Quentin wasn\u2019t an aspiring fashionista. He was an average guy who worked an average job (software architect), had gone to an average school (Northeastern), and wore average clothes (Levis and baseball caps, white socks and boxers, flannel shirts and Chuck Taylors). But there was just something about these boots.<\/p>\n
Their coppery leather seemed to shine from within, almost as if it were imbued with a sort of concentrated physical light. The laces, the heels, the soles, their flowing lines and crisp angles\u2014the boots were perfect in every detail, combining a sort of moneyed Bostonian utilitarianism and Italian flair in one compact form that seemed, somehow, ready for anything.<\/p>\n
\u201cFrom shoveling snow to dinner at the White House, these boots are ready for anything,\u201d Tom Brady had said, into the camera, the night before, while Quentin had been watching the game with his girlfriend Marcie. \u201cThey\u2019ll change your life,\u201d he added, smiling his thousand-watt, thirty-million-dollar-a-year-without-endorsements smile. \u201cGuaranteed.\u201d<\/p>\n
This commercial ran ten more times during the three-hour game\u2014the three-hour beatdown Brady and his undefeated Patriots had lain on their hapless opponents, the Titans of Tennessee\u2014each successive viewing building in Quentin a greater desire to at the very least see these boots in the flesh. Sure, he knew it was preposterous to think that just because Tom Brady was selling some boots, was guaranteeing their very special-ness on TV, there was anything truly special about them. This was advertising, marketing, late-stage Capitalism, nothing more.<\/p>\n
Still, a tiny voice was calling to Quentin, calling to him from the Mesozoic depths of his average human brain, a brain befuddled by the many mysteries of the world. The voice was telling him that he needed these boots. He needed them in the way people had once needed to pray to the sky or fire or some great and terrible beast. He needed them because they were special, because they might make him special, because they might, in some way, change his life.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cQuentin?\u201d Marcie had asked after the game. He was watching the highlights for the fifth, sixth, or possibly seventh time. He\u2019d lost count.<\/p>\n
\u201cHold on. Just this one play.\u201d<\/p>\n
Three plays later. \u201cQuentin? You just watched the game and now you\u2019re watching the highlights for the sixth time. I want to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJust a sec, Marce.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d she said, grabbing the remote and killing the TV.<\/p>\n
Quentin\u2019s breath caught. \u201cHey!\u201d he finally managed.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know I wanted to talk. I\u2019ve been waiting for hours.\u201d<\/p>\n
She was right. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, babe, what did you want to talk about?\u201d<\/p>\n
She cocked her head to the right, stuck out her left hand and shook it in his face, sort of like she was doing horizontal jazz hands.<\/p>\n
He stared, pretended.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy ring!\u201d she finally added, flipping her wrist and sending her hand vertical. It looked more than a little like Marcie was giving Quentin the finger.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, right, shit, baby. I\u2019m still working on it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t ask for the fucking Star of Zanzibar, Quentin, how long do you have to \u2018work on it?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cUm,\u201d he replied.<\/p>\n
\u201cUm?\u201d she repeated, staring.<\/p>\n
\u201cActually, aren\u2019t you hungry at this point?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI guess I could eat, yeah. But don\u2019t think you\u2019re changing the subject.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course not. We can talk on the way.\u201d<\/p>\n
And they did. Marcie questioned, attempting to gain reliable information, actionable intelligence that might assure her all the waiting had a point. Quentin promised, cajoled, talked a lot about food, and eventually escaped after they\u2019d eaten.<\/p>\n
The problem Quentin was left with, as he walked back to his apartment later that night was that he had no intention of getting Marcie a ring. Sure he liked, even loved, Marcie. Marcie was nice and smart and cute, the sort of girlfriend a lot of guys would have been happy with. But there was this other thing about Marcie. The other thing was that he just didn\u2019t love her enough to buy the ring she wanted, the ring she talked about every fucking time he saw her.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Twenty-four hours later, Quentin was staring at the boots again, this time in the front window of T.A. Emporium on Newberry. Snow fell in large, crystalline flakes leaving the street beneath coated in a white that seemed to glow, as if it had somehow absorbed the stars above.<\/p>\n
He\u2019d been on his way to meet Marcie for a drink at McCourty\u2019s, having planned to get there just in time. Marcie had been going on about getting married again, on the phone at work, talking about the ring she seemed convinced he\u2019d promised her. He\u2019d wanted to avoid leaving himself too much time to think about it before Marcie showed up, but the normally halting, wheezy Green Line had been mysteriously functional that day.<\/p>\n
As he stared at the boots, Quentin had been thinking about how great the Patriots had played the night before, Brady especially. The way he surveyed the field like a Patton or a Rommel, completely unflappable no matter how many rushers or blitzers, no matter how tight the coverage; the way he put the ball just where it needed to be and used his feet to escape danger time and again.<\/p>\n
But Quentin wasn\u2019t Tom Brady or anybody else special. He was an average guy who\u2019d gone to Northeastern. For Quentin, there was no worldwide fame, no massive salary, no supermodel wife.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Inside, the warm, bright store was decked out for Christmas. A jazz-infused \u201cGod Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen\u201d bounced from the speakers, full of celebratory pomp and infectious cheer. Bristling evergreen branches and bunches of blood-red holly berries looming all around, Quentin made directly for the boots. Before he could get to them he was intercepted by an elderly, well-dressed gentleman. His name tag read, Ajax.<\/p>\n
\u201cI see you have come for them,\u201d said Ajax.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow\u2026?\u201d Quentin replied, slitting his gaze.<\/p>\n
\u201cI saw you standing there, outside the window, staring at the Tom Brady boots like a lost puppy. You were practically drooling.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo puppies drool?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy does it matter?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI just want to make sure you\u2019re not using some nonsense sales line on me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, puppies drool. Sometimes. You want to try \u2018em on or what?”<\/p>\n
\u201cI guess,\u201d he said, checking his phone and seeing he still had fifteen minutes, \u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s the spirit,\u201d said Ajax, hustling towards the back of the store and disappearing behind a black velvet curtain. Ajax emerged moments later with a glossy red shoebox. The top read Alpha Frontiero Tom Brady Special Edition in looping, white cursive. He ushered Quentin towards a leather-clad library chair, knelt before him, setting the box down. He opened it with great flourish, a magician revealing his prestige.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou didn\u2019t ask my size.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ajax stared at Quentin\u2019s feet. \u201cI\u2019m a shoe guy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know what that means.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt means trust me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Quentin tried the boots on. Sure enough, they fit perfectly. He walked around the store in them, looking down and admiring how perfect they truly were. It was just as televisual Tom Brady had confided to him eleven times the night before.<\/p>\n
Ajax smiled a knowing smile. \u201cYou want them. I can tell.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow much?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Alpha Frontiero Tom Brady Special Editions? These ones are nine hundred ninety-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFor a pair of fucking boots?\u201d asked Quentin.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou saw the commercial. These aren\u2019t just fucking boots,\u201d said Ajax, pointing at a life-size display of Tom Brady in the corner. A speech balloon hovered off to the right restating Brady\u2019s pay-off line from the night before as Ajax intoned, \u201cThese boots will change your life. Guaranteed.\u201d<\/p>\n
Quentin had the money, sort of. What he actually had was a plastic card with a high enough credit limit that Ajax would allow him to take possession of the boots. It was just that if Quentin spent his plastic pseudo-money on the boots, he wouldn\u2019t have it for a down payment on a ring for cute, sweet, smart, (boring) Marcie who he liked, but didn\u2019t like enough. However, as Quentin turned this issue over in his head, he realized he might kill two birds with one stone.<\/p>\n
\u201cFine,\u201d he said to Ajax, nearly dropping an f-bomb with it, \u201cI\u2019ll take them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCash or credit?\u201d Ajax asked, chuckling.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Marcie was sitting at the main bar when Quentin got to McCourty\u2019s. She\u2019d already ordered Quentin a beer, which caused him to think that Marcie really was a pretty good girlfriend, which caused him to feel bad about what he was about to do.<\/p>\n
\u201cI ordered you a beer,\u201d she offered.<\/p>\n
\u201cAw, I saw that. Thanks, babe.\u201d He kissed her. \u2018God,\u2019 he thought, \u2018How am I going to break up with her when she keeps being so nice?\u2019<\/p>\n
Marcie went with it for a few seconds then pulled back unexpectedly. \u201cWe need to talk,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cOK, but wait, do you notice anything different?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShould I?\u201d<\/p>\n
Quentin raised one knee and shook his newly-booted foot.<\/p>\n
Marcie looked down. \u201cYou got some new shoes?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThese are not just new shoes, Marcie.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re not?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNope. Tom Brady was wearing them in that ad they kept showing when we were watching the game yesterday.\u201d He hated himself for adding this but went ahead, \u201cAnd you wouldn\u2019t believe how much they cost.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen you were watching the game, Quentin? I remember sitting there, trying to have a conversation with you while you were watching the game,\u201d Marcie said, somehow not picking up on Quentin\u2019s deft clue.<\/p>\n
\u201cSame thing, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n
Marcie exhaled long-sufferingly, took a deep glug from her beer, and set down the glass with a thump. She\u2019d nearly killed it. \u201cNot really,\u201d she said, fixing Quentin in her trustworthy chestnut gaze. \u201cI try to forget anything having to do with Tom Brady as quickly as it happens.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhoa, geez, Marce, like, ouch\u2026This is the Pats you\u2019re talking about here!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cQuentin, you know I hate football.\u201d<\/p>\n
Quentin nodded. He knew. And it was just another reason to break up with Marcie. He just had to get her to ask how much the boots had cost, and it would be smooth sailing from there. Yes, there would be tears and pouting, angry recrimination, but it was something that had to be done.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, listen, Quentin?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d he asked, only half-listening, trying to come up with another way to get across what he needed to get across.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m breaking up with you,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
He double-took, snapping back into the conversation. \u201cWait, what?\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded, smiled a sad, tight-lipped smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut you love me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI did. Once.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOnce? You just said it last night on the phone. That was like, that was less than twenty-four hours ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFine, I still do. As a friend.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA friend? We just had sex three days ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFriends have sex sometimes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey do?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot sex like that, Marcie. That was good sex.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re so sure?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, I\u2019m so sure.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFine, it was. Be that as it may, if you\u2019ll recall, you didn\u2019t say it back.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDidn\u2019t say what back?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI love you!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGeez, Marce, that\u2019s sort of a technicality, don\u2019t you think?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou do it all the time.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut you wanted to get engaged? You\u2019ve been after me to buy you a ring for six frickin\u2019 months.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you haven\u2019t bought one, have you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI. Wait, is there\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s someone else,\u201d she said, looking away, a neon Schlitz sign suddenly fascinating.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh.\u201d<\/p>\n
Careful to avoid eye contact, Marcie knocked back the rest of her beer and stood. \u201cThose really are nice boots,\u201d she said, leaning over to give him a peck on the cheek. \u201cI really am sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTwo reallys?\u201d<\/p>\n
Marcie rolled her eyes. \u201cTake care of yourself, Quentin,\u201d she said, stepping towards the door.<\/p>\n
\u201cWait, Marcie,\u201d Quentin said, raising his voice slightly.<\/p>\n
She turned, smiling, had this look on her face as though something was working out perfectly. \u201cYes?\u201d she asked, sweetly.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t you want to know how much my new boots cost?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYour boots? Your fucking boots? Why the fuck would I want to know how much your stupid fucking Tom Brady boots cost?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
After Marcie left, Quentin had another beer and another. By the time he got up to leave he was, indeed, swaying more than a little. In spite of that, he still felt the emotional gut punch Marcie had laid on him, just not as strongly as he had at first, or knew he would again, soon. The walk back to his apartment would be bracing, needed.<\/p>\n
The walk went slowly, because of the booze, and coldly, in spite of the booze, Quentin simultaneously mulling over what had just happened, staggering once in a while, and this was a plus, a plus that did, at least fleetingly, take his mind off what had just happened with Marcie\u2014receiving more than a few compliments on his boots.<\/p>\n
One group of girls even said, \u201cHey, Tom Brady, right? Nice boots!\u201d as he crossed Landsdowne Street. Another one whistled at him. While Quentin couldn\u2019t say the evening had quite \u201cworked out,\u201d at least the boots seemed to be a hit.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Ten pm by the time Quentin opened the front door of his apartment. He was cold and suddenly tired, thought maybe he\u2019d go to bed, try to sleep off the budding depression; but as he shut the door, he detected the unmistakable scent of roast chicken and realized in a rush just how hungry he was. He thought about the three bears as he turned on the lights.<\/p>\n
That was when he saw her, in the kitchen beyond, she being, seemingly, Gisele B\u00fcndchen. She was wearing a white kitchen apron over black lingerie\u2014bra, panties, and garters, all lace. She was wearing black spike heels, too. She looked like a beautiful alien who\u2019d emigrated from a world where practicality had never caught on.<\/p>\n
\u201cDarling, you\u2019re home,\u201d sang Gisele.<\/p>\n
She hurried from the kitchen, clackety-clicking across the wooden floor until she stopped to kiss Quentin on the cheek.<\/p>\n
His head swam. Whether because of the kiss itself or Gisele\u2019s admixture of beauty, hitherto-thought unattainability, and sex appeal\u2014her very super-model-ness\u2014he wasn\u2019t sure. The truth Quentin knew was that it could even have been the roast chicken he now smelled in the air, all crispy and garlicky and buttery. He felt like he might faint.<\/p>\n
Though delighted by the sight of Gisele, not to mention the smell of roast chicken, Quentin was, by that point, very tired. While he still treasured his new boots, they were also extremely warm, and now that he\u2019d made it home, his interest in wearing them had waned.<\/p>\n
Smiling, Quentin flumped onto his living room couch, butt first. He reached down, pulled one boot free of one hot, sweaty foot, and flung it partway across the room. A half-removed white sock dangled from his foot. He removed that, too. Sighing in relief, Quentin rubbed his foot. From the kitchen, he heard Gisele scream bloody murder.<\/p>\n
\u201cAiiyowwww, fuck,\u201d Gisele said, once she was done screaming bloody murder.<\/p>\n
Quentin staggered into the kitchen, still wearing one boot. The boots had added quite a bit to his height, it was now obvious. He felt like Long John Silver as he hobbled across hardwood and onto linoleum.<\/p>\n
In the kitchen, Quentin found Gisele, her immaculately bouncy, shiny hair singed. Her perfect roast chicken lay sprawled in the middle of a very dirty floor, the same dirty floor Quentin had left that very morning. Apparently, the boots could only do so much.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook at theese\u2026,\u201d Gisele exclaimed in her delightful Brazilian accent. She shook her head sadly, looking down at the chicken. \u201cYou must not remove the boots,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNever?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNever ever!\u201d she replied.<\/p>\n
Quentin nodded, looking down at the chicken sadly and, it had to be said, not unhungrily. He thought for a second that if this were the Apocalypse, he would absolutely have eaten the bird off the floor. No silver, no napkins, no questions asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you waiting for?\u201d she said, \u201cGo put the other boot back on.\u201d<\/p>\n
Quentin hobbled back into the living room, reclaimed the boot he\u2019d removed, and quickly returned it to his foot, hopping around the living room as he did.<\/p>\n
\u201cAhh,\u201d he heard Gisele exclaim from the kitchen.<\/p>\n
By the time Quentin returned, Gisele\u2019s hair was unsinged, the chicken back in the roasting pan as if nothing untoward had happened. The floor, however, was still very dirty. Quentin decided to press his luck.<\/p>\n
\u201cWow, that floor\u2019s really dirty,\u201d he said, \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t want to clean it up, would you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho do I look like?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGisele B\u00fcndchen.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI mean what do I look like?\u201d<\/p>\n
Quentin shrugged.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, whatever it is, eet\u2019s not the maid,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
They ate dinner at Quentin\u2019s small, dining table. The chicken was divine. When they were done eating, Gisele rose from her seat, removed her apron and slid one perfect arm across the table knocking everything from dishes to silver to chicken carcass onto the floor.<\/p>\n
\u201cTake me now,\u201d she said, hopping up onto the table and drawing Quentin to her.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust a second,\u201d said Quentin, removing his shirt and unbuckling his belt.<\/p>\n
Gisele eyed Quentin hungrily, in much the manner he had only moments before eyed the chicken. That is, until he moved to take off his boots. That was when she screamed.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, I told you. You cannot,\u201d she said once she was done screaming.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHave you never done it with the boots on?\u201d<\/p>\n
He shrugged.<\/p>\n
\u201cNever on the back of the polo horse or the snowmobile or the hang glider?\u201d<\/p>\n
Quentin was an honest guy. All he could offer to Gisele\u2019s questions of sexual exploit was, \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gisele laughed. \u201cYou are in for a treat.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Gisele was a fabulous cook never mind the fact that she looked like, well, Gisele B\u00fcndchen. Still, she had her problems\u2014no short list by any stretch of the imagination. In addition to the fact that she had no clothes other than the white cooking apron and lingerie she\u2019d been wearing when Quentin had first laid eyes on her, Gisele was not much of a conversationalist. There was also the issue of her mood swings which were, indeed, pronounced. And Gisele also had a drug problem or two, habits Quentin was not only expected to support but to cater to. Fortunately, Quentin\u2019s new, (now, obviously) magical boots had, indeed, increased his income to thirty million a year without endorsements, so springing for some X and a little coke was no biggie.<\/p>\n
None of these were the real problem with Gisele, though. The real problem was that Quentin could not remove the boots, ever. If Gisele even thought he was thinking about taking off a boot, she would scream. The neighbors\u2014above, below, right, and left\u2014had showed up more than once. After recovering from the stunning sight of Gisele, they invariably asked her whether everything was OK, all the while eyeing Quentin suspiciously. She said it was, every time, but Quentin soon noticed her taking on an air of superiority, beyond even what one might expect from Gisele B\u00fcndchen.<\/p>\n
She demanded more coke, more X, and even a little horse from time to time. Quentin was soon tasked with buying her couture gowns at various fashion shows, forced to make any alterations himself. Pretty soon, Quentin began feeling like he was living in a police state with Gisele as a better looking though not entirely un-reminiscent version of Eva Peron.<\/p>\n
What really were his options, though? Before he\u2019d bought the boots, Quentin had been a regular guy, his success with the opposite sex middling at best. Sure, he\u2019d had Marcie, but she\u2019d been boring him to tears and, well, technically she\u2019d left him so it wasn\u2019t as if he could snap his fingers and get her back. Still, Quentin had his doubts about Gisele, and they were growing. Eventually, Gisele caught on and confronted him.<\/p>\n
She said, \u201cYou\u2019re thinking of getting rid of me, aren\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat makes you say that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI can tell. You\u2019re not happy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, it\u2019s just with all the tailoring and going out and buying drugs and stuff I really don\u2019t have time for much of a life.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAm I not enough for you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t believe this,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHonestly, neither can I.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s only one thing to do then.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTake off the boots.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen what happens?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know. I\u2019m not some sorceress. I\u2019m just Gisele B\u00fcndchen.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOK, OK, don\u2019t get bent out of shape.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo I look like I\u2019m bent out of shape?\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked. She did not.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, do it, see what happens?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut you scream every time I even think about doing it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, I haven\u2019t done that for a while.\u201d<\/p>\n
Quentin thought about it. Gisele was right. She hadn\u2019t done that for a while, primarily because he\u2019d been conditioned to never even think about taking off the boots.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s no guarantee you won\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut this is: I guarantee I won\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if you blink out of existence or something? You know you weren\u2019t even here until I came home wearing these boots.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou worry too much. I\u2019m obviously not a real person. I\u2019m just a fictionalized version of Gisele B\u00fcndchen. Would it really be so bad if I disappeared?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, aside from the fact that you look the way you look, and you\u2019re my, well\u2026girlfriend\u2026I make thirty million dollars a year now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s a lot of money.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt sure is.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, life with me is not so bad, is it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI suppose not.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen we\u2019ll have no more of this complaining, ever, will we?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, ma\u2019am, I suppose we won\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Her position secure, Gisele became even more overbearing. She started ordering things online, expensive things\u2014really expensive things like doodles by Picasso, Guttenberg Bibles, and rare wines\u2014that soon filled Quentin\u2019s apartment and taught him there were, in fact, things expensive enough to blow through thirty million dollars a year without endorsements.<\/p>\n
Quentin began considering alternate sources of income; in fact, musing on the aforementioned endorsements. But Quentin wasn\u2019t Tom Brady. No one would want him to endorse anything anyway. Never mind the fact that he could barely move in his apartment, the real trouble came from something that didn\u2019t have to do with Fictionalized Gisele at all. It came from the fact that Quentin\u2019s feet soon began to smell.<\/p>\n
They began to smell so bad that neighbors\u2014above, below, right, and left\u2014all stopped by, addressing him with much the same skepticism they had during Gisele\u2019s screaming jags. They got the picture though when Quentin came to the door and they realized that horrible and growing stench was Quentin. Still, in spite of the near-constant drop-bys, Quentin had learned his place. He knew he couldn\u2019t remove the boots, so to his neighbors\u2019 stank-faced, heartfelt entreaties, all he could say was, \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At this point, you might be wondering how Quentin got by at work, stinky-booted as he was. Fortunately, Quentin was a developer thus able to telecommute. So, no, that wasn\u2019t the final problem. The final problem was Marcie. She showed up at Quentin\u2019s apartment one day.<\/p>\n
He left the chain on, cracked the door, looked out at her.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou haven\u2019t been returning my calls,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, I\u2019m sorry, Marcie. I haven\u2019t\u2026I\u2019ve been under the weather.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is that smell?\u201d Marcie asked. \u201cQuentin, are you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe, I don\u2019t\u2026I\u2019m not sure.\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked down at his feet. \u201cThose boots stink. Have you\u2026have you never taken them off?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI guess not.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have my reasons.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re really starting to worry me, dude.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy are you here, Marcie, you broke up with me, remember?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho eez that?\u201d Quentin heard from the living room. It was, of course, Gisele B\u00fcndchen.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho eez that?\u201d Marcie half-mocked, half-quizzed.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s Gisele B\u00fcndchen.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cExcuse me?\u201d<\/p>\n
He undid the chain, opened the door. Marcie walked inside and kept going until she got to the living room and the aforementioned Fictionalized Gisele. She likewise saw the living room was filled with rare treasures from couture gowns to original oil paintings by Dutch masters.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere\u2019s all your fucking football stuff?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSomewhere in here. I don\u2019t really know, Marcie. She\u2019s sort of taken over.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHello,\u201d said Marcie, in Gisele\u2019s general direction.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo this is the famous Marcie,\u201d Gisele replied.<\/p>\n
\u201cFamous?\u201d Marcie asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, he thinks about you all the time. He never says it, but I can just tell.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSeriously, who are you?\u201d<\/p>\n
Quentin broke in, \u201cShe\u2019s seriously Gisele B\u00fcndchen. She was here when I got home the night you broke up with me. The night I bought these boots,\u201d he said, looking down. \u201cThat\u2019s not all either, Marcie, I actually make thirty million dollars a year now. Without endorsements.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich explains the stack of Ming vases in the corner over there?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRight. I don\u2019t want to be presumptuous here, Marcie, but this situation is really getting untenable, in spite of\u2026well, everything. Did you come over because you want to get back together?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGet back together? No way, dude, I just wanted to give you this.\u201d She handed him an envelope.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich is?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAn invitation to my engagement party.\u201d<\/p>\n
Quentin looked down. Sure enough, the envelope read, \u201cMarcie & Tom,\u201d in large, ornate cursive letters. \u201cYou\u2019re dating Tom Brady now?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTom Brady? Quentin, I\u2019m a serious person, why would I date some bimbo like Tom Brady?\u201d Catching herself, Marcie turned to Gisele. \u201cNo offense,\u201d she added.<\/p>\n
\u201cNone taken,\u201d said Gisele.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s plus-one so you can bring your friend, if you want, whoever she is.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t leave the apartment,\u201d said Gisele matter-of-factly.<\/p>\n
\u201cQuentin, this is really\u2026I don\u2019t know how you knew I was coming, and I don\u2019t know how you cooked up this elaborate joke or how much you\u2019re paying Sofia Vergara over here, but you seriously need some fucking help. And for the love of God, will you please just take off those fucking boots?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u201cQuentin, you know I hate football.\u201d<\/p>\n
Quentin nodded. He knew. And it was just another reason to break up with Marcie. He just had to get her to ask how much the boots had cost, and it would be smooth sailing from there. Yes, there would be tears and pouting, angry recrimination, but it was something that had to be done.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":18631,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[2884,2895,2885,2883,2881],"class_list":["post-18003","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-consumerism","tag-gisele-bundchen","tag-kurt-baumeister","tag-magic-boots","tag-tom-brady","writer-kurt-baumeister"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18003","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18003"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18003\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18632,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18003\/revisions\/18632"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/18631"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18003"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18003"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18003"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}