I Love Your Shoes!

Do you ever have an experience that instantly and unexpectedly transports you back in time? That happened to me the other day.

I was walking through the lobby of my work building. I noticed a young man who was waiting outside the elevators. Most people who don’t work in my building are there because of not so great reasons. I have no idea why this young man found himself in the lobby that day, but I can surmise that it wasn’t exactly where he wanted to be.

He was donning a really cool pair of Nike shoes. I don’t know the ins and outs of the various levels of “cool” for Nikes, but in my mind, these babies were totally legit. Since I’m uncomfortable in most social settings, especially with strangers, I hesitated to say anything. I took a deep breath and told him, “I love your shoes!” He smiled so big—and told me, emphatically, “thank you!” It really meant something to him that a stranger took the time in an unfamiliar place to compliment his shoes.

Photo by Christian Lucas on Unsplash

That simple exchange transported me back to 2007. I had recently graduated law school and was working in the very same building downtown. I had no idea what I was doing. I’d leave work overwhelmed and legitimately wondering if I would make it in the job. The multi-block walk to the car was a time of reflection and further questioning.

I don’t recall the first time I saw him, but I remember exactly where he stood: on a corner just a block away from my parking lot. He had an infectious smile and paced with vigor. His name, I would later learn, was Ronald Milton.

As I approached Mr. Milton for the first time, he was across the street from me, minding his corner. I was dressed in a new suit and heels—trying to look the part I wasn’t sure I was cut out to play. As I approached, Mr. Milton shouted out to me from afar:

“I love your shoes!”

I wasn’t sure how to take this sort of compliment from a complete stranger hanging on a random corner of downtown. It seeming harmless enough, I smiled and said, “thank you!”

After that, not a day went by without a compliment from Mr. Milton. Always from afar, never intrusive. Never accompanied by any request. At one point, interviewed by the local paper about being our city’s “compliment man,” he told the paper one must walk a fine line between complimenting and harassing. Mr. Milton walked that line with ease.

Over time, I came to expect the daily compliment, it typically focusing on my shoes but sometimes on clothing. I’d smile, thank him, and go about my evening. Sometimes I’d hear him complimenting other women as well, brightening days one by one.

A few years passed with my receiving these delightful compliments each night. My confidence at work had grown some by then—Mr. Milton was a familiar presence that helped me find the way from “deer in the headlights” to being able to at least dodge those headlights. He always cheered me up on a difficult day.

Sometime in late 2010, Mr. Milton stopped appearing on that corner. His absence was notable. I wondered where he was; whether he was ok. Later, in January (thanks to local reporting), I learned not only what happened to him, but also how he had struggled with homelessness along the way. Sadly, Mr. Milton’s heart had given out and he had passed on.

The reporter, Bridget Murphy, reflected upon his death: “He was the kind of man who kept no one close but had everyone on his side.”

He had a way of making me and countless others feel like someone truly cared. That’s the legacy he left behind. As Ms. Murphy put it, “if smiles from strangers were dollars in the bank, then Ronald Milton was a high roller in the River City.”

Mr. Milton handing out a compliment to a passerby, courtesy of the Florida Times Union.

It’s been fifteen years since the last time I saw Mr. Milton on that corner. But the chance experience the other day reminded me of not only the great work he did from his tiny spot in downtown, but also of the lasting impact of kindness to strangers. Let’s all try to remember that.

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