The Arbiter Chapter 1 Excerpt

Here I go. I crawl across the ceiling. Four men hang from the floor, now five… I’m running out of eyes. With white rope as my harness, I hurdle downwards, maybe descending to my doom. I clear a shrugging shoulder, I dodge a swinging leg—this could be it, the end of my suffering, my eightfold freedom. But before I can reach the checkered floor, a human hijacks my plan and slides underneath me. I tiptoe up a strange white terrain, which suddenly itches. Oh, wait, I’m the human.

Bonk. Something had landed right on my eye. And the flinch fired me into the stool corner. The four gentlemen roar with laughter. 
“You almost cracked like an egg,” says the first. 
“Damn right,” says a second.
The third one on the end is buried in today’s newspaper. October 21st, 1895. I thought it was 1894. Maybe the hit knocked the memory out of me. I crawl to my knees. Now that the pain is fading, I imagine that must have been funny. I’m glad their laughter drowns out my groaning. 
“Ah, don’t listen to these three,” the one above me says. He leans himself against the wall before leaning over me. The brim of his top hat shrouds all but the glint in his eyes. His mustache curls at the ends.
“If you do crack, though, I like it sunny-side up, got that?” he howls, stomping his feet. A step further and I might get smushed. From the ground, these clients appear gigantic. The elevated chairs enhance this effect, though, I suppose they are like thrones. Four giant kings cast judgement, each perched on their pearl thrones—gah! There I go again with the daydreams. I ought to break that habit before it gets out of control. Now, why was I on the ground again? I see the shoe brush to my left. Ah. I was about to shine this man’s shoes. So I kneel before him and get back to work.

Later tonight, there is a festival or a ball or a gathering. Something. The people here hold an annual celebration of the autumn harvest. But the farms became factories years ago. People want to party. So, naturally, it’s been a busy day for me.  
“Hey,” says my client. “Shine a little faster, will you?”
“Right away, sir,” I reply. I had slackened my pace, there. 
“Yeesh, sometimes it’s like I have to do your job for you, Simon.”
“It’s Sylvan.”
“Debatable,” he shrugs. “Just make it snappy, yeah? I want the people of Hollowhill to be blinded with light.
Hollowhill is somewhere between a city and a village. I think they would call it a town. “They” as in whoever goes about distinguishing such things. There is always a “they” for something. An ultimate authority, presiding over anything. Either over the stars in the sky or the secretion cycle of blue beetles, as opposed to red beetles. 
When it comes to shoes, I’m the “they.” And I ought to be, I work with shoes all day. My father was a cobbler and so was his father. My name is Sylvan Cobbler. Shoes are my life. And I’ve lived a long one thus far: I am sixty something years old. Sixty-seven or eight, one of those two.

I have been working as a cobbler for forty years. Well, I should note that figure includes the first years I spent as a shoeshiner. In fairness to myself, I was only a child, but I should also mention that during those years I was studying as an apprentice for the family business. In addition, this figure counts the years after my father’s passing during which the ownership was passed along to another man, under whose management I was employed largely, though not entirely, as a shoeshiner. But I am not a shoeshiner. I am a cobbler. It is an important distinction.

“Heyyy!” my client exclaims, turning to his left. “My main man! Ed! The Edster!” My co-worker, Ed Frumowitz, shuffles into the room. He is thirty something, but could be confused for twenty or forty years old. Genetically speaking, Ed consistently drew the shortest straw life gave him. His thinning hair curls on the top of his head the way billows from his smokestack skull. His lazy eyes disagree on which way to look. His ears poke out, his mouth hangs open, and he sniffles so much I have often wondered if he ever beat his first cold. Ed hunches over, scrunches his shoulders, and walks into the room with his signature shuffle, leading with his belly. Come to think of it, I have never seen his feet leave the ground. I try to imagine him jumping. 
“So, how’s my favorite gopher doing?” my client jabs. Ed has buck teeth. 
“Thir, could you pleathe thtop inthulting me?” And a lisp. They cackle at the sound of him. The jokes pour from their mouths. I try to ignore them and continue working on Steve’s shoes.

I gently apply dubbin, a waxy substance, onto the surface of the shoe and wipe the leather with dampened rags, but only using the faintest amount. Interestingly, the dubbin, otherwise the blacking material we use to shine shoes, is made of tallow, which is an animal byproduct. Of course, if Steve knew about what we put in the dubbin, considering his sensibilities, he might reconsider attending this place or shoe shining establishment. (To reiterate, when I say “we,” I am temporarily referring to myself as a shoe shiner, but, as I previously explained, I regard myself as a cobbler.) But enough from me, I am sure my thoughts would bore anyone unfortunate enough to listen.

Meanwhile, the insults continue to rain down on my coworker. 
“Man, thrcrew you guyth,” Ed replies. Fighting back is a bad idea.
“Woah there!”
“There he is!”
“Big words from the Beaver! No tip for you.” 
They never tip us. That aspect of the role I will not miss. And the constant quips and jeers. I am sure it is all good fun, but still. 
“How come you’re a shoeshiner, huh?” Steve is at it again. “Why not a lumberjack? You wouldn’t even need an axe with those teeth.” Ed furrows his brow and balls a fist.
“One day I’ll show you, Thteve,” Ed mutters, storming (sliding) off to the storage room. I have had a lot to say about him. Only in my head, though. Still, I wonder if his lowliness helps me stay afloat. The knowledge that there will always be a smaller fish. 
“Tell you what,” Steve chuckles. “If that guy ever scores with a broad. The sun’ll turn black.”

Besides a few, somewhat impolite customers, work here is just fine. I enjoy it. I am not sure what else I would do besides work at the cobbler shop. I suppose I will have to figure that out soon. After all, this is my last week here.
“Hurry it up down there, Sylvester,” Steve snaps. I try to brush faster.

Retirement is a new concept. For me and for everyone. It has always been “work until you drop” or “work until it hurts me to watch you work.” There is no official motto, but that was how I understood it. My employer explained it to me. He said, quote, “adopting new business practices to keep up with changing industrial times.” Mr. Adams has a funny way of putting things. Additionally, I had thought that retirement included a pension, but Mr. Adams denied such an arrangement exists. I must have misremembered that detail. I do not know where I got that idea from. In any case, Mr. Adams told me to retire at the end of this week.

I finish cleaning Steve’s shoes and the four gentlemen begin to head out. I go to the front table with the ceramic vase and I load the till. As the men head out the door, I notice something on the floor. One of the white checkered squares has a small speck of dirt. I crouch down. My joints creak like unoiled machinery. Maybe Sarah is right. I am too old for this. A shadow looms over me. I look up. Steve stands above me. He blots out the morning sunlight. A puff of smoke covers his face. There is just enough reflecting light for me to see his smirk. Then, Steve pats me on the head. What? He pet me. Like a dog.

That made me feel strange. My teeth shifted like tectonic plates. I feel like a dormant volcano; the back of my throat burns with hot magma. No, Sylvan. Remember your motto: rocks don’t show cracks.

Steve turns around to leave the shop. I see something climbing on his overcoat. I go to warn him, but I stop myself. The spider is on his back, hitching a ride to freedom.