Once I started wearing Those Shoes.

It was one of the last visits I'd had with my dad before my mom sent him on a merry chase and separated us.

It was my birthday. Farrah Fawcett and the rest of Charlie's Angels all were wearing beautiful, knee-high, chunky, wood-heeled, leather boots.

And I wanted a pair.

I'd BEGGED my mother for a pair. Of course, they were too expensive. There was always some excuse she'd come up with to not get me what I'd asked for.

So, she did what she thought would blow up in my face. She suggested I ask my dad for the boots. She even laughed and joked that she bet his cheap ass and his harpy wife wouldn't let him do it.

So, visit day came and I asked.

He took me to Thom McCann. I remember it vividly. Going into the store. Smelling the aroma of leather in the air. The formality of the inside of the store. The salesmen in their suits and ties.

Dad walked right in and up to a salesman who proceeded to take us over to the ladies' boots.
There they were, in all their brown, leathery glory, calling out my name.

I practically dragged my dad over to the display.

He checked the price and looked down at me. "These boots are REALLY expensive, Peanut. Are you SURE this is what you want? You have to promise to take very good care of them."

"Yes, Daddy, I will. I REALLY want these."

I looked up at him and I saw something in his eyes. Something that made me feel sad and guilty all at once. Somehow, I knew he was making a huge sacrifice for me.

I tried backing out of buying those boots, but my dad insisted on my getting them.

My mother was ever so surprised when I came home with those $50 boots. In the mid-seventies $50 was a fuckton of money.

She was also seething with rage. She was convinced my dad would never dish out that kind of money for me. She didn't figure I was worth that much expense, why would he?

After the blow-up at the pool, those boots were really all I had left of my dad. I'd find myself sleeping in them, holding them under my blankets, closing my eyes and smelling the leather.

And remembering. Longing for my dad. Fuck, I missed him SO much. It was like a black, bottomless, sucking hole in my chest.

I wore those boots long after they went out of style. I wore them long after I'd outgrown them. I suffered the blisters and crunched toes because I needed what those boots represented.

I needed my dad.

Those boots disappeared sometime around my 15th birthday. I'm sure my mother had everything to do with their disappearance.

God, I hated her for so many years.

But the world was different once I started...