The Boots My Mother Gave Me

by Brooklyn James

  Don’t waste one minute,

  Moving on.

  Hayseed Goes To Town

  After driving and surviving over seven hundred miles, I decided to make camp in Nashville, Tennessee. I had never driven on an actual interstate before, two-lane roads the norm in Georgia. Once I hit I-80 in Pennsylvania, I rode the interstate the rest of the way. I figured I would watch and learn, which I did, with a few close calls. The whole merging thing and speed limits gave me the hardest time. Charlene the Chevelle with her 454-engine, every time I looked at the speedometer it exceeded the limit. After seven hundred miles and many irate drivers, the hayseed graduated from the school of hard knocks driver education program to city driver. I never saw so many birds in my life. I just smiled and waved. Okay, so I may have returned the gesture, a few times.

  Nashville had a reputation for music, songwriting specifically. Maybe I could sell a song or two, I thought, so I stayed a while to see what all the fuss was about. I found a less than stellar, weekly rate hotel on the east side of town within my budget, and I set out the next day to find a job. The lady at the front desk told me everyone who comes to Nashville visits Music Row and Opryland, so I started there. Tired of mechanic work, I wanted to try something that might lend itself to the local flare.

  Most everyone I talked to had a southern accent. I found it soft and inviting. The general pace of everyday living was laid back, everything except for the driving. The world seemed to rotate at a slower pace in the South, different from anything I had experienced. I stuck out like a sore thumb with my Yankee accent and quick pace, always in a hurry to do everything, even in my leisure. I moved swiftly, with rapid intent and purpose.

  Some of the older folks would ask, “You’re a Yankee, aren’t you?” To which I must answer, “Yes ma’am or yes sir,” in the spirit of the South, making me a skosh nervous. Up north, you call someone ma’am or sir, they better have several generations on you. Even then, you may get scolded for insinuating they’re old. A Yankee? I thought the Civil War was over? I loved it!

  The only fault I could attribute to my newfound surroundings, the iced tea. The first time I ordered iced tea with my meal, my taste buds got thrown for a confusing loop. I politely called the waitress to my table, convinced of a mistake; my iced tea had sugar in it. She asked with a smile, her hands propped knowingly on her hips, “Where you from, darling?”

  “Pennsylvania,” I said. Before the word made it entirely out of my mouth, I discerned my origin was ultimately the problem once again.

  “You’re in the South now, honey. Once you cross that Mason-Dixon line, your iced tea will have sugar in it. You have to ask for unsweetened tea, baby. We put sugar in everything,” she clarified.

  Another thing I liked about the South, people talked to total strangers as if they knew them—honey, baby, sugar, darling—I found it endearing. One thing I did not find endearing, my job at Opryland theme park. I remember a local television ad that used to play for Darien Lake, the closest theme park in proximity to my hometown. An overly enthusiastic teenager stood in front of a roller-coaster, a crowd of screaming riders behind him, targeting others in the same age range.

  “If you’re looking for some on-the-job fun this summer, apply at Darien Lake today!”

  What a load of crap. What part of arriving for work one hour early to park in the back forty, walk a half-mile to the shuttle station, then shuttling off to the main entrance where you walk another half-mile to your assigned station, to make cotton candy all day, imparts “on-the-job fun?” The second day I came back to my apartment with pink cotton candy particles stuck in my hair, my eyebrows, and eyelashes, I knew Opryland would have to do without me. I looked like a pink Chia Pet.

  So I took a job at a western wear store on Music Row making six dollars and fifty cents an hour. At eighteen that didn’t sound too bad, however, after I figured the math for my monthly living expenses, it sure didn’t sound too good either. A western wear store? That didn’t make any sense to me. Who needs western wear in Nashville? All the cowboys live out west, so I thought. Turns out, taking the job must have been fate.

  My second week there, I found my way into an even better deal. In the same building, resided the Music Row Tour Office. I walked by the office one day in all my job-required western garb, cowboy hat and boots to match, when I heard a woman inside calling to me. A beautiful woman, jet-black hair, strong facial features, well dressed and tall, convinced me she was some kind of model. What did she want with me?

  She was in fact a model, and a scout, who thought I was a sure fit. What! She hooked me up with an interview, and I booked my first job the following week. Sayonara western wear, hello couture.

  Well it wasn’t exactly couture, but women’s fashions nonetheless, an amateur clothing company with abundant local success branching out into cities throughout the North and Southeast. My responsibilities, to model, dress other models, and sell clothes. None of that really even registered with me, the opportunity to travel provided the only incentive I required. I couldn’t wait to tell Kat. She would jump up and down, simply beside herself, and maybe it would provide some inspiration for her to stay focused. Maybe she could get a job with them after finishing school.

  My life was a juggling act and I loved it. The chaos made perfect sense to me. Much like a ping-pong ball, I never knew if I were coming or going, living full speed ahead. I picked up as many fashion shows as I could, making as much money as I could, with intentions of starting college in the spring of 1998. This job was just that, a job, a stop along the way. I wanted an education, a Bachelor’s degree at least.

  The best part about my involvement in the fashion world, was certainly not the modeling or the clothes, it just wasn’t my thing. I liked the lifestyle, the traveling, enjoying different cities and their culture, the dining and nightlife. We hit most of the major towns up and down the East Coast from New York to Miami. On the road for weeks at a time before the schedule allowed for rest suited me fine. I had a lot to make up for. Growing up in the middle of nowhere, I always felt stagnant, somehow behind in the world, just now experiencing and seeing things some people have already grown tired of.

  When in Nashville, I wrote music as much as I could, attempting to peddle it to someone, anyone. Rejection became my newfound friend. I wasn’t quite this and I wasn’t quite that. I didn’t sound like this artist and I sounded too much like that artist. They didn’t know how to classify my music. “I can’t figure if you’re too country or not country enough. Are you country or pop?” they would say.

  Unaware such a difference existed in 1997, I thought pop was pop and country was pop. I tried to hone and develop my craft while keeping it true to me, but it seemed as though nobody wanted what was true to me. Nobody wants you when you’re nobody. They’re all looking for the next somebody! I understood the tribulations of the industry and its tremendous odds against actual success, but I couldn’t help but wonder, would I ever be good enough, in music, in life, in anything?

  Before I knew it, spring registration was well underway, and I found myself twenty-five hundred dollars short of tuition. How would I come up with twenty-five hundred dollars? Two-weeks later I got my answer, as I received a note from the college stating, “Tuition paid in full.” I drove to the university, my investigational skills warmed and ready. The lady at the registrar’s office handed me a receipt. With one look at the name, I lost my footing, sinking into the chair behind me.

  “Mom,” I said, as she answered the phone.

  “Harley! I was just thinking about you.”

  “I have a receipt here from the college with Dad’s name on it.”

  “Oh good, they got it.” I just stood there. “Harley? You there?”

  “Um. Yeah, Ma, I’m here.”

  “So, then, you’re all set for this semester?” she asked.

  “That’s a lot of money. You guys might need that. Can you cancel the check or something?”

  “It’s already cleared, Harley. Beside
s it was your dad’s idea. I had nothing to do with it. He’s working overtime. He said he had the money and he wanted to do this for you.”

  “He’s working? That’s good.” They quit farming shortly after I left home. Dad had been out of work since.

  “Oh, it’s great, Harley. It keeps him occupied. He’s much easier to live with when he doesn’t have idle time.”

  “How did he even know about the tuition?” Dad didn’t call me. I rarely called him, only on his birthday and Father’s Day, appropriately. Even then, we small-talked.

  “How do you think he knows? I told him.”

  “I know, you tell him everything,” I said.

  “The only reason it came up, I told him we couldn’t claim you on the taxes next year because it messes up your financial aid for school.”

  “I don’t want you guys to do that. It’s real nice and I’m grateful for the gesture, but I can’t accept it.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to accept it, because it’s done. And I told you it wasn’t us guys. It was your dad. Harley, he wants to do this for you. Let him do something nice for you.”

  “He did. He gave me the guitar I write my music with. That’s more than enough. Please, just take it back, Mom. I don’t want it thrown in my face. I’m full up on guilt.”

  “Your father has guilt, too, Harley. As he signed the check, he said, ‘It’s the least I can do, after all I put her through.’”

  “What is it? A loan? Am I supposed to pay it back?”

  “No, it’s not a loan. It’s a gift. Your father made that very clear. He wants to do this for you. To help you,” she said. “Besides you give back to him without even knowing it. He brags about you all the time, about how you’re going to make it in Nashville.”

  “Well what happens when I don’t make it? I’m going to let him down. It’s inevitable. I always do. And then what? Back to the same old Harley, the one who isn’t going to amount to shit? Mom, I can’t do that anymore.”

  “Harley, it’s done and that’s the end of it. Now, I have to go pick Katrina up from school. She has her driver’s test this afternoon.”

  “The written or the practical?” I asked.

  “The practical, which reminds me, I need to take one of her turtle-neck sweaters just in case,” Mom said.

  “Turtleneck sweater?”

  “She joked about how she could off-set a few of her less than par driving skills with a low-cut sweater. So I need to prepare with a turtleneck, just in case.”

  I laughed. “That sounds like Kat.”

  Mom laughed lightly. “It’s really not funny. She just might do it. I need to get a handle on that girl.”

  “What do you mean? Is she getting into trouble?”

  “Not yet, but with her the potential’s always there. She’s too outgoing, too spirited for a girl her age. Well, I better let you go.”

  “Okay. I love you. Tell Kat I love her and good luck on her test. Tell her to behave and stay away from that Harper kid.”

  “I love you too, honey. Hope to see you soon,” Mom ended, hanging up the phone.

  My mind raced between Kat and my father. I hoped she passed her driver’s exam and I hoped she didn’t do anything to sacrifice her future. Was she really okay at home? Seemingly, Dad remained improved since I left. Maybe I was the problem. Funny how I leave and things change, for the better. And as far as his paying my tuition, I thought it either the nicest thing he ever did for me or the dumbest thing I ever did in accepting it, that truth yet to unfold.

  With Your Spurs On?

  I completed my first semester of college, taking a definitive liking to it. I made the Dean’s List. Anything less would prove unacceptable, seeing how my father invested in my first semester. I wanted him to know I appreciated the financial help, doing my best to acknowledge it.

  And I guess Nashville may have needed a western wear store after all. I was in my first official something. Maybe you would call it a relationship, with a cowboy no less, an import from Raton, New Mexico. As an athletic training major, I worked with the university sports teams, providing physical and massage therapy to athletes.

  Casey Timmons was on the rodeo team. I never heard of such a thing, a rodeo team. As a clown, a rodeo clown, painted face and all, his job was to deter the bull from the bull-rider, after it so graciously bucked the rider from its back. I didn’t pay too much attention to all of that, but he had a killer smile, a visually stimulating hard body, and he truly was a clown, always in a good mood, infectious by proxy. Casey was rowdy, a good time had by all, inherently charming.

  Enrolled in my massage therapy class at the time, Casey served as my human anatomy chart in the flesh, every muscle chiseled to perfection. And he loved to dance, which sealed the deal for me. A cowboy? Must be the two-step, I figured. He could dance to anything, country, hip-hop, Latin, blues, whatever played, he had a rhythm for it. And I liked his rhythm.

  In the training room at college, I set up my massage chair for a few hours every afternoon to catch athletes as their practices took place, a requirement for my certification. I had my back turned to the door when I heard footsteps approaching, jingling with each step. Completely intrigued as it was summer, I wondered, did Santa have the wrong season? I turned, facing the door, and there he stood, in his cowboy garb from head to toe. The jingling sound when he walked came from the spurs attached to the heels of his boots. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to snicker, maybe inform him it was a little too early for Halloween. Cowboy hat, button-down shirt, starched blue jeans, and boots with spurs. The only thing that kept me from giggling, the physique inside the clothing. That was no laughing matter. The boy was fine.

  I wondered if I looked as foreign to him in my program required massage therapist uniform, consisting of a rather bland short-sleeved polo shirt, tan khaki’s and sneakers. He approached me quickly, confidently, removing his hat and extending his hand.

  “Hi. Casey Timmons, Middle Tennessee State Rodeo Team.” My gaze caught up at his hair, the most peculiar thing, a dirty-blonde Mohawk. I could feel my lips curling into a smile without my permission. “I lost a bet,” he explained, smiling himself, running his fingers over one solitary strip of hair that ran from the center of his forehead to the nape of his neck.

  I quickly extended my hand, reigning in my smile. “Harley LeBeau.”

  “French?” he asked at my surname.

  “Some. A mutt, really,” I said. “Irish, German, Native American.”

  “Me too. Irish and German on my dad’s side.” He pointed at his blonde hair and blue eyes. “And my mom is part Navajo.” He gestured at his dark skin. It was quite captivating really, his light features, highlighted against a darker complexion, exotic. “So, how do we do this?”

  “You take a seat on this chair, pretty much like you would get on a horse, which I’m assuming you’ve done before,” I joked shyly, demonstrating. “You put your face in this cushion and press your chest against this center piece. Then relax and let me do the rest.”

  “I follow directions pretty good,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt.

  “You don’t have to take your,” my words faded as he wadded his shirt up on the table next to the door, “shirt off.” Wow. I know the abs consist of a group of six muscles, but Casey Timmons must have been born with extra. I swear, he had an eight-pack.

  He smiled confidently, maybe a little too confidently, as I pulled my eyes from his torso, returning to his gaze. “I don’t mind, if you don’t,” he said.

  Unsure if I aimed to convince him or me, I replied, “No. I don’t mind.” Backing up away from him, I tripped over the leg of the massage chair. He moved in my direction. I put my arm out in front of me, holding him at bay, regaining my balance. “I’m okay,” I said, gathering myself. Hastily wiping my hand against my forehead, I pushed my hair out of my eyes from my near up close and personal encounter with the floor. He looked at me pleased, cocky, with a self-assured grin. Even then, in his arrogance, he had a boyish char
m.

  I tapped authoritatively on the chair, beckoning him to take a seat. Maybe he was used to taking the reins, or some other horse metaphor I didn’t know, but this was my element, my horse, he was only along for the ride.

  Some twenty minutes later, Casey Timmons pulled his head from the face cradle, casually stretching his arms overhead and yawning. “Wow. I almost fell asleep. I never had a massage like that. That was incredible,” he said, rising from the chair. “How much do I owe you?”

  “It’s required for my curriculum. Just need you to sign in.” I handed him a clipboard with a list of signatures.

  He signed, exchanging the clipboard for his shirt, while I busied myself wiping down the massage chair, preparing for my next client. “Do you like to dance, Harley?” he asked, buttoning his shirt.

  “Love to dance.”

  “I thought maybe you’d let me pay you back for the massage?”

  “I’m not licensed yet. It’s against the rules for me to take tips, payments...or bribes.” I smiled playfully.

  “All right, then.” He grinned affectively. “I’m asking, no payback, can I take you dancing?”

  “That’s against the rules too. It’s unprofessional. I can’t date clients.” I continued with our repartee.

  “One massage hardly makes me a client. Who said anything about dating? I just want to dance with ya.”

  “I gave you a massage in pursuit of a professional license. That makes you a client.” Picking up my clipboard from the table, I couldn’t help but to look down at his boots, the silver spurs hanging off the heel, very peculiar. “Do you dance with your spurs on, too?”

  “I just came from cutting,” he said. “Come with me and you’ll find out.”

  “Cutting?” What the heck is that?

  “You know cutting cattle, on horseback, separating cattle from the herd. The horse gets his cues from my legs, my feet. They’re dull. The spurs. It doesn’t hurt the horse. It’s just more effective than the boot heel.” I enjoyed watching him explain himself. He wasn’t entirely cocky, self-assured. “A few of us are headed out to College Depot tonight. It’s a bunch of dance clubs all in one building, hip-hop, country, rock, whatever you’re into. Maybe I’ll see you there.” He pushed his cowboy hat down over his Mohawk, and walked out of the training room.