Dirt

I’ve touched hundreds of pairs of boots since starting my journey as a baby bootie four years ago. Each pair of boots, or piece of leather has left some kind of impression on me. I see blacking as an exchange of energy, and a way I can be casually intimate with strangers and friends and lovers alike in a way that is safe for me.

Blacking takes on many different forms for me. At the stand I’m personable, and approachable. I service my community and their leather. I make them shine and then send them away for their fun and adventures. At home, with my partners, it’s a completely different story. Blacking is intimate, dirty, and sexual. Sometimes it’s an ordeal.

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“Do you need to do any laundry?” He yelled up from my basement.

“Laundry… Yeah! My black hamper in my closet, it’s rectangle shaped.”

“This stuff smells like a box, I need to wash it.”

It smells like a box… Does the box smell like you? I wondered but didn’t ask. Now he would smell like me. My detergent. My house. My bed. I saw him walk down the stairs with the digital camo bundle in his arms. I don’t think I remembered that he was bringing it, I knew the boots were coming along. Two pairs; a pair of black part fabric jungle boots and a pair of worn coyote colored oil tans.

“I haven’t even looked at these since I got back...” He pulled them out of his backpack and put them on the floor. They were, filthy, dry, arid. I knew where he’d been. He told me. The pictures he sent me a few days ago hadn’t given me the full story. I wondered if I could actually restore them. “They’ll be darker when I’m done with them..” They didn’t even feel like leather. I didn’t recoil, like I usually would. The leather was stiff, it felt more synthetic and more dirty than anything. The desert brown dust caked the entire boot, the soles were like nothing I’d ever seen. Shredded, pot marked, sliced and crammed with dirt… I can’t even fathom where he’s gone and what he’s done to make them look like this. I eyeballed them and put them to the side.

“Let’s start with the black pair.” I hand them over, and sit on the ground before him. A few scuffs and some dust. Easy to fix. He laced them up and I got to work, explaining my different kit products and letting him sniff things to find his preferences. By the end, my hands were dirty black with polish, I put six layers on each boot, one more than my usual maximum. I wanted him to see what I could do. I licked each toe and heel and polished the boot up to a high shine. He’d never heard of a bootblack a few weeks ago. Now here he was, in one of my kitchen chairs with some strange girl from the internet licking the toecaps of his boots and trying to hide her arousal because this was meant to be something else.

“High shine, right?” Those aren’t for just anyone. I can count the number of people I’ll let walk away from my chair with a high shine on one hand. They’re a pain to maintain and they’re a lot of work. The second the boot meets the ground there shine will start to go, especially if there is dust or carpet fiber around. He nods. I’ll happily give this to him. As someone who has had to keep these boots in top shape for so long, I know he will understand the work that goes into getting that mirror shine.

Eventually I sit back and let him admire what I’ve done.

“I’m going to need a drink for this one..” He looks at me. I pick up a bottle. Port, I’d picked it up on Thursday, I went to a fancy store and even got a recommendation from “the wine guy” to get a good one (and yes it was good). I pour for him and resume my place on the floor, before him. I feel ..Home. I feel safe. I feel happy, sitting by his feet.

PICTURE

I continue my work as he changes into the coyote boots. I think it’s fitting that the color is called coyote tan, as my identifier is the coyote. The laces on one boot are frayed badly and I can’t remove them. I make a mental note to replace them (with his permission) later. I look at the job I have before me. It’s overwhelming and I wonder how I’m actually going to make this better.

PICTURE

He shares a story with me that he has never shared with another. I do my duty as a service dog. I sit, I listen, I get the tissues when he cries, I tear up with him. I refill his glass when it’s empty. I sit with my head or hand on his leg to let him know I’m here and I’m listening.

I witness his pain. He reads me an article and shows me a few pictures. We laugh. He sings. I scrub. And scrub. And scrub. My false badger hair brush is too soft; I get out the toothbrush I keep in my kit for really stubborn shit. I scrub every inch of those boots twice or three times over with a tiny fucking toothbrush. I do it, and I love it. I pour myself into his boots.

PICTURE

Dirt. It seems so simple, but the more you think about it, the more complex it becomes. Dirt is so many things. Without dirt, there is no life. Dirt is an insult. Dirt is.. Dirty. But dirt tells us where we’ve been.

As I clean the dirt off his boots, I’m reliving his story. Each layer I remove goes into his past, where he’s gone.. What he’s done. Things I could never, and would never experience. The closest I get is peering through the looking glass as he talks. Ever attentive, my hands on his boots, my cheek against his leg. Sitting at his feet, like a good dog does.