The UPS driver doesn’t even get the chance to ring the doorbell. I’m already on my front porch, in my socks and jeans and an old, faded t-shirt. I tear the box open and slide the boots on. The fit is unreal, like I was born in them and died in them and came back to life in them, and nothing has changed, they’ve just gotten more comfortable.
I hop in my truck and crank the engine. (Don’t Fear) The Reaper by Blue Öyster Cult comes through the radio. I look over, and the Grim Reaper is sitting in the passenger seat. He turns to me and smiles. Dude’s got a gold tooth. Looks sick as fuck. The Grim Reaper turns to face the road. Let’s roll, he says.
I’ve got the windows down and light up a cigarette even though I quit smoking almost 8 years ago. The first cigarette gives me a buzz. There’s bumper-to-bumper traffic about half a mile ahead. They see me coming and clear that shit out in record time. They wave me on as the cars part like the Red Sea.
Everyone at the bar is waiting for me. Their eyes light up and they shake my hand and give me hugs. They tell me my beer is waiting for me at the furthest booth in the back. The one with the perfect view of the whole place, where I can watch patrons come and go, making out with one another, fighting with one another, dancing with one another. The waitress brings me a new beer just as soon as I’m down to my last pull. She asks if I’ll dance with her. I take her hand and we head to the middle of the room. Lionel Richie sings “Easy” on the jukebox, and the waitress puts her head on my chest while everyone watches.
“Everyone’s watching,” she says.
“Everyone’s watching,” I say.
Others pour in and dance around us. Lovers touch palms to cheeks, lips to necks, forehead to forehead.
I tell the waitress thanks for the dance and head back to the truck. I watch the Grim Reaper head to the bathroom with some lady and leave him behind.
I drive to the beach even though, under normal circumstances, I hate the beach with a passion. The blistering heat. The ocean too cold to swim in. These aren’t normal circumstances, though. The weather is a cool 70 degrees. The ocean isn’t trying to kill me. Even the sand is on my side—I don’t have to take off my boots or roll up my jeans to walk to the shore. The stroll toward the tide feels like floating.
The sun falls behind the horizon, the moon and stars chasing after it. I lay back on the sand, pillow soft, and talk to the man in the moon for a bit.
He goes, “Killer boots.”
I go, “Thanks, my man.”
“They look good on you.”
“I appreciate that, thank you.”
The stars start singing “The Man In Me” by Bob Dylan, and I coast into a dream world where not much is different than the world I’m living in right now. The stars are singing. The man in the moon is keeping watch over this side of the planet. The ocean whispers only good intentions.
I wake up as the sun comes back around the bend in the east.
I walk to my truck, drive home on an empty freeway.
I take off the boots, put them back in their box.
I go online and request to return the boots.
I could keep them, but sometimes it’s nice to be the one to end a good thing before it goes bad.
