James Fucile, 83, calls his job ‘a gift from God’
James Fucile, 83 years old, is retiring after 60 years of repairing shoes on the Upper East Side. PHOTO: RALPH GARDNER/THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
The true holiday spirit didn’t kick in until one morning last week. That’s when I dropped by to pay my respects to James Fucile, a shoe repairman on Lexington Avenue and East 82nd Street. A neighbor had informed me James Shoe Repair was going out of business Dec. 12.
That would be sad news under any occasion—one develops a long-term relationship with a dependable, reasonably priced shoe repair shop—but Mr. Fucile, who is 83 years old, has remained at approximately the same location on Lexington Avenue since 1955.
I believe that qualifies him as something of a local landmark.
In fact, I approached him last year about writing a column. But he politely declined. He said he didn’t need any more business.
I found his reaction refreshing but disappointing. So when I heard he was retiring and he and his wife were moving to Las Vegas to live with one of their sons I asked whether he’d reconsider. He probably wouldn’t be overwhelmed with customers if people knew he was going out of business soon.
But still Mr. Fucile resisted. He reluctantly agreed to let me write about his career when I dropped by the shop a few days later, after the intercession of a longtime friend who had stopped in to say goodbye.
As we sat and talked on that earlier occasion, clients, spotting a sign in the window alerting them to pick up their shoes, stuck their heads in the door to express their gratitude and sadness that the shop was closing.
I only knew a few things about Mr. Fucile. His work was reliable—I take pride in getting my shoes resoled until they crumble and he cooperated in my miserliness. Once he replaced leather soles with rubber ones, without checking first, explaining they’d last longer.
He had a collection of porcelain shoes on display, though not for sale, in the store window, which customers admired. He played music CDs all day long, including in German (“I don’t understand German, but I like the melodies”). And he once gave our baby sitter a Thanksgiving turkey.
Mr. Fucile told me he was born in Netcong, N.J., but moved to Italy as a child and lived there through World War II. One of nine brothers and sisters, he returned to the U.S. after the war, fought in Korea, and took over a repair shop across the street from his current location after he saw a “for sale” sign in the window.
He played down his generosity to our baby sitter. “Sometimes you get presents, and have enough, and want to give it away,” he said, looking out the window.
But he went on: When customers “forget their shoes, or leave their shoes here,” for more than a year, “I give them away for nothing. A lot I give to these people who sweep the streets. I don’t get a dime. That’s what it’s all about really.”
We returned to the issue of Mr. Fucile’s philanthropy when I asked whether he’d enjoyed his work. I meant the craft of shoe repair. But he surprised me by referring to something much bigger.
“I loved every bit of it,” he said. “It was a gift from God. I would never give it up.
“The people that I meet,” he explained. “God gave everybody a gift to love one another. And once you learn to love each other as brother and sister…”
He choked up. “It is great. You can’t explain.”
He didn’t really need to. We live in a city where relationships seem defined by wealth and status. But most of us realize that’s a fool’s game.
“One of these sweepers opened the door,” Mr. Fucile said, of a recent encounter. “He said, ‘Sir, you got a pair of shoes?’ Something came over me—the effect on my body: He’s my lost brother.”
Ten minutes later the man’s friend, hearing the news of Mr. Fucile’s generosity, dropped by and asked whether the shoe repairer had a free pair in size 11. “It was a spiritual thing, and this was for real,” Mr. Fucile said. “There’s only one religion in this world: love.”
By this point I had tears in my eyes, too. And I appreciated why the shoe repairman had little interest in publicity. He already received greater recognition than anything a newspaper could provide.
“These are the things you learned being connected with these people,” he said. “The children, with their computers, are losing all the connection.
“Love comes through these shoes,” Mr. Fucile said as he looked out the window again. “I’m sad, too. I’m going through a cycle.”
Write to Ralph Gardner Jr. at ralph.gardner@wsj.com