Boot Cut

Return with honor, I’d been told. Serve graciously, I’d been encouraged. Serving the Lord by going on a mission is what every worthy young man should do. Instead, I was waiting in the lobby of the LDS missionary training center for my parents to pick me up. It was New Year’s Eve, and they were at the zoo. I sat reading the Book of Mormon, ignoring the front desk attendant, basking in the sunlight that streamed through the golden-brown windows.  

It felt like the first light I’d seen in four days. Mostly I felt relief. It had taken two days to convince people that I wasn’t missionary material. That I wasn’t good enough or worthy enough to serve. I’d just backed out of a two-year commitment to serve God. Failure seemed a bit mild. But I wasn’t really thinking about that; I refused to consider the consequences just then. I was just focused on how relieved I was to be getting out of that place.  

When my parents finally arrived, they gave me a choice: we could go home and stay there, or we could go to my aunt’s house, where all my mother’s family was gathered to celebrate New Year’s Eve. I knew what I wanted, but I also knew what I was supposed to do.  

By the time we arrived at my aunt’s house, I was a pariah. The relief vanished. No one would meet my eyes. Everyone went quiet; a hush like clouds swooping low over the mountains before a storm breaks.  

And then my uncle, my mother’s youngest brother, who had only recently gotten out of jail after a three-year stint, handed me two large black plastic bags full of jeans and asked if I wanted any of them.   

Who knows where he got them, and never mind that he was three or four inches taller than me and probably weighed fifty pounds more. Maybe he knew something about how I was feeling. I gratefully took the bags and retreated to the front room where I could sort them on my own.  

Boot cut. Straight leg. Cargo. Tapered. Wide legged. Bejeweled. Every style of blue jean possible. 

As I sifted through the styles and sizes, I could hear my dad’s voice from the other room. He was telling everyone how proud he was of me, how I could’ve just decided to stay home and avoid everyone. Instead, I’d chosen to be there. Be there with family. I’d done the right thing. The thing I was supposed to do. Holding up a pair of boot cut, bejeweled-pocket Levi’s, I wondered if my uncle had ever really worn them. I wondered if I could make them fit me.  

Zachary Ostraff has an MFA from Eastern Washington University and a PhD from Texas Tech University. He is currently working on two manuscripts of collected essays: one about death masks and family history, and one of lyrical writings about sports, fatherhood, and living. Find him and his artist partner at Ostraffworks.com.   

This essay is a Short Reads original.