Stare's teenager

 

The old boots were to blame for everything—they were to blame for Grandpa's death, for Grandma's madness, for my foolish birth, and for one more thing I won't reveal because I promised.

Yes, this will be a completely true story, written in a completely true way. Someone might be put off by the fact that the story will essentially be a summary of a real situation from my real life, that it won't be as colorful and completely detached from reality as it has been so far, but when my eyes read the title "Old Boots," they smiled and, looking in Grandpa's mirror, saw the situation as if it were happening today, right here, next to me, and I only see it in the mirror, and I tell you what:

That evening, Grandpa came home later than usual because a friend at work was celebrating a birthday and we needed a vodka. We usually washed it down with sour cream, since Grandpa worked at a dairy, or we also ate a pickled cucumber if someone managed to swipe a large jar from the shed. They sat by the large stove, drinking and sipping, quietly telling each other which of their daughters was farther along in their pregnancy. Grandpa said my mother was the most pregnant, a neighbor said his daughter was the most pregnant, and another friend said his daughter-in-law was the most pregnant. They laughed, and each time they clinked their mustard-and-rye vodka glasses, drank them down, and shook the drops onto the floor with a firm gesture. Grandpa later said he drank the most, and there was no reason to believe he was lying, because he always drank the most, and he was known for walking straight home, head held high, a smile tucked under his mustache, which made him look as if he were contemplating something cheerful, rather than counting his steps backwards, which is how he knew when to turn right into our gate and when that treacherous threshold and cornice he so often bumped into would be. The old villagers saw from a distance that Grandpa was drunk and laughed at those who tried to talk to Grandpa as he passed by and received a bunch of sharp insults from him on the head, because Grandpa then had to go back to the dairy gate and start counting his steps backwards again, so he knew where the gate and the cornice were.

But I'm talking about walking here, when the most important thing is actually getting in, or rather, getting my grandfather into the hallway. Perhaps I should start by saying that Grandma, impatiently awaiting my grandfather, had already burned potatoes and a piece of meat with cabbage twice, and drank several cups of cold milk to calm herself down. She had admonished my mother a dozen times not to go out into the hallway anymore, lest she catch a cold. And being in the thick of her pregnancy, she couldn't catch a cold in the village, because it was definitely a boy, and catching a cold in a boy was bad, very bad. A dozen more times, Grandma had ordered her father and my great-grandfather to go out into the road and watch for my grandfather, which my poor great-grandfather did, but only half-heartedly. Because he knew it was one of Grandpa's friends' birthdays today, and knowing how birthdays were celebrated, he didn't even have to bother. He simply walked to the corner of the house, stood there for a moment, listened as evening approached, and returned, saying that it wasn't yet, but it would be soon. Grandma would immediately put a frying pan on the stove with potatoes, meat, and cabbage, and immediately burn it, which would greatly amuse her mother and my great-grandmother, who kept reassuring her that he'd be back soon, that there was no need to worry, that whatever would happen would happen. For these words, poor Great-Grandmother would receive a sharp reprimand from Grandma. My mother would again admonish me not to move, to sit quietly in my room and not to remove the blanket from my legs and stomach, and she would send Great-Grandfather on his way.

This begs the question: why was Grandma so impatient with Grandpa's absence? The reason wasn't my mother's high-profile pregnancy in the village. The reason wasn't the food my grandfather usually ate after work, which my grandmother wanted to serve warm to my grandfather so he could eat well after work. Nor was the late hour the reason, because my grandfather usually finished late, and an hour late wasn't such a tragedy. The reason was, as usual, stupid and not particularly important to the average mortal, but my grandmother, treating certain things very seriously and with priority, was able to extract far more from something stupid and insignificant than anyone else could have with the same extraction.

The reason was the old boots, mentioned above and so important to this story.

Grandma always hid Grandpa's old boots in a small cupboard right next to the door, because Grandpa would carelessly kick them off as soon as he entered the house and never bothered to put them back in the cupboard, or even arrange them evenly. Grandma, a woman of sound social standing who demanded that her husbands at least arrange their shoes evenly at the door, usually began serving Grandpa food by reprimanding him for the mess in his boots. Grandpa usually said something like, "Come on, woman, let me eat, I'm tired." Grandma usually said she was tired too, that the whole family was on their toes, and you could at least put your boots in the cupboard or arrange them neatly by the doorway, lest someone come and see and immediately spread the word around the village about our mess, because we can't even arrange our boots evenly. Grandpa would smile, say "good, good," and eat his share of potatoes to nourish his body after a day's work.

And it would have been the same this time, if not for the seemingly innocent, yet so significant for Grandma, fact that Grandpa's old boots appeared in the house while Grandpa was at work, which usually brought the boots with it, or brought Grandpa home, because the boots were Grandpa's only footwear, and it was unimaginable to move without them.

And then the boots were discovered on a shelf in the cupboard. Grandma found them by accident while bending down to pick up a dropped blanket she was carrying for my mother. When she saw the boots, she let out a short cry, which conveyed the essence of being in boots at home, being Grandpa at work, and, furthermore, underscored by a gentle curse, the unusual nature of the situation.

Immediately, the inquiries began. Why hadn't he brought the boots? And if he hadn't brought the boots, what had he been wearing, rubber boots?! And if rubber boots, what was he wearing?! What if he'd gone because something had gone wrong?! Or maybe he'd gone to work drunk?! Or maybe he wasn't going to work at all, but somewhere else, a freeloader!? All these accusations, immediately verified, only partially explained the situation – it turned out that the boots had a huge hole in them, and that Grandpa hadn't taken them because he was practically barefoot on the ground. He probably felt uncomfortable, and, not wanting to tell Grandma, lest she complain about them wearing out so quickly, he put on his rubber boots. However, the poor guy hadn't considered that hiding the hole in the boots would greatly upset Grandma, that Grandma would be watching for Grandpa at the door all morning, and that, in her impatience, anger at not telling her, and her incredible tendency to exaggerate, she would be waiting for him with the boots placed just outside the entrance door, so he couldn't get out of the way when he entered.

Okay, we're finally at the point where Grandpa, after counting one hundred and twenty-six steps, turns left, presses the gate handle, and counts the next twenty-one steps, so he can confidently and without any doubts stand before the door. In the mirror, we can clearly see Grandpa pressing the handle, and we can hear Grandma shouting from inside at Great-Grandpa to go check on the parasite. We see Grandpa's surprised face meeting Great-Grandpa's surprised face. We see my mother, the most pregnant woman in the village, standing in the doorway, though she's not allowed to stand here because she might catch a cold. We can also see that Grandma hasn't yet noticed Grandpa's entrance, that she's trying to salvage a burnt dinner for the umpteenth time. We also see that Mom, as surprised as Grandpa and Great-Grandpa, says that her husband, my father, should be arriving soon. But all this lasts only a brief glance out of the corner of my eye in the mirror. A moment later, Grandpa takes a step forward and feels the boots he's wearing under his feet, which he's stepping into in his rubber boots. Only then does Grandma notice Grandpa, drop the frying pan, and run to him, screaming at the top of her lungs, "How could he not have told you the boots were full of holes?" Mom is about to add that, but she doesn't, because Grandpa instinctively backs away from Grandma, stumbles rather unluckily over her left boot, then additionally catches himself on the threshold, hits the cornice and falls so strangely that, hitting my mother's stomach with his head, he knocks the poor thing over, and as a result I am born immediately, I jump out of the womb and, slippery as a piece of bacon, I fly the entire length of the hallway, I escape Grandma and great-grandpa's grasping hands and hit the shelf, from where the only book in the house falls on me, which, as it flies, opens to a page so beautifully written that I would dream of writing for the rest of my life, I would steal pages for the rest of my life and at night, when everyone was asleep, I would write about grandmothers, grandfathers, mothers and fathers. For the rest of my life, if it weren't for the fact that it fell directly on me, and that, being a substantial book, bought by my grandmother from an old German not to read, but for decoration, it fell and killed me instantly, on the spot, something I wasn't supposed to write about, because I promised, but what one doesn't do for fame...

Finally, I'll say that my grandfather died from my grandmother complaining that I died because of him. My grandmother went mad, and even after he was dead, she kept reminding him that I died because of him. However, the guilty boots, however, were completely unconcerned and decided to remind me by chance, by the task of telling a story at such a perfect moment, on the twenty-ninth anniversary of my death, when I realized that, having been away from the grave for so long, I might have completely neglected the wildflowers that had overgrown my small childhood mound...