The affluent guy criticizes a poor lad polishing shoes in an underpass and refuses to pay. However, fate pulls them together again the next day with a twist neither imagined.
Rushing footsteps filled the basement tunnel. Martin, 14, sat calmly by the wall with his shoe-shining equipment amid the chaos. His gaze scanned each sneaker, hoping for a buyer.
He murmured, “Just a handful.” “One handful today, please.”
Martin’s stomach grumbled throughout the day. Just two bread pieces for breakfast seemed faraway. To satisfy his appetite, he drank from his water bottle.
“You can do this, Martin,” he said. “For Mom and Josephine.”
His disabled mother and small sister waiting at home gave him strength. He put on his finest smile, ready for the day.
Sir, polish shoe? Ma’am?” The underpass noise drowned out his cry.
Though hours passed, no one stopped. Martin kept on despite his fading hopes. He eventually rested as the midday light pounded down. He found his lunch, a little orange, in his tattered leather bag.
He was peeling it when a pair of filthy brown leather shoes thudded in front of him.
Kid, hurry. Clean it. A harsh voice said, “I’m rushing.”
Martin glanced up, nervous and excited. The man above him was opulent. This may be his time to tip.
“Right away, Sir!” Martin tossed aside his orange and grabbed his supplies.
The guy became impatient while making brown leather shoes. Why is it taking so long? I have little time!”
Though his hands shook, Martin concentrated on providing excellent service. “Almost done, sir. I guarantee a terrific look.”
He scoffed. I made more than my father at your age. Not like a beggar, I polished shoes.”
Martin was hurt by their statements. Three years had passed since a drunk driver killed his father, shattering his family. Martin still remembered that tragic night—the screaming tires, the painful metal crunch, and the devastating news.
Martin’s life collapsed when his mother Mariam had a stroke and became disabled months after losing his father. He sacrificed his youth to follow his late father’s shoe-shining career aged eleven.
His recollections tried to overwhelm him, but he ignored them. He had to complete work. He had to feed family.
You call this shining? He scoffed at his shoe. “My dog could use his tongue better!”
Martin’s cheeks burned with humiliation. I’m sorry, Sir. I can try again—
“Forget it,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Yes, Sylvester. Reschedule meeting to 4. This inept brat made me late.”
As Sylvester rants over his phone, Martin remembers simpler times. He remembered his father’s loving hands teaching him shoe polishing.
“It’s not just about the shine, son,” he said. This is about dignity. Consider every shoe you touch the most important.”
“Hey! Are you listening? The piercing voice of Sylvester brought Martin back to reality. “Why is your father sending you here this way? Was he too lazy to work?
Martin’s throat got tighter. “My father passed away, sir.”
Sylvester squinted. Ah, I see. Your mother certainly hooked up with someone else and had more kids to beg, right? Do you have something better to do?
Martin managed a pleasant grin despite his clinched fists. “Sir, $7.”
“Seven dollars?” Sylvester burst. “For this pitiful shine? I disagree, kid.”
Sylvester grabbed his shoes and left before Martin could respond, leaving him sad and empty-handed.
“Wait!” he shouted, pursuing the man. “Please, sir! Need that cash. Please!”
However, Sylvester was already driving away, leaving Martin in a cloud of dust and sadness.
Crying, he leaned against the wall. He imagined his father’s face in the sky.
“I’m trying, Dad,” he muttered. “I’m trying.”
He remembered his father’s final words: “Remember, son. Never quit. You get closer to your dreams with each bump. Remember.”
Martin returned after wiping his tears. Nobody had time for self-pity. Not time for tears.
The next morning, Martin determinedly put up his gear at his normal place. A noise close drew his attention.
“Help! Somebody help!” A terrified woman’s voice rang forth.
Martin sped toward the sound, heart racing.
He was shocked to identify the man inside a luxury automobile among a tiny crowd. SYLVESTER. He was insulted by the same arrogant individual.
Someone shouted, “He’s choking on an apple!” The automobile doors are locked!
Martin quickly grabbed a roadside rock and broke the vehicle glass. Entering to unlock the door broke glass everywhere.
He yelled, “Stand back!” and pulled Sylvester onto the pavement.
With all his effort, Martin struck Sylvester’s back numerous times. Sylvester gasped as a piece of apple flew from his mouth.
“You saved me,” Sylvester said, stunned, staring up at Martin.
With shaky hands, Martin pulled him up. Are you okay, sir?
While gathering his breath, Sylvester nodded. Can’t believe it. My treatment of you yesterday… What made you aid me?
Martin shrugged. “The right thing to do.”
Sylvester cried. Kid, I’m sorry. I mistreated you. I’ll make amends. Set your price. Anything!”
Martin paused, then glanced up. “Just $7 from yesterday. I only want that.”
Astounded, Sylvester gazed at him. “But… I could offer you much more. Maybe a new start?
Martin shook his head. I don’t need a new start, sir. I must look after my family.”
Sylvester reluctantly gave the money. He watched Martin’s expression as the throng dispersed. “You’re amazing, kid. What’s your name?
“Martin, sir.”
Sylvester nodded slowly. “Martin. “I won’t forget this or you.”
Martin held his hard-earned money as Sylvester left in his automobile. He glanced up at the sky again, smiling slightly.
“I remember, Dad,” he muttered. “I always do.”
Martin woke up to his sister’s joyful yells the next morning.
“Marty! Marty! Be quick!”
His mother called after them in confusion as he ran outside. On their porch was a white bag full of cash and a message.
Martin was shaking as he read:
A modest word for what you accomplished is thanks. I know you’d decline. But you deserve a good childhood. In an hour, I found your address. The globe is little, right? I hope we meet again and you’re still pure gold!
—Sylvester.”
Martin cried joyous and shocked tears. His sister leaped up and down, and their mother yelled out from inside, surprised by the money.
“Martin? What’s up?” In her wheelchair, she approached.
Martin thought fast. This money may affect his mother’s therapy, Josephine’s schooling, and their future. Was accepting it right?
The cottage’s little altar was his destination as he grabbed two papers. One read “REMEMBER,” the other “FORGET.” His hands folded and shuffled them.
While lighting a candle before the cross, Martin closed his eyes. He murmured, “Dad, help me make the right choice.”
He took a deep breath and gently unwrapped a folded paper. A little smile appeared when he spotted “REMEMBER.”
Martin knew then. He would take the money for his family. He remembered his father’s lessons, his difficulties, and the generosity in even the hardest hearts.
“Josephine!” he shouted, passionate. Tell Mom we’re seeing a doctor today. Perhaps we’ll stop for ice cream on our way home. Buy Mom a nice mattress. Plenty of food for the week!”
Martin hugged the message while Josephine squealed. He had recalled and found a solution.
