Boots

In American public office, there is no privilege.

In fact, it’s all service, with no reward

except the gratitude of your fellow citizens.

Or, at least, that’s the way it should be.

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You can plant your boots anywhere. But if you plant them in selfishness, they may be washed out from under you.

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Boots

The sirens wailed over the fields like a wounded animal. The wind peeled back people’s coats and the rain slapped their faces.

The storm shelter door was open, and the light from the stairwell spilled out onto the wet concrete in front of it. Neighbors came running, their ponchos stuck to their skin, their hats long ago taken by the wind.

Donnie planted his muddy boots on the lip and spread his arms across the entrance. His badge glinted in the generator’s spotlight—County Safety Warden. “Back off,” he barked. “My family first. You’ll wait until I say.”

His wife hunched beside him, pants torn at the knee, red clay smeared down her shin. Their boy tried to pull her inside, but she was frozen to the spot as though welded to Donnie’s side.

“Not this time, Donnie,” yelled old Mrs. Cline, shaking her cane in her fist. The Jenkins twins stood beside her, their hair slicked down by rain. The mechanic shoved close to Donnie, smelling of oil and wet dog. “Not this time, Donnie,” they all bellowed over the storm.

Donnie jabbed a finger at them. “I built this shelter. Without me, there’d be no shelter. So you’ll get it when I say.”

The smell of mildew rose up the stairwell. The “Public Shelter” sign clanged with the wind.

The mechanic leaned in. “You built it with our taxes, Donnie. You don’t get to lord it over us just because you won an election.”

Donnie shoved him back, his badge reflecting the spotlight into their eyes as he moved. “I keep order here, not you. Get back until I say so!” Donnie raised the key ring from his belt, waving it at the crowd like a weapon. “I lock out anyone I don’t approve.” His hands shook with cold and rage.

The mechanic lunged. Others grabbed Donnie’s arms, tearing at his keys. They pulled the ring from his fist. Donnie staggered, his boots sliding in the mud.

One of the Jenkins twins shouted, “Go!” and they nearly lifted Mrs. Cline off her feet as they just about trampled Donnie. The mechanic stepped into the doorway and hauled people inside.

Donnie clawed at ponchos and sleeves, but he couldn’t get a grip on anything with his wet hands. His flashlight spun loose and its light skittered across ankles before someone’s boot kicked it into a gutter.

“Not this time, Donnie,” the crowd kept chanting as person after person filed past the shelter door.

Mud sucked Donnie’s boots in up to the ankle. He fell forward on his palms, grit biting his skin. His wife and son were still by his side, frozen in the spotlight. The mechanic screamed out, “Stella, there’s still room for you and Marcus! You coming, or what?”

Stella broke free of the spell and ran with Marcus into the shelter. Then Donnie’s keys flashed once in the mechanic’s hand and vanished into the stairwell. The heavy door swung shut as its iron latch slammed into the iron frame. Its ring cut through the siren’s wail.

Inside, bodies pressed together in the stale air and dim light. Outside, Donnie’s boots sank deeper into the mud while the storm raged and the siren wailed on.