Shining shoes was his thing. Damon didn't know why during his other years of incarcaration, he'd slept on that idea, but from the day he set foot inside Southern State Prison in New Greatfurd, Damon was determined to make that his hustle.
It was an early morning in April when Damon walked through the compound amazed that two years had already passed. He was feeling down that day in April, had loss a close friend inside the walls of the prison. Two years ago guards transported him on a Tuesday from the County Jail in New Bethill to Southern State. At his request they seated him next to an opened window, with his hands cuffed in front of him and his legs chained together, he glared out the window with pitiful eyes and watched the city transform into a spacious green landscape, as the bus mulled along with patience. For most of the two-hour ride, Damon considered his bleak future. His thoughts shifted between fantastic ideas of how he would spend the next three-years of his life, to exactly what he needed to do to monopolize every minute. He’d get a job in the kitchen, save up his pennies, maybe write a book, his sister Cordelia had given him that idea.
It was one of the guards that put the idea to shine shoes into Damon's head. The guard had stepped off the bus and onto the dirt road. “My shit going to be dusty as hell," he said, he knelled down and dusted off his shoe, "I just got a shine."
It was then it crossed Damon's mind, as he emerged from from the doors of the bus. He had contemplated the idea for a long moment, wondered if it would be possible, and if possible, how would he pull that very thing off. He was certain he wouldn't be allowed to polish shoes. Yet he decided where there's a will, there's got to be a way, after all it wasn't as if he selling dope or hustling cigarettes. It was just shining shoes. That day Damon turned away from the guard and stared at the brick facade of the main building. And from the moment the bells allowed his entrance into the metal gates, he had set in motion a plan to become Southern State's Shoe Shine Man, never knowing the day would come where he'd be called upon to shine his decease roommates shoes.
It was an easy feat. After only a month in the prison, he had mustered enough funds from his sisters to purchase supplies: shoe polish, hard brushes, soft brushes, paint brushes and rags. He managed to get special permission from his social worker, because shoe shinning was his hobby. During his first few months he schmoozed the guards, networked around the dorms, played cards, watched sports and played basketball. By the time his six-month arrived, Damon had his hustle down and a steady flow of clientele. He was able to keep his commissary stacked and the cash he got from the guards, he stashed in a sock. Kept the sock in a pair of pants, rolled up and placed together with all his worldly belongings, beneath his bunk.
It surprised him, the number of inmates wanting their shoes shined for Sunday church service in the gym, or their boots shined just to floss around the concrete floors of the prison, or go before the parole board, or step out for court, or attend a funeral. Many inmates bartered a can of tuna, or pack of soup with pride, just for a shine. But, the guards were Damon’s most important client. They kept their black boots coming and the cash flowing. The female guards weren’t allowed on their wing of the building, but they came through to make deliveries, or send messages from the main hall, or carry out a final request from a deceased inmate and drop off a pair of shoes for Damon to shine.
That morning one of the female guards dropped LeRoy’s shoes off to Damon. He found the shoes on his cot, tied in a white plastic bag, when he returned from his shift in the kitchen. He was told the shoes would be there, so he stopped at the commissary and picked up a head rag—he would use the head rag to make sure the shoes were spit perfect for the grave.
Damon walked into his cell glanced around. They'd shared that cell since the day he arrived at Southern State. He'd had the opened bunk, LeRoy had the top bunk. Damon hesitated for a moment and stared at the wool blanket on the top bunk, he wondered if he should switch, but decided against that, he didn’t want to be that close to the ceiling. Beside's that it didn't feel right taking over LeRoy's space.
Damon sighed, shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention back to the white plastic bag. A note was taped to the front, it had been written by the nurse. The last line read, “His final request," signed Nurse Willean. Damon tossed the note and picked up the bag and removed the shoes. They were long and wide, brown leather with brown shoe strings. He got up and walked around his cot and glared at the shoes as if he were making sure of something. He went to the window and lifted the shoes to the light. He wanted to make sure he had the right color brown for the shine that no earthly being would ever see. Satisfied, he put the shoes down and peered out, inhaled the fresh air. It was a cloudy day in April and the sky was a sheet of gray.
Damon and LeRoy thought themselves lucky to have been assigned to that cell, even with all the noise that came from being so close to the gym, they felt blessed because of the windows. No big deal to have windows in your cell, they were blessed because they had two narrow windows, and the block-glasses had been removed, allowing them access to the outside world. Access to fresh air.
Damon occupied the open bunk, right below the second window. Sometimes when it rained, he’d stick his head as far outside as the window would allow, and he let the rain fall over him. Or he would catch the raindrops in his hands and splash the rain over his face, or when it thundered, he'd sometimes sit in complete silence and listened as the thunder clapped.
LeRoy Whittle commandeered the top bunk and was often found with his head resting on the edge of the window. The top window was behind the spot where his head laid. He was a loner type, a big man that kept to himself. He wasn't a talker, didn't say too much. Sure he'd talk about the weather, or about a game, or a song that played on his radio that sat next to him on his bunk. Mostly he'd kept to himself. But whenever a female guard, or nurse, or social worker darkened the bars of their cell, he would watch her closely and when she departed, he would sit up and give his opinion on the type of woman he presumed the lady to be. It didn't matter what he noticed, it could be pretty eyes, or a nice smile or a sweet spirit, he would always find something to compare to his beloved, Tabitha. She’d been dead ten-years.
The night before LeRoy died, the same guard that delivered the shoes had darkened their cell. With white teeth and bright eyes, she glared between the bars and reached in a pair of boots for Damon to shine. Damon had flirted with the lady, almost forgot she was a guard when he took the boots and a tin of shoe polish. She tried to hand him a 10-dollar bill, but he refused to take the money. It was her first time--he'd get her the next time around.
When the guard disappeared, LeRoy, with his arms resting on his chest, his eyes staring up at the ceiling, turned his head around and peered at Damon with a raised brow, “She’s pretty, enough, but she ain’t got nothing on Tabitha," he said. His voice slick and firm. "Tabitha had a nice round figure at that age,” LeRoy said as if he’d known the age of the guard. “But Damon, if you didn't take the money, you should at least gotten her number. A young lady with a pretty smile like that, deserves a nice young man like yourself." LeRoy added.
“She’ll be back, when she wants her boots," Damon Said. "But her number—nah, she’s too young for an old man like me."
“You calling yourself old—” LeRoy let out a loud bale of laughter.
He had about 20-years on Damon, but it was hard to tell he didn't look much older. Approaching sixty, he lived in the past, like a reject from the days of Donnie Hathaway and Roberta Flack. He listened to old-school music on the radio, wore a wave cap, used Vaseline, dyed his hair black and ate chopped, meat with gravy like it was going out of style. He smoked a little weed he rolled in EZ wider paper and worked in the laundry room. Most of his time he preferred to be alone to remember the good old days he’d spent with Tabitha, rather than waste a single minute more than he had too on jail-ass niggers. That was the way he explained things to Damon.
About a month before, LeRoy was in his bunk lying on his stomach and staring out the window. It rained that day and he let the drops of water hit his face and run down his cheeks, "When I die, Damon," he said, "I want you to shine my shoes, and you can have all my remaining commissary as payment in full."
Damon laughed at LeRoy, with a chuckle that suggested that was something that would never happen, “Won’t be no need for shined shoes in the grave," Damon returned.
“You're right. I won't need them for the grave," LeRoy said adamantly, "I need them when I get to heaven, I’m going to find Tabetha and I want me feet to be as sharp as my shave,” LeRoy said.
He let out one of his belly laughs, that always surprised Damon. It was the first time Damon had even heard LeRoy speak of Heaven, or hell.
“Yes sir," he continued, "I can't wait to see Tabitha." LeRoy added and he rolled over and put his head in his hand—he was in a talkative mood that night. He glanced down at Damon with a far-away gaze and wondered down the road to a time before he committed his crime. It was a long time ago, he’d been in jail almost 30-years for murder. He killed a man, that’s the most LeRoy said about the actual crime. Damon, had already learned LeRoy been caught with a large stack of marijuana and a dead body. He was on the down swing of that 30-year sentence, another year he would’ve been on his way to the half-way house.
The night before he died, LeRoy didn't talk much after the guard left. Their cell was on the side of the building that faced the turnpike and cherry-trees lined the path that led to the meadow which separated the compound from the road. It was spring time and the breeze carried the sweet smell of cherries in it's bosom, it took LeRoy to the place he referred to as heaven. Always some place where thoughts of Tabitha roamed.
“I remember," LeRoy said, “once we had to stay with her mother and slept in the room on a twin bed. One night we fought—fought like cat and dogs, about who was going to sleep against the wall, and I remember thinking that night, I would rather be squished against the wall with her, than any place else in the world. That’s heaven—” LeRoy said decidedly. Before he shut his eyes, he told Damon he was going to say a special prayer for him, and reminded him of his promise to shine his shoes. Then LeRoy closed his eyes and rested his head on his pillow. That’s where the guards discovered him that morning.
Heaven, Damon thought to himself.
A tin of polish fell off the bed, it rolled around on the concrete floor before it crashed with a ping. Damon bent over, picked up the polish, and started to apply it to the shoes. With slow meticulous strokes he spread the graphite like paste. He painted inside the tiny crevices around the toe area, covered up the grooves, so LeRoy could look his best when he found Tabitha.
The rights to the content / images on this page are owned by Jacqueline Session Ausby, and you do not have the right to use any of the content / images without her expressed permission. If you would like to contact Jacqueline Ausby, please email jmbeausby@aol.com. Thank you.