Curse of more

One.

I’m glad you asked. It was Ashton Kutcher in the movie Spread. They were black combat boots, loosely laced. He wore them with cuffed jeans, a striped shirt, thin black suspenders, and a green flight jacket. The washed denim jeans had the perfect amount of colorful paint drops to blur the line between an actual artist’s clothes and high fashion clothing. There was a glossy black Mercedes G Wagon. He stepped out of it, and my life changed. I studied him. I believed that dressing like Ashton Kutcher in this movie would solve my problems. I remembered a man I admired who said that shoes were the most important part of an outfit. I was compelled to buy the boots. 

The Saint Laurent boots were nine hundred and ninety-five dollars. I was not shocked at this price, nor did it offend me. That I could not afford the boots made Ashton Kutcher that much cooler than me. The rap music I listened to talked about levels. The goal in life was to get to the next, higher level. I was not on Ashton’s boot's level. I felt that even if I had miraculously acquired them and put them on my feet, I wouldn’t have been worthy of walking in them. It was all about levels. Suddenly, it struck me as obvious that a character driving a G Wagon would have thousand-dollar boots. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to afford the wardrobe Ashton wore in the multimillion-dollar movie, I thought, typing “combat boots” into Google. It took several hours and me charging my iPhone to find a pair I liked. I’d never wanted anything more, and at the same time, it felt like they were all I’d ever wanted. 

The Designer Shoe Warehouse (DSW) was the only retailer that carried them. Even the boot's name got me excited, “John Varvatos Star USA leather combat boots.” But they were expensive. I’d never even spent a hundred dollars on a pair of shoes, and these were one-hundred and eighty-five. I knew I’d have to go into debt to get them but convinced myself that sometimes that’s what you needed to do to get to the next level.

The boot's brown leather had a rust-colored patina. Their waxed black laces snaked through four eyelets and two-speed hooks and, once tied, draped over the front of the boot like your favorite black t-shirt. The sole’s rubber was as thick as an iPhone, and the tread pattern was asymmetrical, the type most commonly found on sports cars. The stitching between the outsole and the welt around the perimeter of the boot was a hemp-colored nylbond, which provided durability and calmed the boot down, making it appropriate footwear for any possible occasion. I was obsessed with them. I would have slept with them beside me if I weren’t such a coward. When I finally entered them, I was on the carpet. The boots swaddled my feet. I had never put on anything that had such a profound impact on my being. When I looked down at the boots, I was a new and better man. I spent hours walking on the carpet, trying on everything I owned with them on my feet. The boots made me feel worthy regardless of anything else. They became my everything.

I first wore them on a Friday night at my best friend's house. My best friend was the type of guy you hoped would bear hug you. He was the type of friend who told you all your ideas were fantastic and that you would do great things one day. It was good that I was introducing the boots to him first. It felt like a big deal to be wearing them. I imagined people would look at me like I looked at Ashton Kutcher. 

My friend welcomed me with a jubilant embrace and offered beer or whiskey. Feeling like a new person, I beamed at him as we conversed on our way to the kitchen. As he spoke, I thought of how nice it was for my boots to be walking on hardwood floors. Then, I noticed tumbleweeds of cat hair along all the floorboards. I was no longer enthused. I worried that the cat hair would ruin my boot's laces because it once destroyed a black sweatshirt I’d worn there. I couldn’t chance the same fate with my boots. What happened next brings me great shame. 

My friend poured me two fingers of Woodford Reserve in a crystal glass I hadn't used before. He explained that he’d paid a maid service to deep clean his kitchen and, in the process, they’d found them. He rubbed the granite island that separated us and told me that the service also got stains off the counter. I agreed that the kitchen looked clean and the glass was well made and heavy, but I really wanted to ask him why he hadn’t done a damn thing about the cat hair. I felt offended on behalf of my boots. As I bent over and untied them, he talked about a girl he’d slept with who had scars all over her back from some terrible illness she once had. He said the girl was shy about him touching her back as I undid the buttery ear of one of my laces. He didn’t mind the scars, and he told her that it was sexy knowing that she’d been strong enough to go through something like that. I took my boots off and wiped them clean with my hand. When my friend finished his story, I told him that I didn’t understand why he’d be interested in scars when he could find a girl with a fresh back. Then, finally, we talked about my boots.

The only time I’ve ever blushed was when I told my friend about my new boots. I eagerly shared the price and said “John Varvatos” multiple times. I provided the full back story of my purchase and included a summation of the current boot market as I saw it. I held the boots under his kitchen’s recessed lighting and displayed the reasons why they were the best ones for the price point. My tone was similar to a cult follower looking for a recruit. I spoke about my boots as if they’d brought me enlightenment. I did not tell him about the movie that inspired them, and I didn’t feel like Ashton Kutcher when I stopped talking. I felt like a nude man shouting in a hotel hallway that he’d just had sex. 

My best friend responded by telling me that he thought the boots were “cool.” There was a pause after he said “cool,” and I thought he was getting some breath before answering more deeply, but it didn’t come. He changed subjects, leaving me stonewalled and feeling foolish for holding my boots in front of me. I don’t know why I did what happened next, and I can’t explain it more than I already have. At the time, I didn’t question my behavior, nor was I concerned that it was weird and somewhat disrespectful. I put my John Varvatos Star USA leather combat boots on his island like a casserole I’d made for dinner. He looked at me like I was his son and his eyes communicated disappointment. He scolded me with his eyes like a tenured teacher and removed my boots from the counter. Then, they were on the floor. They looked at me from there, out of my hands, off my feet, and I looked back and saw that they were just boots. What had I done? My friend smiled at me, then he picked up his drink and said cheers. 

Two. 

Time accelerated and wore on the boots. They were scared by their mistakes, their laces broke, and their soles needed replacing. I craved a makeover for them. It was an idea like a light bulb that radiated positive vibes. There was no doubt that I had leveled up in life. I’d increased my salary, cut back on drinking, and lived with a girl I’d marry. I hadn’t wrecked my health, burned any bridges, or lost too many friends. The problem was it was boring. I wanted to level up again, and because the boots played such a crucial role in kicking off my last ascendence, I wanted them to be as good as new. 

I took them to a cobbler with ninety-two five-star reviews and three dollar sign symbols as the price point. I would have gone to a place with four-dollar sign symbols, but they didn’t exist with five-star reviews, and I only wanted the best. When I set my boots on the cobbler’s counter and saw them surrounded by oiled and polished leather, they appeared like battered wolves. I had not seen my boots near new ones in so long that I’d forgotten just what new looked like. I told the cobbler what I wanted to be done with a plum’s pit of doubt in my mind, questioning if my boots could ever look young again. 

The cobbler made my heart bleed when he told me that resoling the boots was impossible. He said that they were cheap and didn’t have a Goodyear welt. The boots looked exhausted, flopping on the counter between us. The wolves had finally collapsed after hard use. They carried my hopes and dreams, the person that I would become. I owed my place at that level to them completely and thought of getting my knuckles tattooed with “boot made” as a tribute. I couldn’t abandon them. I asked the cobbler what he could do and was not pleased with his response. The man was dressed like Geppetto. He was Iranian and had patches of gray in the dark hair that covered his face. He wore his beard trim and his mustache long. His hair was slicked back and shiny like a bowling alley. He spoke with authority and told me that the best he could do was shave down the outsole and glue a new heel back on. He admitted that it was not ideal and wouldn’t match the boot. The plum’s pit turned into a bottomless hole.

The makeover reveal was disappointing, like wanting a house but getting a trailer home. The black laces were not as thick or long, and they were unwaxed. They looked awkward on the boot, and I wanted to go online and buy a different pair, but fixing them wouldn’t have solved the biggest problem, the boot’s sole. It looked awful, but the cobbler was pleased. He told me that glue didn’t work because the original rubber on my boot was cheap, but not to worry because he'd nailed them on. His black mustache framed his decent teeth with a proud grin. I thought the boots looked terrible but kept my mouth shut. When I put them on at home, I felt something under my heel. He'd nailed right through the cork bed, then flattened the nail to a small knob of metal.

I was too cowardly to tell the cobbler that he’d butchered my boots, and though they were uncomfortable to wear, I couldn’t get rid of them. I felt that they had one redeeming quality. The cobbler had shined the rust-colored leather so that the patina was more interesting, and the polish healed the cuts and scrapes that had once disfigured the leather. It was surprising that I enjoyed touching the soft scars when I rubbed my fingers over the boot’s toe. I still cherished the boots; they reminded me of what I had been through. 

Three. 

I feel that I planted my roots in adulthood when my wife and I became homeowners. I thought that this was what my parents must feel like. When I was moving out of our apartment complex, I found myself detached from anyone who lived there. I assumed they wouldn’t be able to understand my life now. It was clear that I had reached another level and that, once again, it was by acquiring something. Life had never felt more like a game that I’d figured out. At the same time, I obsessed over what would happen after I moved into my new home. I traced my path back to the boots and Ashton Kutcher. Surely, he had at least four homes. Did that mean I needed three more? If not, then what did I need? My boots took me to the next level, and they were something I had bought. My house was the same. I didn’t want to put so much value on possessions, but deep down, I felt like they were what made me. 

Moving into a home was a cleansing phase in our life. We shed one identity for another, and during the move, my wife and I threw away anything that didn’t fit our new personas. With the new shelter we’d acquired, we felt unstoppable and thought buying a lot of new stuff was a great idea. As our daughter napped and we cleared out our apartment closets, we filled black trash bags with items that might hold us back in the next level. I knew the boots were on the chopping block and intentionally placed them between the suitcase I was using for the things I’d keep and the trash bags. I looked at them every couple of minutes and saw flashes of my life from way back. A younger me would have been influenced by sentimental moments like these, but the new me felt an urge to move on. I couldn’t romanticize the boots anymore; I was an adult now and had to be rational. I asked my wife what she thought, and she told me that they were “cool” but that I never wore them anymore. She was right. I hadn’t worn them much since I got them repaired because the bump in the right boot made wearing them nearly unbearable. I didn’t think I needed boots anymore because all I did was go grocery shopping or to the park. I had sixty-dollar Nike Air Monarch’s, the quintessential dad shoe, that I wore every day. The boots had to go. 

I threw them in the trash bag with the other hopeless items we’d decided were beneath us. We meant to donate all of it, but moving into the new house took priority and all of our time. When I had a moment to take action on the trash bags, I threw them out in our neighborhood’s middle school dumpster. I didn’t even think of the boots until I pulled into the driveway of our new home. I watched the garage door pull itself open and wondered how many more years I’d open it before getting a new house. I thought it was okay the boots were gone because I’d enjoyed them while they were here. Suddenly, my daughter spilled out of the garage, saying “Daddy” over and over. I told her not to run in front of the car but couldn’t be mad at her youthful face. She asked if she could sit in the front seat, and feeling like I was in a movie filmed on the driveway of my new house, I couldn’t say no. As I rolled the car into the garage, she asked me repeatedly if she could drive. I became annoyed and teased she couldn’t because she wasn't on that level yet. Using that word felt wrong. Was there a race I was teaching her how to win? Was there anything more important than the present? Her pout made me feel like I’d abandoned her. I apologized and let her sit in front of me, holding the wheel as we rolled the rest of the way. She was delighted; it was a beautiful scene. It felt like all I ever wanted.