Dave & the Black Boots (Part 2)

I kept my eyes open for Dave as I drove down the road toward the store that had the perfume Ashley’s wanted for her birthday. The two $50 bills that the generous Asian women had given me were tucked safely in my front pocket. Dave had a tendency to rotate between three Circle K gas stations that were on the main drag, all within a mile or two of each other. Every Thursday night I’d find him at one of them, and they were all on the way to where I was headed. In my mind, the chances of finding him at one of them were pretty high. As I got closer to that part of town the scene of what our interaction would be like started to play out in my mind. After a short conversation, I’d reach into my pocket for the cash, offer a sly handshake to deliver the goods, and walk away before he had a chance to argue—it was a perfect plan. I saw myself smile as I thought about it in the reflection of the rearview mirror. Tension rose as I passed the first, I strained my neck to find him. No luck. I did the same at the second. Strike two. “He’ll be at the third,” I said to myself. I looked for the bike or the backpack as I circled around the small parking lot. There was no sign of him anywhere. I stopped to process things for a quick beat. There were shades of disappointment in my gut, but the situation was beyond my control. Dave didn’t have a phone. There was no way to get ahold of him…who knows where he could have been. “Well, I tried,” I said to myself. Eventually my mind and heart moved on, and I pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the store. Finding that perfume was on the front of my brain, and just behind it were all the CCV Christmas Eve services.

The store where I went to hunt for Ashley’s gift was in full Christmas marketing mode. Banners and signs with every possible holiday promotion hung from the ceiling, decorative endcaps with trendy stocking size gifts were incessantly within arm’s reach, and cutting-edge Christmas pop tunes blared over the loudspeakers. After walking through the automated front doors, I ducked through the sunglass racks at the front of the store and made a hard right toward women’s accessories where I assumed the perfume would be. I spent some time wading through the various “coutures” and “eau des” before finding the bright pink cellophane wrapped box I was after. There were two sizes available. “She’s worth it,” I thought as I picked up the bigger of them.

Just then something curious happened. As I stood there with the pink box in my hand, a thought drifted across my mind. I guess it felt more like a movement in my gut. Whatever it was, it was born in the same part of me that drove me to the clothing store to find the Christmas Eve service jeans; to where I was accosted by the generous Asian women.

“I wonder if they have any of those cool black boots?”

I guess I had seen someone with some on and admired them at some point in the recent past. But the fact that the thought of them materialized out of nowhere at that exact moment was peculiar. They began to dominate my thoughts. The motivation behind wanting to go to look for them came into focus. It’s painful to write, but the fact of the matter is I began to envision myself up in front of all those people singing songs about Jesus’ birth with the cool jeans the Asian women had bought on, and possibly—should the right opportunity arise—an even cooler pair of jet-black boots. It was a dangerous and awful thought, born in my most sinister parts. The question I asked about the black boots led me to a sense of desire. That desire moved from my heart to my feet. Then, my feet headed toward the Men’s shoe section in the back corner of the discount store.

At first, I tried to convince myself I was just browsing, which worked until I saw them staring up at me from the bottom shelf. They were black, shiny, and cooler than what I had envisioned in women’s accessories just minutes before. I reached down and grabbed the open-faced box that they were nestled in noticing their ornate, white-thread stitching as I drew them closer to my face. “Wow,” I said to myself. I was in trouble and I knew it. I looked around to my right and left before making the decision to try them on. They fit like Cinderella’s glass slipper. But it wasn’t until I looked at the price tag on the side of the box that I was brought to the crux of the matter. With the boots on my feet and the box in my hand, my eyes drifted down to see what they were asking. Sticker shock ensued. Even with all the holiday promotions the price was well north of what was reasonable. I can’t even say it was more than I had planned on spending because I hadn’t planned anything at all. I slipped the boots off my feet, placed them back in the box, and set it down on the mirrored try-on bench next to me. That’s when the real battle began.

“What am I doing? I can’t spend that much on a pair of boots. Not with Ashley’s birthday and Christmas for the kids…”

“Yeah, but they are pretty cool, and they fit great. You’re gonna be working like a crazy man over the next few weeks. It’s alright to treat yourself to something like this…”

“But the price. I’m not sure I could justify it to Ashley.”

I was in a civil war in my own mind. But I hadn’t yet taken a bite out of the apple. The dark acquiescence occurred when I realized that I had the two $50 bills that the generous Asian women accosted me with tucked in the front pocket of my jeans. If those were in play the cost of these boots would be—well, negligible. It would be a non-issue. A rush whizzed through my brain. In an insidious spirit of rebellious self-justification, I grabbed the box and headed up to the checkout counter. I placed Ashley’s birthday perfume and the box with the boots on the counter and reached for both my wallet and the two $50 bills. I tried not to look the cashier in the eye as I asked if I could pay with cash and cover the balance with card.

I had a nervous hitch in my step as I walked out of the store. My hands were fidgety. I opened the passenger side door to the car and placed the oversized bag with the perfume and boots in the seat and made my way around to the driver’s side. A feeling of deep conviction fell over me for what I had done—what I was doing. I had been duped by a classic case of the lust of the eyes, and the boots were my fig leaf consequence. I didn’t stop. I cranked the ignition to the car and headed for the exit of the parking lot.

It wasn’t until after I had pulled on the main road that my phone rang. It was Ashley.

“Hey babe, what are you doing?”

“Aw, Nothing,” I said. I was hiding so much more than the fact that I just bought her birthday gift.

“Well, Nana and Pop are coming in tonight. Would you mind stopping at Trader Joe’s to get those pita chips and cheese that they love so we have something for them when they get here?”

“Love to,” I responded trying not to look down at the passenger seat.

Nana and Pop, my Canadian in-laws, were making their annual pilgrimage to Phoenix with the rest of Canada trying to avoid the frigid northern winter. They wanted to be around when the desert came alive, too. Every December they came in time to celebrate Ashley’s birthday in the Phoenix sunshine and would stay until things started to melt where they lived. I was glad to get the call. Buying their favorite cheese was a welcomed diversion from the hell I had fallen into. Serendipitously, the Trader Joe’s happened to be just up the main street I found myself on. I forged ahead trying to stuff my sense of conviction down to where I couldn’t feel it. After a few stoplights I pulled into the Trader Joe’s parking lot to grab what she asked for.

I happened to know the manager of that particular store, and funny enough, his name happened to be…Joe. I saw him in the elevated booth where the brass hangs out up in the corner by the cash registers when I walked in the front door. We caught each other’s eye and exchanged a subtle “whatsup” nod. It was busy and he was in the thick of holiday retail management. I could tell it was all he had bandwidth for, and I was still trying to mitigate my guilt. After dodging a few small red carts in produce, I found my way to the pita chips, grabbed a bag off the shelf, and attempted to make the quick turn to the refrigerated section when I was stopped dead in my tracks. There, directly in front of me stood Dave. In dire contrast to the bustle of the store he was perfectly still and looking at me through his thick glasses. I was in shock.

“Dave!” I said in a rushed, high-pitched tone. A plastic smile crept across my face as my heartrate spiked. “Uh….what…what’re you doing here?”

I honestly can ‘t remember a word of his response. His mouth was opening and closing under his scraggly grey beard as he stood there in front of me, but I heard none of what was coming out of it. I was being overtaken by a sense of deepest conviction which kept me from processing anything else. We stood there in produce and talked for about two minutes before he turned to leave. Through the entire exchange I kept the plastic smile up as a front to what was actually happening inside my head and heart. For a few short seconds after he left, I stood by myself knees locked and in a daze holding the bag of pita chips. When I came to, Dave was already out the door.

The war that had been waged inside me brought me to a sense of action. I sprinted up toward the elevated booth at the front of the store where I had seen my friend Joe. Frantically I asked, “How much cash can I get back if I buy these chips?”. “Fifty bucks,” he responded looking at me quizzically. I didn’t have time to explain what had just happened, and he must have thought I was trapped in some sort of manic episode. He rung me out as quickly as he could and I bolted out the door with the cash and the chips in hand to see if I could catch up with Dave. My eyes had a hard time adjusting to the sunshine as they darted back and forth looking for any sign of him. He was nowhere to be found. “He couldn’t have gotten very far,” I murmured to myself. I ran to my car and started it as quickly as I could. Heading out of the parking lot I tried to make a quick circle around the area to see if I could catch up with him. I found him on the far side of the building sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette, and listening to a cassette player Walkman. His bike and backpack sat just off to the side. I turned the wheel and made a beeline toward him slamming on the brakes directly in front of where he was. Swinging the door open I bolted out of the front seat, ran toward him, and knelt down in front of the bench where he sat. His eyes drifted up toward mine as he took off his headphones. It all started to spill out…

“Dave!” I gasped. “Listen…you’re not going to believe this, but a few days ago two Asian women gave me $100. I told myself I was supposed to give it to you, but instead I bought these stupid black boots...”

He looked at me like I was an alien. I started again, “No, it’s true! They’re in the car right now,” I said motioning to the vehicle as it sat, still running with the driver’s side door wide open.

“They gave me the money, and I brought it down here to give it to you, but I couldn’t find you. So, I spent it. I spent it on myself. I’m so sorry…”

He continued to stare.

“Here,” I said. “Here’s $50. Take it—please. It’s all I could get from inside.” I offered it up to him trying to assuage my guilt. He took a drag on his cigarette and tried to figure out how to respond. Slowly taking the money from my hand, he smiled and said, “Well, I guess those fancy boots will look pretty cool while you’re up there singin’ Christmas songs…”.

He read me like a book.

Over the years, as I’ve looked back on this story I’ve gotten some clarity on things—especially on myself. It’s funny how power and possessions consistently pull us away from what’s really real. It’s ironic to me that as I walked up to that counter to the buy those boots, I was falling victim to the mirage that pride always creates. I was operating in the very same vein as those on whom I had cast judgement. As I think about it, it seems the only truly consistent character in the entire story…was Dave. He was pretty much the same every time we were together.

After some time had passed, I started to not go down to the Circle K as often. Life got busy. The demands of family and church became more pressing than taking time to make the drive down to talk with him. Toward the end of our season in Phoenix, I asked one of the cashiers at the Circle K where I saw him most frequently if she had had any contact with him. She let me know he had passed away from heart failure a few months prior. I still have the black boots in my closet. I try and wear them every Christmas season to remind me of what happened—to remind me of what I learned from my unlikely friend. Every time I put them on, I’m overcome with a deeper sense of perspective.

Maybe, this Christmas, Dave and the black boots can serve as a reminder of the way Heaven’s High King made himself known to us—in total humility, and as no respecter of the futile things by which we tend to define ourselves. He came in the most unconventional way, to the most unlikely people. His immaculate holiness collided with our dirty world, and to it He offered nothing but unconditional love, and his birth was announced intentionally to the vagabond shepherds and the pomp, royal magi alike. May the reality of who He is, and how he came rest peacefully on your soul this season.

Merry Christmas everybody.