F I C T I O N
Mark Jenkins
Boots on the Ground
GDJ
P
ulling into a handicap parking space, Jake clicked off the windshield wipers and turned the key. His pickup rumbled once, then died. Snowflakes were melting on the windshield. He stepped out into two inches of fresh snow and sauntered into the Ranch & Feed. “What can I do you for, Jake?” said a man at the cash register. “Larry, need a pair of boots.” Larry looked down over his belly, held in place by a large rodeo belt buckle. “What’s wrong with what you got?” Two weeks earlier Jake had bought a pair of black, buckle-up rubbers for his cowboy boots, which he was wearing. But since then the rain had turned to snow. “Don’t keep my feet warm,” replied Jake. Larry led him to the back of the store, past shovels and tack and stiff loops of wrangling rope, to shelves stocked with felt-insulated snow boots. They were heavy and wellbuilt, with leather uppers and lugged soles. He pulled down a pair of size 12s and handed them to Jake. “These should do the trick.” Jake sat down, set his cowboy hat on the bench beside him and yanked off his boots encased in the rubbers. “Take them cotton socks off while you’re at it,” said Larry, handing him a pair of wool ones. Jake put on the new socks and insulated boots, stood up and walked around. He was a stick of a man—wore 30 x 36 boot-cut Wranglers—so the snow boots looked big on him even though they fit. “Don’t feel like my boots,” he said.
