Shoe repair

The sign on the door said the local shoe repair place would be closed January 17and 18. The dilemma: It was the 22nd. 

My husband had already stopped by on Saturday, the 18th, but the shop was closed. A mountain of unclaimed shoes and luggage behind its locked door. Frost on the insides of its windows.
But no cobbler,  only a locked door and the handwritten note that said the shop would be temporarily closed. 
Anyone who has attempted to pick up shoes there knows it is never open on Monday. It was Saturday (the day his boots and our daughter's dancing pumps were to be ready). Closed. Something must be wrong. 

There was no point to going by on Sunday, the day the cobbler rests. And I knew not to go by on Monday. 

The same note, that looked like it had been scribbled by Pinocchio, was hanging on the door on Tuesday. 

It was gone on Wednesday when a short parade of cars pulled up and people, including me, put on their flashers and left the warmth of their vehicles to peek in the yet still locked door. 

I don't know the man, the artisan, who has reheeled our shoes for more than a decade. Not even sure if his name matches the sign on his shop, but I was beginning to worry about him. 

No one answered the phone when I called. There was no recorded message. 

I was hoping he would be okay in a few days. 

Maybe he was mourning the closing of the strip center's grocery store. Maybe he got out of the Polar Vortex for a few days.

Maybe he got tired of rooting about the shelves of unclaimed wares, persisting til he plucked out your proper pair. According to friends, even with the claim ticket that warned patrons to pick up within 30 days, it was never certain he would find your repaired pair. 
We have been lucky. He has always made our shoes look like new and we have never lost items in the chaos of his small workspace. 

Wednesday I inquired in two of the neighboring business if anyone knew the inside story. Nope. So much for small business owners watching each others' backs.
Thursday, after voicing my concern over the cobbler's health and the well-being of my family's footwear, to my friends, I called again. Thursday morning a wheezy voice answered. 

I confirmed that the shop was open and would be open in the few minutes it would take for me to drive there. 
"Yes," he weakly said. 

I parked the car in the empty parking lot and was relieved to see the OPEN sign ablaze. Even more relieved when the door opened and that familiar smell of leather, glue and polish permeated my nostrils. 

I told him I was beginning to worry about him as he began to search for the footwear that corresponded to my weathered ticket stub. He found the pumps.

"I was in the hospital," he shared. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry,'' I replied. 
I felt horrible for him and he was now apologizing for any inconvenience.

 The boots he remembered were not yet fixed. He would have them today at noon, he promised. 

I resisted wrestling the boots away. I told him Saturday would be fine. I'd send my husband. 
And maybe some chicken soup.