Buster Brown
By Robin Mills
We pile into our white station wagon with the faux wooden siding, and head down the winding roads of The Canyon to The Valley. “The Valley side of the hill” as my parents call it, in contrast to “The City side of the hill” where the gated mansions of Beverly Hills and the mirrored skyscrapers of Century City sit.
My mother takes the curves of Laurel Canyon Blvd., hands at 11 and 1 on the steering wheel, and an eye in the rear-view mirror, just in case. My brother and I slide side to side across the blue back bench seat, jamming into each other and up against the cool metal of the doors which feels soothing against the August heat.
We reach Ventura Blvd and the flats. To my right is the carwash with a blue, baby elephant on top, showering herself from her trunk, a pink bow where her curly-girl hair would be if she were an actual girl. Across the street is Thrifty’s, its name in white cursive letters like we are learning in school, where they serve cylindrical shaped scoops of ice cream in cones. Diagonally across on the other corner is a Ralph’s shopping center where we pull in.
We pile out, unprompted by my mother, and race up the stairs, throwing our collective weight against the metal door opener.
We are in.
Buster Brown’s Shoe Store is a long, narrow hall like room. The mulchy smell of leather and sneakers wafts over us. The walls are lined floor to ceiling with shelves of shoes: black and white saddle shoes, red Keds, white Keds, high tops, low tops, pink sparkly party shoes, shiny black shoes like the boys wear in temple, sandals with plastic daisies on the straps. Floor to ceiling, farther than we can see.
Ed is always there. He wears a thin white short-sleeve button up over a white t-shirt, brown pants, leather belt, shiny black shoes and slicked back hair that curls at the ends just above his color. He drops his chin and smiles a full mouth of white teeth.
He pats two seats and we oblige, climbing up, flipping around and plopping ourselves down. He smiles at my mother as he grabs the metal stool with one hand, not even looking, sliding it between his legs as he sits all in one motion. We sit facing him, our socked feet kicking in the air, staring at the slider and markings 1, 2, 3, 4,5 on the slanted part where we put our feet.
With one hand on the back of my calf, he places my heel into the curved metal, then lowers the slider to my toes. “Look at you and your growing feet!” he says, one eye on my mother who stands back holding down her smile, one arm dangling, the other clasping it across her body. I give him my best two-missing-front-teeth smile gloating in my accomplishment.
My brother gets black high-tops and I pick saddle shoes. Ed walks with us in tow to the counter, and hands us each a lollipop one eye still on my mother who stares down into her purse. She pays. He hands her two bags with boxes of shoes, holding them just a second too long.
She holds the door for us as we race out. One last stop next-door at Weby’s Bakery where we choose cookies the size of our faces covered in rainbow-colored sprinkles that rain down on the blue bench back seat as we wind our way home.
Robin Mills lives in Petaluma, California. By day, she’s an American Sign Language interpreter. When not working, she enjoys competitive swimming, hiking, photography, traveling, working in various art forms and swing dancing. Publications include Underbelly Press, The 200 Word Short Story and The Write Spot. She was a finalist for publication in Big Brick Review.
