The heels were worn but the shoes were still comfortable, so I decided to repair them. A friend directed me to an environmental clothes cleaners with a shoe repair business on the side. When I walked in with my peep-toe pumps I was met before I even reached the counter. “The man who repaired shoes for us, he died,” said the clerk.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I told myself. A few years ago, I’d had a sandal strap repaired at a little hole-in-the-wall place in the mall, barely bigger than a closet. I parked in the large, scarcely used lot, entered the sad, empty mall, and found the cubbyhole. A grate was closed and a sign posted. “I am sorry, but I am closed. Please call me if I still have your shoes.”

Two strikes now, but for some reason (naiveté?) I was confident I could still locate a cobbler. I did some googling and found a phone number for a man named George on Route 29. Not exactly my neighborhood, so I called first to make sure he was there. A booming voice answered the phone. “Yes, I am George,” he said, “and I am here. The guys with the websites, they are closed.”

Two days later, I drove to George’s place. It was bustling. While George worked in the back, clad in a no-nonsense black apron, customers entered to drop off and pick up their footwear. George took one look at my shoes and shook his head. “No way I can repair these,” he said. “I don’t have the material for it.”

“But I’m willing to spend some money because I like these shoes so much,” I pressed.

“I’m sorry,” George replied. “I won’t take on a job if I know the customer won’t be satisfied in the end.”

I couldn’t argue with that. George knew his limits. He had mastered the art of saying no. I wish I could say the same for myself. Maybe it’s easier for a cobbler than a writer.

I slunk out of George’s with my banged-up pumps, drove home and threw them in the trash … photographing one first, just for the record.