I Was Cool… Once.

I had to have them.  Had to.

I know I’ve spoken to you about the freedom I’ve found in my life by divesting myself of things.  First, I got rid of most of my possessions, keeping only those things required by law—clothing mostly.  Then, I felt freer.  It was a two-step process.  Divest.  Freer.

I am trying my best to remember that things are things and we place the value upon them.  And we suffer their loss in a magnitude commensurate with the value we place upon them.  So, I’ve been quite a bit happier without things.

Still, none of that value, real or assigned, holds a candle to those Beatle boots.

The year was 1965.  I was 11-years-old and hadn’t yet developed this philosophy of things are only things.   The Beatles had invaded America.  On April 4, 1964 they made music history by holding the top five spots on the Billboard Hot 100 chart with Can’t Buy Me Love, Twist and Shout, She Loves You, I Wanna Hold Your Hand, and Please Please Me, respectively.  And within the next few weeks they had nine more songs on the chart.

Beatlemania was in full force in America and in three of the four bedrooms in our home.  We’d stand by the radio and impatiently wait for the next Beatles song.  In the car, we’d make my mom push the buttons on the radio to another station just to hear another Beatles song.  In those days, Pop Radio had a 90-minute rotation.  That meant they repeated the Top Ten songs every 90-minutes.  In the Greater Los Angeles area we’d listen to KHJ, KRLA, KEZY and KWIZ.  With each of them playing the Top Ten every 90 minutes we had a great chance of hearing the songs again and again as long as we kept pushing those buttons!

I wish I had a picture of me in 5^th grade.  There was a constant struggle between my dad and me as I fought to keep my hair long like the Beatles.  He wore a crew cut and thought that’s how a boy should wear his hair.  (Wait.  Maybe I’m glad I don’t have a picture of me in 5^th grade.)   I’d inevitably lose the battle of the barbershop with him.  No matter how much I fought or cried or whatever other weapons I had in my I’m-not-going-to-the-barber arsenal, I eventually lost to his parental authority and I’d be forced to visit the barber.  To make matters worse, he and the barber gloated at the anguish I suffered on those dreadful Saturday’s.

But one day I saw Beatle boots.  Looking back on them now, they looked pretty stupid.  But the Beatles wore them and I wanted them.  I had to have them.  If I wore Beatle boots, I’d be cool.  And no matter how many times my dad made me get my hair cut, you can’t cut Beatle boots!

I have no idea how I talked my mother into letting me get the Beatle boots but it was time for me to get new shoes.  She loaded all six of us kids into the car and off we went to Karl’s Shoes.  I ran down the street, going as far ahead of her as I dared and got to the display windows on either side of the door.  My eyes darted across the selections as they dart around now after a grande coffee and two refills.

And they weren’t hard to spot.  They sat on a pedestal amongst all of the shoes; displayed above all the rest in a fashion befitting their greatness, their awesomeness high above any other run-of-the-mill shoe.

There was a time when I thought the only shoe I’d ever wear was the P.F. Flyer.  That shoe, above all others, guaranteed a kid the ability to run faster and jump higher.  The day I got my first pair I laced them up and bolted from the front door, my mother’s “Stop slamming the door!” fading rapidly in the distance as I flew like Mercury across the fields and over boulders.

The only slight hiccup in my day came when I ran to Duane’s house.  He always ran faster than me.  This day things would change.  I landed in front of his door and knocked loudly.  He opened the door and we stood, both of us suppressing an excited smile.  I wrinkled my brow.  Why was he smiling?  I looked down at my shoes and his eyes followed.  He looked at his and my eyes followed.  Damn!  He had a pair, too!  So, we both ran faster that day.  And jumped higher!  Don’t forget jumped higher!  But he was still faster.

But now that I was 11-years-old, fast couldn’t hold a candle to cool.  And if I could convince my mother to get me those Beatle boots, I would be cool.  I don’t know how I did it, but I did.  She undoubtedly tried to persuade me to select something more practical or—something equally important to a mother—but when we left the store that day, I was wearing Beatle boots.

And I wore them everywhere.  But no one seemed to notice.  I practically had to point them out to other kids.  They didn’t seem to care.  I knew it was because they were jealous.  Still, I had to make sure I was being thoroughly cool.  When I stood around listening to Beatles tunes with the others, I nodded my head just like Ringo did when he played.  No one seemed to notice.  I saw a picture of the Fab Four where one of the boys stood with his leg turned to an awkward 90 degree angle.  So I stood that way.  Even though I was 11-years-old, it hurt my hip a little bit to stand that way for so long.  But I stood.  I stood with my foot at a 90-degree angle.  I stood with my foot at a 90-degree angle and I nodded.

Nobody noticed.  Nobody saw how cool I was.

And I wore those boots everywhere.  All day.  Everywhere.  I wore them for so long that the heel on my right boot came off and I couldn’t fix it.  I still wore them.  I didn’t dare tell my mother about the heel and risk her making me get new shoes.  I was just a kid and even I could tell that they were so cheaply made and rushed to market that she’d never let me get a second pair.  I had to keep my mouth shut and walk around with one heel missing.  Still cool, right?

I remember the exposed nails from the heel catching on the carpet at my friend Mike’s house.  I can still hear the carpet fibers tear as I walked around his house.  His mother eventually forbade me from wearing them in their house because of all the little tufts of carpet fiber I left sticking up in my wake.

But I wore them.  I wore them, missing heel and all.  Perhaps I wasn’t cool to anyone else, but in my mind I was cool.  I stood with my foot at a weird angle and I nodded like Ringo Starr and I was cool.

And that may be the last time I ever made the effort to be cool.  A state of coolness was something this nerd could never really attain.  And I grew from being a nerd in my childhood to being a goofball in my adulthood, so neither of those attributes was conducive to coolness.  But there were a few months during 1965 when I was cool.  Weird foot angle, head bobbing, heel-nails-clawing-the-carpet-at-Mike’s-house… Cool.  And you can’t take that away from me.