Don’t Let Them Take Your Boots!
A Fable
Author’s Note: The story of Italian immigrant Giacomo Mazzone is a folkloric meditation on identity, loss, and the dehumanizing indifference of New York in the early 20th century. As in Nikolai Gogol's “The Overcoat,” published in 1842, Akaky Akakievich finds his existence defined and ultimately undone by a stolen coat; Giacomo’s stolen boots symbolize dignity, agency, and survival. Both characters inhabit worlds where the theft of something seemingly ordinary reveals the precariousness of their lives and the cold absurdity of society. Their stories remind us that sometimes, our possessions carry the weight of our entire existence.
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“Don’t Let Them Take Your Boots”
There was something extraordinary about Giacomo Mazzone’s boots, though they seemed plain enough to everyone else. Sturdy leather vessels, laced snugly about his feet, they carried him from the dry, unforgiving hills of Southern Italy across the vast Atlantic to the cracked and pitiless pavements of New York City.
When he stepped off the ship in 1909, his boots struck the pavement around Ellis Island with a resolute thud—a firm declaration that he had arrived. He didn’t bring much with him. No English. No connections. Just a body that could haul bricks and boots that could keep him steady while he did it.
Above his ankles, he was flesh and uncertainty; below, leather and resolve. In that way, Giacomo’s boots were extraordinary.
Fellow bricklayers would nod at them in silent respect, knowing a man who kept his modest boots in shape probably did the same with his mortar lines. The women who worked street corners clicked their tongues and admired the stubborn shine of the leather, wondering how his feet stayed dry when theirs were perpetually soaked. And the hustlers? They eyed those boots like they eyed wallets—something to snatch if you weren’t paying attention.
Every night, Giacomo’s routine was simple: boots off, boots washed, boots ready. Except he never actually took them off. He’d step right into a bathtub, laces tight, water running down his calves, while soap frothed around the scuffed tips. Call it superstition, call it an immigrant’s paranoia—either way, he trusted clean boots more than luck.
However, Giacomo’s boots weren’t so loyal in his nightly dreams. They had a nasty habit of disappearing. He’d find himself barefoot, the city’s cracked concrete biting at his soles.
From the tenement windows above, voices would howl, “Pick yourself up by your bootstraps!” It was a taunt from those who believed anything could be accomplished through sheer willpower, blind to the irony that without boots — without the means — there were no straps to pull.
But every morning, Giacomo would wake up in a sweat, patting his feet in the dark, relieved to feel the boots still there, laced up and ready. He would gladly anticipate the sound they made once they hit the floor to greet the day.
One night soon after, in a Bowery bar, too many shots of cheap whiskey left Giacomo teetering. His balance was no longer a steady scaffold but a shaky seesaw. He swayed on his bar stool, eyes glazed as if he were watching himself from high above, still clinging to a skyscraper beam.
Then gravity took over. He tipped, tumbled, and crashed to the sawdust-covered floor. When he clambered up, dazed and swaying, he felt something wrong. His feet were light. Too light. He looked down.
Bare feet. Naked, exposed, ridiculous feet.
His boots were gone.
Giacomo turned to the barkeeper, the waitress, and the saloon manager, but no one knew a thing. How could someone detach him from his boots and walk off with them without him realizing it?
Dread gripped Giacomo as he stumbled out of the bar, panic rising like bile. He frantically searched the dark alley behind the building, his eyes darting into every shadow. But there was no one—nothing. His boots were gone, vanished as if the city itself had swallowed them whole.
Disbelief turned to rage. Barefoot and desperate, Giacomo set off into the night, prowling the streets in search of whoever had dared to take his most prized possession. Each step sent a jolt of pain up his legs, the cold pavement biting at his soles. His heart pounded, his breath sharp and ragged.
This was no longer just about boots. In the harsh, indifferent maze of New York, his fight for his footing had become a fight for his very survival.
For six days and six nights, Giacomo searched and searched. Every alley and every street. He encountered all sorts of abandoned shoes and sandals scattered along the way. But they were neither suitable nor the right fit. Some were too big, others too small; Giacomo refused to settle for anything less than his boots.
On the seventh day of his relentless quest, Giacomo encountered Salvatore, a man whose presence seemed to defy the grim reality of the urban landscape. Salvatore's eyes twinkled with a mischievous light, and his smile was as warm and inviting as a hearth on a winter's night.
"Ho there, friend!" Salvatore called out, his voice carrying the lilt of distant shores. "Why do you walk with determination yet with such pain etched upon your face?"
Giacomo regarded Salvatore with weary suspicion. "I search for my boots," he replied, his voice hoarse from days of shouting into the indifferent city air. "They were stolen from me, and I shall not rest until I reclaim them."
Salvatore's eyes widened with understanding and compassion. “Yes, yes, I read about your plight in the papers: the Italian immigrant who lost his boots. The police say you were careless!”
“Perhaps.”
“The Mayor said, ‘Don’t let them take your boots!’ as a warning to all New Yorkers.”
“Did he?”
“Fret not! I’m a self-styled shoe cobbler. From Old Amsterdam by way of Italy! Let’s see what I can do for you.” With an almost magical flourish, Salvatore removed the shoes from his feet—a pair of sturdy, if somewhat comical, wooden clogs—and offered them to Giacomo.
"Take these, my friend," Salvatore said, his tone both kind and playful. "They may not be the boots you seek, but they will protect your feet from the cruel stones of this unforgiving city. Oh, and they make a wonderful click-clack sound, like a horse."
But Giacomo, consumed by his singular purpose, shook his head vehemently. "No," he declared, "I will wear no shoes but my own. My boots are a part of me, as essential as my very soul."
Undeterred by Giacomo's refusal, Salvatore settled himself on a nearby crate, his bare feet swinging like pendulums. "Ah," he mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "you refuse my shoes yet weep for your own. Tell me, have you heard the tale of the man who cried because he had no shoes until he met a man with no feet?"
Giacomo's eyes flashed with irritation. "How prophetic," he spat, "and yet utterly inane. Am I to find solace in the misfortunes of others? Perhaps I should wait for a greater tragedy before I dare to lament my loss!"
Salvatore's smile never faltered. "They say," he continued as if Giacomo had not spoken, "that Jesus walked without shoes."
At this, Giacomo's patience finally snapped. "Good for Him!" he roared, echoing off the narrow alley walls. "Should I accept a life without my boots to be a man of God? I tell you this, Stranger: I will find the thief who took my boots and beat him soundly. And then, with my boots restored, I shall gladly live in Hell for the rest of my days!"
With that, Giacomo turned and stormed away, leaving Salvatore still perched upon his crate, shaking his head with amusement and concern.
As Giacomo's footsteps faded into the distance, Salvatore called out one last time: "Remember, friend, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step—whether that step is booted or bare!"
But Giacomo was already gone, vanishing into the city's twisting streets, having no clue that his true journey—one that would challenge his feet and his very understanding of himself—had only just begun.
Seven weeks of searching yielded no results. Giacomo's journey turned darker when he encountered Vittorio, a figure shrouded in shadow and more phantom than man. "I'm looking for boots," Giacomo told the man. “They were stolen from me—taken right off my feet while I sat at a public tavern."
"Familiar story," Vittorio started, "many men have lost something they cannot live without. I lost my right hand, you see."
"Once, I was a politician," Vittorio continued, his voice carrying the weight of lost battles, the phantom limb at his side twitching as if the fingers of the hand he no longer had were still reaching out, trying to grasp something just out of reach. "My hand was the conduit of power, the bridge between my promises and those who believed in them. With every handshake, I transferred hope, from palm to palm, flesh to flesh."
Giacomo listened, each word folding into the next, like the pages of a book telling a tale he hadn't realized he was part of. "When I rose to power, I refused to play their games. My hand, which they severed, was meant to be filled with the spoils of corruption, but I kept it empty. They couldn't tolerate that."
The space where Vittorio's hand once became a presence, a reminder that in this world, what was taken from you was often more powerful than what you held onto. "They fear those who cannot be bought, Giacomo," Vittorio continued, his gaze shifting to the ever-moving city beyond.
Vittorio leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They're not after your boots, Giacomo. They're after your feet! They want to stop you, to root you in place. In this city, to move is to live; to walk is to resist. Those who traverse reality and dream are the ones they fear most."
As Vittorio's words settled into Giacomo's mind, he continued his search, but now, it wasn't just for his boots. It was a way to keep moving and resisting in a world that would rather see him stand still.
Seven months had come and gone, and Giacomo continued to search. Turning a corner, he came upon an unexpected sight: a mob of protesters marching in unison, their voices a cacophony of discontent. However, what caught Giacomo’s eye were not their impassioned faces but the enigmatic banners they wielded: "We Will NOT Live Under Your Boot."
Worn and weary from his endless quest, Giacomo was drawn to this paradoxical proclamation. He carefully approached the crowd, eyes scanning the sea of picket signs that seemed to mock his bootless state.
Finally, he managed to pull one protester aside, a gaunt figure with eyes that reflected the city's ever-shifting shadows. "What do these signs mean?" Giacomo asked, his voice hoarse from months of fruitless inquiries.
The Protester regarded Giacomo with a mixture of suspicion and weariness. "The city has imposed new laws," came the reply, each word dripping with resignation. "Soon, no one will live free."
But this ambiguous reply did little to satisfy Giacomo's curiosity. He pressed further, his brow furrowed in confusion. "But what does it mean to live under one's boot? I don't understand."
The protester's eyes narrowed, taking in Giacomo's bare feet with a glance that seemed to pierce through time and space. "Boots are for fascists," the protester declared, already turning away, melding back into the crowd.
"All boots?" Giacomo cried out, his voice lost in the growing clamor of the protest. But his question hung in the air, unanswered, as the protester disappeared into the crowd.
Left alone at the square’s edge, a surreal dizziness overcame Giacomo. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the buildings around him stretching and warping like images in a funhouse mirror. In this moment of surreal clarity, he saw his lost boots everywhere—in the thunderous steps of marching protesters, the heavy tread of uniformed authorities, and the cautious shuffling of bystanders.
Giacomo's mind reeled with the implications. Had his obsessive quest for his stolen boots been misguided all along?
As he stood there, caught between the opposing forces of the protest and his internal turmoil, Giacomo realized that his journey had led him to a crossroads of understanding. The boots he sought were no longer footwear but a complex symbol of authority, identity, and freedom.
At that moment, surrounded by the swirling chaos of the protest, Giacomo felt the ghost of his lost boots on his feet. Were they a burden he had been freed from or a responsibility he had shirked? Were they a symbol of oppression he had unwittingly embraced or a tool for change he had failed to utilize?
The din of the protest faded as Giacomo's mind grappled with the newfound complexity of his quest.
For seven long years, Giacomo wandered the streets of New York, his search for his stolen boots becoming a twisted odyssey through the margins of humanity. He met a blind woman who spoke of a world she could no longer see yet remembered with painful clarity. Her clouded eyes looked past Giacomo, pointing toward unseen paths. He met a mute man, his silence more eloquent than speech, who gestured Giacomo forward with an urgency that transcended words. A beggar, hollowed out by relentless loss, sent Giacomo in the same direction with a raspy whisper of hopeless hope.
One day, in a crowded square, he locked eyes with a stranger wearing boots that weren’t his but might have been. The stranger moved on, oblivious, leaving Giacomo with the hollow realization that the lives we don’t live are just branches we let wither, possibilities turned to dust beneath our feet.
One moonlit night, deep in the belly of a forsaken alleyway, as Giacomo swabbed his bleeding feet with sewer water and wrapped them with some unholy rags and discarded newspaper, he heard a howling voice coming from nearby. "I stole your bloody boots! If you want them, you'll have to fight me!"
As raw as they were, Giacomo sprang to his feet and lurched toward the howling.
It was not a man but a beast, a wicked beast!
Giacomo finally met with the demon phantom who had stolen his boots. A creature so grotesque it embodied everything wrong with the world—greed, pain, famine, war, and misery all manifested into a sinister form.
Their eyes locked, and an eerie silence engulfed the air. Giacomo's heart thumped wildly, and though fear gripped his soul, he refused to back down.
"Give me back my boots," he demanded, his voice trembling with defiance.
The phantom sneered a twisted grin contorting its malevolent features. "These boots are no longer yours to claim! They are mine now, as I embody all that is lost, stolen, and corrupted in this world!"
With those chilling words, the phantom lunged at Giacomo, and a fierce battle ensued. Blow after blow, Giacomo fought with all his remaining strength, driven by desperation and a thirst for justice.
The violent struggle seemed to stretch into eternity.
Finally, battered and bruised, Giacomo managed to land a decisive blow, sending the phantom crashing to the ground. In that moment of vulnerability, the phantom revealed its proper form—a mere projection of the darkness that plagued Giacomo's mind.
As Giacomo caught his breath, he realized that the actual thief wasn't an external force but something within himself. The boots, while dear to him, had become a symbol of his attachment to the past, a past that needed to be shed to embrace an uncertain future.
With newfound clarity, he stepped away from the defeated phantom, leaving the boots behind, as they were no longer suitable in any way. They'd become torn, misshapen, and abused, much like the ideals they had come to represent.
As Giacomo walked away, his feet quickly unraveled from the rags and newspaper he had found, and he felt a strange sense of liberation. His bare feet adapted to the rough pavement beneath them, each step a testament to his resilience and newfound understanding.
The city's dark alleys and merciless streets no longer seemed daunting. Giacomo had learned a profound lesson about the nature of power, identity, and the weight of the past. And so, with each step, he embraced the unknown, ready to face whatever challenges the world threw his way.
From that day forward, Giacomo walked barefoot through life, embracing each new step with openness and courage. He no longer felt the need to be defined by his past or possessions, for he had learned that the actual journey was not about the boots on his feet but the miles he traveled within himself. In this urban odyssey, he discovered the strength to survive, the wisdom to question, and the freedom to live genuinely.
As he entered the dawn of a new day, Giacomo realized that true liberation came not from the boots he wore or the paths they trod but from the courage to walk his way, leaving behind the shadows of oppression and the ghosts of lost identities. His bare feet, once vulnerable, now carried him forward with a strength he had never known, ready to imprint his unique mark on the ever-shifting landscape of life in the New World.
© Michael Arturo, 2024
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Welcome to Michael’s Newsletter. Writer of contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.
Michael also writes short literary fiction. Below is a link to his first collection.
FLATIRON and other tall tales
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I truly enjoyed this fable and all the symbolism embedded in it. The illustrations were marvellous too!
now I want a pair of boots! great read.