Shine, sir?

We were drinking draft beer at an old bar downtown. That part of town was called Crackland, due to the main business that used to proliferate around that corner. We were standing on the sidewalk, as prescribed by the local tradition.
By those times, the beer still matched the reputation of the place,
despite other particularly interesting stimuli.
From across the street came the aroma of grilled meat from a shack.
Dust on the ground, bits of dirt the size of a tv set.
Loud to the limit, a pirate CD seller was diputing the soundscape with another professional (one of those services by wich someone pays for a love declaration expressed by means of a huge soundbox placed over a vehicle,
all decorated with lips and hearts).
Not far, an in loco burnt beetle was rusting silently in front of a police station.
Fingerless pigeons were beaking smashed fries powdered with black.

My shoe called the attention of a shoe-shiner, who grasped my elbow.
I turned, and saw no one. After a while I realize he is about 3 ft tall.
I declined the offer,
even being aware that maybe a little shine would be becoming indeed.
He insisted, I refused again. When I looked the other way,
he stepped on my shoe and scrubbed it.

This would never take place at a mall. That’s why I do not habitually go to such places.I mean, malls.