“Shoe shine, sir? Ma’am?” he called out, his voice barely audible above the din of the underpass.
Hours ticked by, but no one stopped. Martin’s hopes began to dwindle, but he refused to give up. As the afternoon sun beat down, he finally allowed himself a moment of respite. Digging into his worn leather bag, he pulled out a small orange, his lunch for the day.
“Hurry up, kid. Clean it. I’m in a rush,” a gruff voice barked.
Martin looked up, his heart racing with excitement and trepidation. The man towering above him exuded wealth from head to toe. This could be his chance for a good tip.
“Right away, sir!” Martin said, setting aside his orange and reaching for his supplies.
As he worked on the brown leather shoes, the man’s impatience grew. “What’s taking so long? I don’t have all day!”
Martin’s hands trembled slightly, but he focused on giving his best service. “Almost done, sir. I promise it’ll look great.”
The man scoffed. “At your age, I was already making more than my father. I wasn’t shining shoes like some beggar.”
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