Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Garfield Hob opened the door to his shop and entered the dim interior.
“People needs good shoes, and good shoes needs repair” was a phrase often repeated by his father.
After Garfield Senior passed away, Garfield Junior expanded into repairing baseball gloves, purses, and belts.
Some days he was a cobbler, and other days he was a leathersmith.
Either way, the shop maintained a steady flow of customers.
The sweet, earthy smell of conditioning oils wafted through the open door. He inhaled the familiar scent. He’d been working in this shop since he was seven, and thirty years later, he was still at it.
Garfield pulled down the leather apron from its hook and replaced it with his jacket.
Mornings were cold, but the afternoon should warm up a bit.
He opened the plastic grocery bag his wife handed him an hour ago.
Two chipped ham sandwiches, a can of cheddar cheese Pringles, a cup of fruit cocktail, and a big brownie.
He smiled as he put his lunch in the small fridge.
They were coming up on ten years married with two children, and every morning she sent him to work with a similar packed lunch.
He felt so lucky to have this beautiful life.
Shelves with pairs of customers’ work shoes, boots, and belts lined one side of the shop, but the majority of the space was taken up by the working area.
Garfield’s main bench held several shoe anvils and had an array of leather working tools hanging from the pegboard at the back.
Awls, knives, leather scissors, rotary cutters, thread, and assorted shaping tuckers lay close to his hands when he needed them.
Several rows of lasts, otherwise known as shoe forms, sat in a regimented row across the shelf at the top of his workbench.
He didn’t do as much custom work as his father had, but they were still a part of the shop and his heritage.
Most of these tools had been here for decades, the handles well-worn and dark with age.
The same awls he’d learned to poke through the leather to sew soles were the same ones he used now.
He loved his craft, and it was getting rarer to find someone with these skills.
He wondered if his six-year-old son would eventually carry on the tradition.
Garfield checked the day’s scheduled workload before starting the coffee maker.
“No work begins until coffee is made” was another phrase his father was fond of saying.
As the water bubbled through the filter, he picked up one of the knives and tested the blade.
It was time to make a run to Quillon’s place and have it sharpened.
The machine shop was only a block away on the next row of businesses after the titty bar.
But even that close, he would have to make a trip after hours or have Mira watch the shop for him while the kids were in school.
Sharpening was one skill he’d never quite mastered.
He could do some maintenance, but when it came to a good edge, Quillon had a guy working there who was a genius at making blades.
Garfield pulled out a pair of shoes with worn soles and set up to get started. He poured his coffee before setting one shoe over the anvil.
A moment later, he heard the door open behind him, and he frowned. His first appointment wasn’t until nine. He started to turn.
“Can I help—”
Pain exploded across the back of his skull. His legs suddenly gave out, and he hit the floor with a bang. More pain hit his ribs, and he felt one snap. Confusion steeped with fear flooded his mind.
Why?
The last thing he saw was a brown puddle of coffee and a broken mug that said “World’s Best Dad.”