Peyton Burgess
The Boot
W
hen I walked inside the Army Surplus Store a brass bell rang. It was hot. In the far left corner there was a big black furnace with flames glowing inside. I started sweating out last night’s NyQuil. I took off my fleece and I smelled canvas and the air felt heavy in my nose. My footsteps felt soft and unsteady on the sawdust and sand that covered the floor. All the shelves were empty. And the garment racks stood bare. There wasn’t any merchandise in the store except for a tattered boot that sat on the floor near the store entrance. It was definitely a desert boot, but in real bad shape. No laces, a big hole in the toe, half the sole missing, and some brown stains. I was about to turn and walk out, shrug it off as closed, until an old man yelled at me as he came out from behind a thick green blanket fashioned as a curtain. He stood behind the counter with a brass National cash register. Wearing a thin but dark flannel and round-framed black glasses, he almost blended into the curtain. “Hello. Hello,” he said. “Please, can I help you?” I walked towards him a little bit to get a closer look, still feeling as if I could slip on the sawdust. He had an uneven shave and a tarnished but beautiful silver cross hanging from his neck. “I was just looking for a tent,” I said. “I’m going camping.” He bent down behind the counter, showing me the bony small of his back and a dry, cracked leather belt on blue jeans. “Let me see,” he said, and came back up with a large brown leather-bound book filled with thick sheets of yellow paper, “Inventory” labeled on its cover. A blue silk ribbon dangled from the top of the binding. “Doesn’t look like you got much of anything,” I said to the old man and immediately felt guilty. “Now just hold on, son,” he said, waving a hand back and forth. “You said you wanna go camping so let me see what I can do for you.” 49