Fred Latimer shuffled down the sidewalk on his daily trek to the man who knew everything or at least, everything Fred needed to know about the White House. It was a routine he’d been doing for the past 2 years – some people stood in line for over-priced coffee served by self-righteous over-paid concession stand operators, he talked to the only man that could help him break the President. It bordered on a psychic reading.

He didn’t work out of one of those hole-in-the-wall shops with the hand & eye shaped neon signs, wear an eye patch or talk with an Eastern European accent. He did shine shoes. Everyone called him Perkins, though Fred doubted that was his real name. His stand was just beyond the cement barriers on Pennsylvania Ave.

“Mornin’ Mr. Latimer. Fine mornin’, isn’t it?” Perkins looked up as he pulled out a couple brushes and a buffing towel.

“It is so far. What’s the word ‘round town?” Fred asked as he climbed into the chair. That was how they always greeted each other.

“Funny you should ask that.”