I gained friendly entrance to a world of places looking for the
shaving soap, before I unexpectedly found it. That left the bank
and the shoe laces to attain. The bank was a certainty, but in
due time I actually became worried about brown shoe laces. I had
asked in vain at too many places. Then all of a sudden my
troubles were over--on ahead half a block was a sign, Florsheim
Shoes.
I went to about where I thought shoe laces were located and asked
the man for a pair of brown shoe laces. He answered he had none.
He had black and white laces, but no browns. Brown shoes were
outdated and always had been outdated. They were a thing a man of
today was not using. The truth, so help me.
Shortly thereafter, still shoelaceless, I came to the National
City branch, went in, introduced myself as a banker representing
a bank that had had an account with the parent bank for over 50
years. The manager, a Mr. Cramer, was originally from Vermont,
and therefore a hard man to crack, but the 50 years and the brown
shoe lace trouble did the trick. He took me to lunch at the Union
Club, a pretty nifty club quite near his bank and right against
the Pacific Ocean. When we arrived the tide was out and the
city's big cement sewer tiles were exposed for a quarter of a
mile out.
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