Boot(s)

14- Boot

Bobby O'Callahan

My foot had been tapping against the hardwood floor for ten minutes now. I was sitting at my kitchen table, my eyes flipping between the clock on the wall and the set of car keys calling my name from the table in front of me.

I had already spent quite a bit of time calculating it in my head, but I calculated it once more, just to make sure I hadn't botched it the first fifteen times. One minute to get the car out of the garage. Three minutes to get to the light on Main. From Main it would take another five minutes to get downtown, provided I didn't have to stop and wait for anyone to cross at the crosswalks. If the light at the end of Main was green when I got there, I could be at the Inn on Third in ten minutes. If it wasn't, I could be there in 12. It was a long light.

My eyes hit the clock again. 5:45. And suddenly I couldn't wait a millisecond longer. I snatched the car keys off the kitchen table and got up so fast my vision blurred white with spinning dots. I didn't wait for them to subside; instead, I bolted out the front door and assumed a very prominent speed walk towards my detached garage half-blind. I typed in the 5-digit code on the opener—having finally regained 20/20 vision—tapped my foot anxiously until the door disappeared into the ceiling, then shimmied my way through the shelves of garage junk, just barely able to open the driver's side to my Land Rover and climb in. I took the car out slowly, paused to press the door closed, then gunned it out the back of the driveway. I could practically hear the engine wheezing at me.

It took eleven minutes to get to the Inn. I was four minutes early, but as soon as I looped in through the front circle, I saw him, standing there, leaning over his crutches, in front of the Inn's double-glass doors in a pair of faded green pants—the same ones he was wearing on Friday—and a similarly worn dark gray sweatshirt. As I pulled in closer, I could see the hint of an American flag on the sleeve. Army was written small across the right side of his chest. I kept myself from biting my lip. Clothes, even old worn army duds, fit him better than clothes fit anyone I had ever seen.

He didn't recognize me in the Land Rover, so his eyes were still focused on the cars whizzing by on the main road. I took a deep cleansing breath in like the fancy New York therapist taught me, assumed the role of confident, easy, relaxed, unbothered, perfect Bo O'Callahan, and got out of the car.

He only saw me when I was right in front of his face, that's how focused he was on watching the cars go by in the street.

His eyes widened. Nostalgia hit me like a five-star in the back. When we were kids, he was always wearing this look; like he was either unmanageably excited about something or permanently surprised. I hadn't noticed it the other day. But here it was now. I was instantly transported back to high school.

"Bo," he whispered my name, the wide-eyes softening now, and my heart wanted to shatter. I thought it would be easy. I thought this whole thing would be fine. But all it took was one syllable out of his mouth and I already wanted to crawl into the fetal position and bawl my eyes out. He forced out a chuckle that brought me to reality and quite literally prevented me from doing something incredibly rash or embarrassing. He tilted his head, eyeing the car behind me. "What the hell is that thing?"

I laughed, because that was easy. I pulled open the passenger side door. "Old faithful. You got a problem with Rovers?"

He smiled, shaking his head, making his way to the car. "No problem. You're just a big shot now. I expected more than a 2005 Land Rover and your 14-year-old Chevy pick-up, that's all."

He had set his crutches against the car to slide in, so I grabbed them and tossed them in the back. "2007, thank you very much." He rolled his eyes at me as I shut his door.