A monologue from the play by Donald Margulies
My father sold shoes. In a Buster Brown store on Sheepshead Bay Road. He wasn’t a partner, he was an employee. For thirty-nine years. He gave his life to that store.
It wasn’t even his to proﬁt from, yet he still gave everything to that goddamn store. I could never understand what was so attractive about that place, why he chose to spend so much of his days there and not at home.
I remember watching him closely in the morning, trying to uncover the mystery of manhood, the rituals of work. The shpritz of Aramis, the buﬀ of the Oxfords, the tying of the perfect Windsor knot.
I’d watch him from my window get swallowed up in the sea of Brooklyn fathers all beginning their day.