The Boots

My dad brought home some work boots for me one night. He was pretty proud of them, I could tell by how anxious he was to show them to me. He was so anxious he forgot that he worked the third shift and had gotten home at 4 am. I always slept alert and felt his presence intrude my unconsciousness and sit on my bed. I snapped up into a sitting position, not knowing if I was going to get beat or hugged. I stabbed the folded knuckles of my index fingers into the corners of my eyes to brush away some crusted sleep and crumpled up my forehead, hoping to get a better view.

Dad was creepy.

Not all the time, but sometimes, especially when he woke me up in the middle of the night and tried to talk to me. He talked at me with words I didn't understand but looked at me like he wanted me to respond. Sometimes he got real mad when I didn't know what to say. I always froze in fear and lack of understanding, sort of how I imagine the Native Americans acted when they sat down to talk to the first Europeans that crashed their party. I wish I could go back as the grown up me and have those conversations, because I think my dad just wanted somebody to talk to.

He was all happy and his blurry silhouette wrapped around a gaping smile and wild eyes that were too white to be drunk. He dangled something over my eyebrows with his right hand. They were work boots. I guessed he had got them really cheap off of some truck that came by the shop he worked at. I tried to get a handle on the situation, but got fixated on all the saliva glistening on his lips as he told me he didn’t get them from some Mafia truck or a truck driven by a group of Holy Roller grandmothers trying to raise money for their Monkey Farm. At least that’s what I think he told me. I sighed out a thank you, then unbent myself into horizontal and pretended to fall asleep. I felt his weight leave the bed and waited until he was done stumbling around and had collapsed on his own bed, before I let my guard down. Even then, I didn’t relax much until I heard his rumbling snore. That’s when I knew it was safe and I let the darkness tuck me in.

When I got up in the morning there was a pair of black work boots laughing at me from the end of my bed. Not really laughing, just sort of curling up a double stitched plastic polygrip sole around a fake steel toe.

“Come on Fonzie, everyone is wearing black.” The boots said to me in some weird Italian accent. “Put us on and feel the power of Black Plastic.”

I warbled like a frightened Yeti about to crap its fur, and kicked the ebony abominations to the floor. The plastic thud of the boots died quickly, but my warble hit my dads face and he snorted into semi-consciousness.

“Lunch money is on my dresser.” He mumbled. I looked at him and noticed that all the glistening spit from last night had crusted up and caked his lips with white. “Don’t touch anything else.”

I shook my brother awake. He pushed himself up and out from under the covers. He had no idea what was going on, nor would I ever want him to. He just put his feet on the floor and started telling me about the crazy dream he had. I widened my eyes, hoping the glare would flag him down. It did and he gasped, trying to suck back in the words that had already escaped. He knew not to wake the sleeping monster. We went through our entire morning regimen in silent tiptoe. We barely turned the water up past a trickle to brush our teeth and wash our faces. Experience made sure we quietly wiggled our dresser drawers over the spots we knew would squeak. I snapped on a long sleeve plaid shirt and pulled a pair of brown corduroys that had worn flat on both knees, up to my hips. I tucked everything in and slowly, quite deliberately, snaked my belt through every loop. There was nothing left to do but put on some shoes.

I looked over at my sneakers. I had tamed them the first day I got them. I scraped them across the kickball field and had scuffed all the newness out of them. I wasn’t intimidated by their shiny white leather or unfrayed laces. I dragged my foot sideways across every third sidewalk crack I came across on the way into school, made sure I rubbed some playground dirt into them at every recess and even had six of my friends plaster them with the biggest lugies they could hawk up. My Dad was pretty pissed when he saw his six dollar investment into me all ragged and lugie coated next to the front door when he came home from work that night. He fumed and ranted that weekend about how he was never going to buy me anything ever again. I remember how my childhood naiveté thought he never bought me anything anyway.

“I didn’t ask for your stupid sneakers,” I hissed in genuine hatred, “I wanted work boots.”

Of course I wanted work boots. All the kids my age were wearing work boots at the time. I failed to spit out with the rest of my venom, that all the other kids were wearing yellow Timberlines.

I guess I struck a chord somewhere in the man born with a heart three sizes too small. Two weeks later, when the machine shop he worked at, doled out his due, he cut his bar tab a couple of beers short and tried to make his son happy. He went out to Marshalls, and got his eldest kid some work boots. He hadn’t just stumbled across them one night like I thought he did. He had actually made a genuine stab at being a dad.

He tried, but those boots were just going to make my life worse.

The boots knew it too, I could hear them laughing as I slipped my heel down into the hard black plastic. I pulled the laces tight up through all the eyelets and tied them in a knot. I started to walk across to the bedroom door.

Suddenly, The Monster woke. He twisted his feet to the floor and scratched at his bald spot as he sat up. His bulging eyes, cracked red with bloodshot, were too dry too blink out last night’s sleep. He just stood up full prone naked and barked “What the Hell time is it?” He reached back and picked at his ass, “What the Hell are you kids doing?”

“We’re just getting ready for school.” I said.

“Well, don’t make so much fucking noise.” He did a straight leg zombie walk into the bathroom and slammed the door. I heard the seat go down and figured he would be in there for a while.

I pulled four quarters off the dresser, along with two blue tickets that resembled something the Jaycees give you for a dollar in a turkey raffle. The silver was our lunch money. The blue ticket meant we didn’t have to pay the whole buck fifty everyone else did. I looked back at my brother who was standing next to the bathroom door.

“Let’s go.” I yelled with a whisper.

“I can’t,” he said “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I gotta brush them.”

“Fine, you can wait for him to come out. I’ll be down stairs.”

I closed the bedroom door behind me and made my way downstairs. I made sure to go through the living room and avoid my grandparents in the kitchen. They were just waiting to trap me into a sit down breakfast of cracked wheat cereal and baby talk. Heck, they are still trying to do that to the adult me.

I was out in the driveway, waiting for my brother, nonchalantly slamming my toes into the asphalt. Those damn black boots were impervious. After a bit, I realized that my brother hadn’t come down. I got worried and sped back upstairs, racing through the kitchen past grandparents that mumbled some indignant protests of whatever grandparents protest about. I steamed down the hall, but ever so gently pushed open the bedroom door.

I saw my brother doing The Pee Pee Dance and pointing and the bathroom. I walked up and looked in. There was my father sitting on the toilet, face resting on his knees and snoring away. I told my brother to go down the hall to the guest bathroom. I took one step in, thinking I should wake him up and put him to bed, like so many times before.

I paused for a second and the moment was etched indelibly into my memory. He actually looked sort of comfortable folded up and snoring on his porcelain bed. I glanced down at my feet and decided to let him stay there.

It was the least I could do to let him sleep. After all, he did bring me home a fine pair of work boots.