Her Painted Boots

He looked in the mirror for the first time in two weeks, and did not recognize the man he saw. His cheeks and eyes were sunken, and a wanton beard shadowed his jaw. This foreign person was far removed from the man he should have seen in the mirror; that man wore ironed shirts, and carried a brown messenger bag. That man had clean hair. That man smiled.
The white tile of his bathroom chilled his bare feet as he stared into the mirror for five minutes straight. He saw nothing in his own face but deficiency. He had spent the last two weeks eating cereal from a mixing bowl, and flipping through the television with unseeing eyes. His sweatpants were beginning to emit a vague odor, as were the sheets on his bed and the blankets across his couch. His head throbbed as he watched himself breathe. Two weeks ago he had been infinite. Two weeks ago he had been the rising sun. Now he was blank.
He wandered out of the bathroom and down the hall, reaching the closet in his bedroom to search for a clean t-shirt. The moment the wooden doors creaked open, something light struck the top of his head. He bent down to pick up what had fallen, and saw that it was a lens cap. His heart sank. He remembered the professional camera equipment he’d stuffed into the top shelf, intending never to lay eyes on any of it for the rest of his life. He scowled at the piece of rogue plastic, and then glanced upward to see his gorgeous camera, shoved haphazardly amidst forgotten boxes and clothes that no longer fit. It lay unprotected against sharp corners that could crack its lens or break the flash off its body; its case was stored away elsewhere. His stomach turned, and he closed the closet doors. The lens cap fell from his hand to the floor.
He collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling and remembering the shrimp cocktails he’d eaten at his own premiere party. He relived the entire fiasco.
He remembered the way his photographs had looked in the art gallery, their sharp, black-and-white angles cast in harsh light from above or below. His name had begun to grow popular in the community and critics were sitting up to take notice of his talent, and when he had been approached about creating an original exhibit for the museum, he’d jumped at the chance to break into the world of high photographic art. So he’d designed an ambitious project, abandoning the heartfelt intimacy of his previous work to create gritty depictions of urban environments. He had toiled with meticulous obsession for three solid months, employing every trick he could remember to create what he hoped would be a fresh, modern exhibit. But when he finished the series, a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind had told him something had gone horribly awry. His pictures had been edgy to the point of pretentiousness, and his worst fears were realized when he saw the way people received his work at the debut of the collection. He recalled one woman’s face with sickening accuracy. She had cocked her head to the side, frowned, and then raised one eyebrow with skepticism. She’d then hurried away to chat with a friend, hardly glancing at any other photographs for the rest of the night.
He swallowed hard as he remembered the crucifixion he’d endured from the papers that following morning. Words like “unoriginal,” “inauthentic,” and “immature” had been thrown about, and the most mercy he’d received came from one patronizing critic who dubbed him “a rookie in the field, still growing into his paws.” Nearly every important photographer in the city had seen his exhibit, and every important photographer in America would read the reviews.
He had returned to his darkened apartment the night of the premiere without turning on the lights, dropped his camera case to the ground, and crawled straight into bed with his shoes still on. Two weeks later, he’d transformed into this. Every part of his body ached as he rolled over and attempted sleep.

A weak ray of light found his face, and the inside of his eyelids glowed red. He peered at the clock, which had somehow advanced twelve hours since he’d last looked. He released a groan, and stretched his arms above his head.
Just then, a knock at his door sounded through the apartment. He sat up in the afternoon light, and trudged down the hall. The knock came again, and he pulled the door open to find his neighbor, Katie, on the other side. He tried to rearrange his face into something more presentable than a groggy frown. “Oh, uh… Hey, Luke. Did I… wake you…?” she ventured.
“Yeah, I was just… napping.”
She was a slight young woman of about twenty-five years, with dark hair twisted into a knot on the back of her head, and various layers of colorful clothing draped over her frame. She’d helped him unpack boxes when he moved into the apartment complex, and proved herself to be a genuine friend in the years since.
“Oh, right,” she humored him. “Well… Okay, I know this seems completely random, but I bought these boots the other day, and they’ve got potential but they need some serious help. And I know you’re an artist and everything, so I just thought that maybe you could… decorate them or something? I mean, you can do whatever you want, but I just thought maybe you could help me…?” She presented a pair of battered army boots that smelled like a thrift shop, shrugging her shoulders and smiling. He narrowed his eyes at the shoes, and glanced at Katie’s face, biting his lip and beginning to shake his head.
“I really don’t know…”
“Please? It doesn’t have to be a big deal or anything…”
“I… I don’t know… I don’t paint or draw at all, and I’m not really a very good artist anyway… You should probably just ask someone else. I’m sorry,” he said. She looked at her sandaled feet and huffed a breath. “I’ll see you later, okay?” he offered as he began closing the door.
“Wait,” she said, her hand popping up to keep it open. “Look, I know you’ve been down lately. I heard about what happened with your gallery.” His face burned and he averted his gaze. “And I haven’t seen you in the hall for like, days, at least. God knows how you’re surviving in there without new groceries.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued. “All I’m saying is that we both know you don’t have anything else to do, and this would really mean a lot to me. Just consider it, okay? Will you just take the boots?”
He glared at them for a moment, clenched his teeth, and then found his hands extending through the door frame.
“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Luke,” Katie smiled, placing the boots in his grip. And then, before he could react, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. He expected her to shrink away from his greasy hair and coarse cheek, but she held him in a solid embrace before pulling back, her hands on his shoulders, smiling straight into his eyes. “See ya,” she said, and turned to walk back down the hallway.
He closed the door behind her with his free hand, and looked around his apartment for a free space to keep her boots. He went to the kitchen counter, which was littered with ambiguous dirty dishes, and shoved a few used popcorn bowls aside to make room for the shoes. As he placed them on the counter and stood back to consider them, their imposing black leather and thick frame seemed more of a threat than an invitation. It was as though they could see straight through him. He lowered his eyebrows, muttered something about his sanity slipping away, and walked over to plop down on the couch.

Another three days passed in the same dim monotony, and Katie’s black boots stood silently in his kitchen. A part of him hoped that if he continued to ignore them, they might simply disappear. But he was beginning to feel that he’d chosen an inopportune place for the shoes, as he could see them from almost anywhere in his apartment. If he sat on his sofa to watch television, he could see the boots from the corner of his eye. If he walked into his kitchen to heat a bowl of Easy Mac, he passed right by them. If he entered or left the living room, they stood in his direct line of vision. Even when he lied in his bed, he could still see the right side of one boot down the hallway. They stood like a question mark in the back of his mind at all times, and he was beginning to suspect that avoidance was a fruitless endeavor. As much as he resented the idea of creativity these days, he couldn’t help but think of Katie’s face and the things she’d said in the doorway.
He walked into the kitchen one evening to investigate his refrigerator, and the boots stood as ever behind him while he looked. Grabbing an old cup of jell-o, he turned to them.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked.
They didn’t respond.
“You suck.”
At that moment, there was a knock at his door. “Perfect,” he muttered as he fumbled with the lock and handle. When the door swung open, Katie’s eyes met his.
“Hey, Luke!” she smiled. “How’s the project going?”
He looked at his bare, hairy feet and faltered. “Uh… it’s, um… fine? I just… yeah, I mean they’re not exactly finished…” She listened while he trailed off, and then stepped forward poke her head in the door. He tried to block her line of vision before she could see the extent of his filthy hovel, but she was too quick.
“Wow, Luke. The place looks really… different.” He didn’t attempt to defend himself. “But to each his own, I guess. And hey, relax about the shoe thing. I just came by to see whether it was going okay, but no worries. Just take your time,” she allowed
“Uh… Yeah, okay,” he exhaled, and she threw him a quick “bye!” over her shoulder as she left.
He closed the door, turned around to face his living room, and for the first time in weeks, he appraised the damage with bravery. His apartment bore a disturbing resemblance to a college fraternity house. There were dirty socks strewn across the back of the sofa, cups of half-drunk soda covering the top of the television, and some lumpy cloth mass that he did not recognize in the far corner of the room. He looked over at the boots, and they glared back at him from the other side of the room. At long last, he released a deep breath.
“All right! Fine, okay?” he said to the boots. “You win, dammit.”
And chuckling to himself, he began to clean.

He spent the entire day laboring with a damp brow, sorting dirty laundry into piles and putting loads in the wash, scrubbing mirrors and sinks, and clearing out floor space one trash bit at a time. The last room he came to was the kitchen, and he worked his way around the counter to where Katie’s boots stood. He cleared away every food-encrusted plate, every empty cereal box, every used-up whiskey bottle that lay around her shoes, and sponged down every surface he could find. At last, the boots stood alone, now seeming less like a question mark and more like a contented period. He paused, looking around his spotless living space, and heaved a sigh of relief. He turned on his heel and made straight for the shower.
Later that evening, he returned from the craft store with a large bag full of oil paint, fabric paint, acrylic paint, and several other variations that sounded promising, along with a slew of assorted brushes that the cashier had recommended. He transferred Katie’s boots from the kitchen counter to his table, which he had already covered with an old plastic tablecloth. Switching the radio to his favorite classical station, he sat down in his chair and gazed at the pair of boots.
At length, he picked up the right shoe. With no idea what to create, and no particular color scheme in mind, he squirted a blob of blue paint onto a paper plate, dipped his brush in, and put it to the black leather. He found his own hand arching gracefully across the width of the shoe, following a series of curves and loops that wisped along its seams and contours. He pulled his brush away, and smiled. It was the most beautiful blue swirl he had ever seen. He continued. First, he painted a tangle of blue and white flourishes across the top of the boots, and melting down the sides. He dipped his brush in water, and cleaned it out on a paper towel. Next, he chose green. Swift strokes lined the bottom of the shoe, reaching up to meet the blue in certain places, and mixing with splashes of yellow and stripes of darker green here and there. He continued in this way for hours, now using purple, then dipping his brush into red paints, even inventing new hues for the thrill of it. His hands grew tired, and he took breaks now and again, drinking root beer and conducting the invisible orchestra in his radio. He painted one boot, and then the other in just the same way, until strokes of paint adorned his nose, hands and shirt, and he had at last finished.
He stepped back from the table after completing the last corner of the shoe and setting down his brush, and he breathed freely. If boots had hands, he would have shaken them. They stood on the table to dry, and he made his way to the bathroom to clean up before bed.
The next morning, he woke up early and had a brisk shower. He took the boots up in his arms and traipsed out of his door and down the hallway. When he reached Katie’s door, he rapped his knuckles against it and stepped back in anticipation. The door opened after a moment, and as her gaze fell on what his arms held, warmth flooded her face and lit her eyes. She let out a laugh, and covered her mouth in apparent amazement.
“Oh… my God…” she beamed. He looked down at the boots, and saw himself reflected in their brush strokes.
The once dingy leather now depicted something akin to a fresh April morning. A swirled sky coiled around the boot’s ankles, grass sprouted up from its soles, and flowers twisted into its shoelaces. Katie reached out toward him, taking the boots into her arms and hugging them tightly.
“They’re perfect. They’re more than perfect. I don’t even know what to say.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he smiled. “Believe it or not, I actually kind of enjoyed doing it.”
She grinned wryly. “Yeah, I thought you might.”
“Right,” he chuckled. “Well, I’ll see you around.”

Over the next few days, he spent his time searching the newspaper for want ads, and watching television programs he actually cared about. He reunited with his ironing board, and made several trips to the grocery store. One afternoon, while he was scouring the paper for job opportunities, someone knocked on his door. He swung it open to find an unexpected face on the other side. It was Angela from the second floor.
“Hey!” she smiled.
“Hi, Angela. How you been?”
“Oh, I’m pretty good.” He noticed she was holding something behind her back. “I saw the boots you made for Katie! Those were gorgeous.”
“Oh thanks, that’s really nice of you.” He waited for what he could see coming next.
“Well…” she ventured, shifting her feet. “I found this old bag that I’d stuffed away in my closet, and I really never use it, but I thought that maybe if you painted it, I might start wearing it again…” She looked at him from under her blonde hair and presented a gray messenger bag.
“I’m really flattered, Angela, but I’m not even sure I have it in me to make something like that again. I think it was kind of a onetime thing,” he said, not entirely convinced it was the truth.
“Oh. Gotcha, yeah, I totally understand. Sorry to bug you! I’ll see you later,” she said as she started off toward the end of the hall. He watched her walk and something pulled frantically at his insides. As she pushed the elevator button, he called out.
“Wait!” She turned over her shoulder to look back at him. “I guess… I mean, I guess I could try, if you really want to sacrifice a perfectly good bag.” She smiled, trotted over to hand him the bag and thanked him, and he closed his door as she walked back to the elevator. This time, he placed his new project straight on his table, which he’d kept covered in the same plastic tablecloth for what he thought was no particular reason. He felt a smile touch his cheeks as he went to grab his craft paints.
The very next day, he found himself standing outside of Angela’s apartment holding a messenger bag with a galaxy of stars and planets painted across its entire frame, and asteroids shooting down the shoulder strap. She opened her door at the sound of his knock, and seeing the new creation, erupted into a shower of hugs and heartfelt thanks. He laughed and handed off the bag, his hands still stained with shades of blue and yellow, and his feet barely touched the ground as he returned to his apartment.

Over the following weeks, word spread of his new talent, and neighbors from all corners of the complex came to knock on his door. He painted everything from trucker caps to sundresses, from baseball shirts to stiletto heels. The next month of his life was spent bent over his kitchen table, toiling with a brush in hand, mixing colors and mapping out new designs. No two pieces were ever the same, and every new painting lived up to the beauty of its predecessor. Before he knew it, his entire apartment building bloomed with color and life as its inhabitants sported the clothing he’d painted, and a new vibrancy seemed to light the air in its halls.
One crisp morning, he rolled out of bed and shuffled toward his closet. As he opened the wooden doors, something familiar struck the top of his head. He glanced down at the carpet to see that same lens cap sitting beside his foot. When he had cleaned his apartment the previous month, he’d placed the cap quickly on the top shelf again without looking upward, and now it appeared that the black plastic was determined not to be ignored. But this time, rather than scowling or cursing at the cap, he held it between his fingers and inspected it. He felt no pit in his stomach, no ache in the back of his head. He breathed freely as he looked at the lens cap, and before he knew it, he had reached up to the top shelf and removed his camera from its exile. Its cool metal rested heavy in his hands, and he felt as though he’d rediscovered his favorite song. Soon, every piece of camera equipment that he’d banished was returned to visibility, and he knew exactly what his next move would be.
That afternoon, he made his way up and down the halls of every floor in his apartment complex, knocking on doors and asking a simple favor: he requested that each person wear whatever he had painted for them, and meet him in front of their apartment building the following day. Every person he spoke to was more than happy to cooperate, and when he arrived outside in the bright sunshine of the next afternoon, he was met with a throng of chattering neighbors.
As the brightly colored crowd mingled under a blue sky, he unpacked the camera equipment he’d lugged down from his apartment, and with a slight shake in his fingers, he began to set up his shot. A few members of the multitude seemed to catch on, and a man from the third floor asked loudly whether they had been called together to help him with a photo shoot. A hush fell over most of the crowd.
“Yeah, guys,” he asserted, and swallowed hard. “Yeah, I’ve asked you all out here today to hopefully start a new series. I want it to be about all of you, and all the art that’s sort of sprouted up around here.” As he scanned the sea of faces, one smile stood out in particular. Katie stood amidst a group of young women, beaming at him in a yellow summer dress and her vibrant combat boots. He glowed from the inside out, and as he called out her name to come forward, she ran toward him and attacked him with the strongest embrace he’d ever received. They turned away from their neighbors and he searched for the right words to say.
“I just really wanted to thank you,” he began. “As cheesy as it sounds, I don’t think I’d be here if you hadn’t asked me to paint your shoes for you.”
She laughed graciously, and squeezed his hand. “Don’t mention it. Happy to help.”
“Could I ask a favor of you?” he said, looking down into her kind features.
“Sure! What’s up?”
“Would you let me take a picture of you? I mean, would you mind being the focus of this first one? Sort of like… a title page?”
Her face changed into something much deeper than happiness, and she looked out across the crowd he had gathered. “I would be more honored than I can possibly put into words.”
She walked over to stand in front of the camera, and he arranged the throng of people behind her into an evenly distributed mass of color and smiling faces. When everyone was in place, he focused his camera on Katie’s feet, and with a blur of multi-colored figures filling the background of the shot, he snapped his first photograph of her painted boots.