Just North of Whoville Turiskylie, Joyce (smart books to read .TXT) 📖

the money people were giving him to buy a pair of shoes.

And yet---he never has any shoes.

I started wondering. Hmm, I thought to myself.

So I kept my keen eye on this man.

I calculated that he made at least two dollars in my car alone. Two dollars for every stop. Two minutes per stop. It took me four stops to get to work. And cost me two dollars just to get on the train. So while I was just sitting there riding the train to work---he made eight dollars. Eight dollars in eight minutes. I made eight dollars an hour. And I had shoes. Why didn’t he have shoes?

In Milwaukee, if you don’t have a pair of shoes, you can just walk into any church (even if you are not of the faith) and they will give you a pair of shoes.

And there are lots of churches in New York. I’ve seen them. I can’t say I go into them, but I’ve seen them. I’m sure they practice Christian values in so much that they would give you a pair of shoes.

Or even if you’re like me and don’t frequent churches----The Salvation Army people are very nice. I bought my sofa there. I’m certain that if you walked in without a pair of shoes----they would shod you.

That’s what they do.

So after four years, why does this old man still not have any shoes?

Wait a minute….

I started thinking about Shoeless Joe. Raking in about four hundred bucks a day. After taxes, I barely made three hundred a week.

And he didn’t even pay taxes.

I bet this man has a whole closetful of shoes. Shoes for every occasion. Probably better rain boots than me.

And then it dawned on me----this guy is running some sort of flim-flam.

And I once gave this man a dollar!

Where were his shoes? Where were his shoes?!?! I was furious. I developed a little fantasy. I would take the day off work. I would stop by Payless Shoes first thing in the morning. Then, I would get on the train, waiting to see Shoeless Joe shuffle down the aisle in his bare feet. And then, in full view of the entire sympathetic subway car, I would open the crisp Payless box with a flourish (oh yes!---I would ask for the box) and I would announce.

“My dear barefoot man----you will never go shoeless again!”

Oooo---I’d bet he’d be pissed.

But I won’t do that. Because I’m a nice person. So I sit there quietly as he shuffles down the aisle in his bare feet pleading, “God bless you everyone. Please help me. Please help.”

Oh!---my blood boils.

Nevertheless, I still believe in charity. In doing good and giving back----even if you don’t have a lot to give. I think it’s important.

Every month I send money to some little boy in India I’ve never even met. I work hard for that twenty-one dollars a month. Yeah, I get a picture and a letter in the mail twice a year when he goes to the village to pick up his paycheck. But what has he ever done for me? He’s eight years-old now. I’ve been sending him money since he was two. I calculate that little Dileep has fleeced me for over a thousand bucks at this point. And what do I get? A letter in Hindi that I can’t even read. Is this kid even real? I can’t afford to go to India to check all this out. But I’m starting to wonder. Because in his photos, he looks like a different kid every six months. I know kids grow and their faces change. But I’m starting to get suspicious.

After four years in New York City, I was beginning to question a starving child in India.

Because everyone here has an angle. Everyone’s out to get you.

So pardon me if I agreed to move into an illegal sublease. And pardon me if I work at a job I find morally reprehensible. I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances.

But I am not Shoeless Joe. I’m not that sort of person.

I may not make the world a better place, but I try not to make it worse. Sometimes, that’s the best any of us can do.

My more jaded side was convinced that anyone hedging their career bets with an agency called “ABC You Shine” deserved what they got. And that includes Yours Truly. But mostly I felt bad for the poor suckers. I’m The Reluctant Shill. And if the mark can catch my subtle signals, I’m letting them know that the pea is not under any of the shells. So just walk away. If you stay and play…well, I tried.

Though my pay checks never bounced, I always had the feeling that the agency was a mere hundred dollars away from bankruptcy on any given day. Every Friday I left work with my check and went directly to the automatic bank teller. It felt less like a deposit and more like I was playing the slots.

Jamie, my boss, was fifty-seven, but her youthful clothes and attitude helped her look all of fifty-six. I never quite understood how she got into the modeling business. She’d done some accounting and a stint as a door-to-door cosmetics salesperson. She also mentioned that she’d won a lawsuit against a fast food company years ago. But I wasn’t in a position to ask questions during the interview.

“We’ll start you as a temp,” Jamie offered the day she hired me. “And if all goes well, we’ll make you an Administrative Assistant.”

To be honest, I wasn’t really even a temp. I doubt Jamie could have afforded an actual temp from a temp agency where an employer paid a base salary plus a weekly finder’s fee.

I was the Poor Man’s Temp. Hired off a free ad online for a “temp-to-perm position with a New