Dell steps out onto the landing.  The stairwell lights are off, but enough morning light glows orange and pink through the window for him to see the jumble of shoes by the door.  He grabs his Timberland work boots with his right hand, the padded leather collars squealing against each other as if in delight as his finger squash the boots together.  He pads down a few stairs, then stops at the landing between his floor and Brandon’s, using the steps as a bench and the landing as a place against which to brace his boots as he dons them for the day ahead.  

He wrenches at the corded laces at the top, drawing them out in floppy loops as he peels the boots open.  His socks are black, a thin orange band crossing the toes.  They dive into the boots and come to rest on the worn insoles as Dell yank the laces in the other direction, pulling them taut and drawing the tongue and collars against his ankles.  He clomps down the steps and out the door.

Halfway across the parking lot, he meets Brandon, who holds two cardboard coffee cups.  Brandon offers him one.  “Brazilian Roast,” he says as Dell takes the hot cup in his hand.  

“You are a saint,” Dell claims, noting not for the first time that Brandon’s eyes seem flit to the ground where he stands, almost as if he’s checking out Dell’s boots.  It’s almost a nervous tick, he thinks.  “Have yourself a great day,” he offers warmly.

“You, too!” Brandon calls over his shoulder as he gets into his SUV.  Dell tosses his bag onto the floor of the passenger seat in his truck, noting that his moccasins are already there and ready in case he needs them later.  He climbs into the truck and sets the coffee in the cup holder.  His Timberland crackles around his foot as he presses the brake pedal and punches the ignition button.

Dell drives a few blocks before he pulls into the gas station at Fifth Street to top of the tank (since the price of gas is borderline reasonable today).  He pulls up to the pump and hops out.  He rests his left boot on the pump dais as he watches the traffic go by.  Rusty water from the gas station canopy overhead drips down.  One drop taps onto the top of Dell’s boot, leaving a dark trail as it rolls down to rest on the lip of the chunky rubber sole.  Dell doesn’t notice.  

He continues to work, arriving at today’s site, a future sporting goods store.  Last night’s rain has left the ground a rugged terrain of crumbly mountains and brown ponds and lakes, which reflect the pale lightening sky.  Dell guides his truck over the treacherous ruts.  His back wheel gets hung up on one, and he doesn’t have a lot of weight in the bed today.  “Come on,” he coaxes the truck as his right boot squeezes the accelerator.  The RPMs slowly climbs as the truck inches forward, then the wheel breaks through the ridge of mud and rock and the truck lurches forward.  In a swift movement, Dell pulls up on the Timberland with his foot, the top of his black sock pressing against the steel lined toe box, and swivels his ankle, bringing the boot down hard on the brake.  The orange line across his toes rushes forward in the boot with the momentum of the quick movement.  

Satisfied with his resting place, Dell cuts he engine and climbs out.  Dell’s feet make contact with the soft ground, the distinctive tread pattern firmly embossed under his weight.  He walks the perimeter of the site, surveying the footers that are due to receive cinderblock today.  It’s like walking on a sticky beach.  With every step Dell takes, his black socked feet scoop his boots into the sliding clay a few inches behind him, and it takes twice as much force to lift them for the next step.  By the time he has made his full circle, he is already sweating inside his boots.  Dark areas stain the tops of his socks, which occasionally squawk as they rub against the leather walls.

Dell returns to his truck and removes a portable pump and some hose.  As he had suspected, some of the footers have become inundated with water in last night’s spring downpour.  He carefully lowers the pump into the opaque yellow water.  As he does, the hose drags over the top of his right boot.  Slimy clay picked up by the hose smears across the worn leather.  Dell doesn’t notice.

He plugs the pump into the generator on the back of his truck, which he then tries to start by yanking on the pull cord. It takes three pulls for the generator to turn over.  With each pull, Dell’s right foot pushes the Timberland a little further into the mire behind the truck.  Once the generate rumbles to life, Dell finds that his socked foot is willing to leave his boot behind, the black heel having made it’s way mostly up the leather wall towards the padded collar before he realizes the problem.  He stops and pushes his foot back in, swearing under his breath, then grasps the rim with his gloved hands.  The boot comes free and Dell continues about his business.  A thick yellow paste now frames the bottom inch or so of Dell’s right foot.  Dell doesn’t notice.

Dell starts to shoot the breeze with another crew worker as the pump starts to draw the sludgy water from the from the depression and belch it onto the ground.  But after a few minutes he notices that water no longer issues from the hose, yet remains in the footer, the pump howling in protest.  Dell swears under his breath again.  He walks to the edge of the ditch and begins to pull up on the hose, bringing the pump out of the water.  He can see a piece of plastic is caught on the inlet as he draws the pump closer.  What he doesn’t see is the edge of he ditch, softened in the April rains, beginning to crack under the weight of his left Timberland boot.  It begins to slowly sink beneath him as he reaches for the pump until the wall of earth gives way, his boot plunging into the murky brown pool below.  He drops the pump and steps back as quickly as reflexes will allow, but his left boot is momentarily dips below the surface.  Even as his foot pulls up against the top of the boot, muddy water finds its way around the tongue and through the eyelets and seeps into the black sock.  Dell swears again.

He trudges off back to his truck to get his neoprene and rubber boots.  Yellow water drips for the hem of his jeans onto the boot, which is darker than the other.  The damp sock rubs and squeaks as it slides inside the sodden Timberland.  Dell irritatingly drops the neoprene boots to the ground, the dusty blue shaft of one folding over into soft trench of mud.  In a mirror of this morning’s ritual, Dell puts his foot on the bumper of his truck and jerks the laces lose, extracting his black socked foot and plunging into the boot with fresh mud already caking the outside.  It brushes against the folds in his jeans as they bunch around the stretchy material.  Dell doesn’t notice.

He repeats the ritual on the soggy left boot, removing his damp socked foot and sliding into into the waterproof boot.  Throwing the Timberlands into the passenger side of the truck, mud spattering over of the door panel and glove compartment as he does so, Dell then wades back over to the pump and steps boldly into the ditch.  The earth that has crumbled into the moat churns into goo beneath the tread of his rubber capped feet.  He picks up the struggling pump by the hose and pulls the offending piece of plastic free.  Setting the pump back in place, he watches as it begins to draw on the silty water again, currents rippling around his ankles.

Four hours later, Dell’s feet are stifled and wet, the ripe smell building into the unbreathing boots.  It has been a day of squatting, lifting, and tapping block into place.  A thick glob of stray mortar oozes from around a block and plops on his right boot, rolling off onto the ground, leaving a gray residue in its wake.  Dell doesn’t notice.

When at last his day is done, Dell rips off his gloves and throws them into a compartment in the truck bed.  He grabs the moccasins from the passenger seat, which have been dripped on with soupy mud from the Timberlands.  He tugs at his boots and frees his feet, sighing in relief that their imprisonment is done for the day.  He slides his damp socks into the moccasins, hardly noticing nor caring that mud smears over the black cotton as he does so.

It’s 9:30pm.  Showered, cologned, suave Dell says goodnight to his girlfriend.  He playfully pins her against the wall next to her apartment door.  As he bends forward and kisses her and roams his had over her breasts, the hems of his skinny jeans part from the collars of his Nike Blazers.  His feet and ankles are clothed in crisp, white socks now.  The harsh blue light of the overhang by the door rakes across them, leaving shadows in the furrows of the socks’ ribs around his ankles.  He gives her one last grind of his body against her, the heels of his shoes slightly leaving the balcony floor as he suggests what could be in store for her another evening.  They smile and part.

He steps out of the Nikes on the landing outside his apartment door.  They stand at attention next to the moccasins and the dusty Timberlands (one now stuffed with newspaper), ready for a new day tomorrow.  Dell’s white socks pad inside the apartment, and the door closes.