One King Bed and Two Keys by Miguel Camnitzer

The shop was just a gray concrete box in the middle of an empty parking lot. It wasn’t closed, but it looked closed. It looked like a place we shouldn’t be.

Michael wanted cowboy boots, but shopping for cowboy boots in this part of the country at this moment in history, meant we would likely run into a particular kind of person. I shifted myself in that nameless way: a checklist of micro-adjustments to voice and body.

When I got out of the car, the heat coming off the asphalt was so intense my sweat turned to vapor before it could wet my shirt. My skin was confused and got goosebumps. I shivered.

The door jingled as we entered. The owner, a man in his seventies, was helping someone at the register.

“Welcome in,” he said.

We nodded politely and wandered through the aisles. Navigating a thousand pairs of boots in every conceivable shape and color would require a longer visit than I’d braced for. I tried to take comfort in the glorious air-conditioning.

The other customer walked out with his purchase, leaving us alone in the store.

“What brings you in?” asked the owner.

“I’m looking for a new pair of boots,” said Michael.

“Well, we got plenty of those.”

The man was shorter than me, even with those mighty heels on his boots. He compensated with perfect posture. His crinkly eyes made him seem always on the verge of smiling. I could tell those eyes were studying us.

“How’d you find out about this place?” he asked.

“Oh, just online,” said Michael.

The man gave a dissatisfied nod. What he really wanted to know, I figured, was how people like us could ever wind up in a shop like his. As long as he didn’t ask more questions, we might still be two friends or brothers, or even colleagues in town for a pharmaceutical convention.

While Michael consulted him about styles, I snuck off to the next room and kept an ear out for the jingle of the door. I prayed he would hurry up.

Michael found me later. “You abandoned me!” he joked.

“We were beginning to feel neglected,” teased the owner.

I sensed I had missed something.

“What do you think of these?” Michael asked.

I looked at his feet. “Maybe try a darker color.”

The two of them exchanged a look. Apparently, I was hard to please. I searched the owner’s almost-smiling eyes.

The phone rang. He left to answer it.

“I think he’s one of us,” I whispered.

“Obviously,” Michael whispered back, smirking like I’d finally caught up to the punch line.

“Well, the TV crew arrives at four,” the owner said into the phone. “No, I won’t bring that up. You know I can’t.”

Once he hung up, I said, “You’re going to be on TV?”

He nodded. “It’s my thirty-year anniversary. I’m the biggest boot shop in the state. I’ve even made boots for George Bush.”

I frowned. “Bush?”

“The local news wants to interview me. My friend just called to ask if I’ll mention the Pride rodeo. We do it every June.”

There it was. Confirmation. Instead of relief, I felt an ugly twinge of disappointment. If he could reveal himself so casually, it meant my efforts to fool him had failed.

“But I can’t say that stuff publicly,” the owner continued. “Not with all my customers being who they are. If they knew about me, they wouldn’t shop here.”

My brain was busily rewriting the last twenty minutes to match the new reality. All I could think to say was, “That must be hard.”

He stared at the floor. “A guy came in with his wife the other day. He tried on a pair of boots and asked me, ‘Do these make me look queer?’ Before I could stop myself, I said, ‘It depends. What do you think we look like?’”

“Wow.” Words were failing me.

“They still hate us for some reason,” he said.

Michael was standing behind me. I heard him say, “And they always will.”

The owner nodded at him. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Hi Steve.”

“Hi Steve.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“In the beginning we sold boots off the back of a truck, me and my partner. He’s been gone a long time now. I’m about to be a great grandfather, you know. I was married once. Before. Here, come meet my cats.”

As Steve told us about his life, I pictured him with his friends at the rodeo, all of them survivors given the generation they grew up in, all of them dancing in colorful boots.

Michael bought three pairs that day. I know he would have bought every boot in the place if he could have. We said our goodbyes at the register.

“Write me a review online,” said Steve. “It helps.”

“We will,” Michael said.

The glass door jingled as we pushed our way into the swirling heat.

“I’m glad we came here,” said Michael.

“Me too,” I said.

We were quiet on the drive back to the hotel. I kept thinking about the previous morning at check-in. I’d instinctively hung back, pretending to mind my own business while Michael walked up to the desk alone and asked the woman for one king bed and two keys.

We kept that promise to Steve. A couple of days later, Michael typed the review on his phone while we were watching TV.

We’d made a second promise that day, but that one didn’t need to be said out loud. I didn’t need to remind Michael about it either as he mulled over what to write. All three of us knew what the second promise was, and Steve knew we would honor it.

His name wasn’t Steve. He didn’t sell boots. We didn’t meet cats. It wasn’t George Bush. But it really was the three of us alone in his shop, marveling at why they still hate us, nodding because they always will.

Miguel Camnitzer is a community organizer and activist primarily focused on homelessness and Palestinian liberation. He finds it hard to sustain hope these days, but two things help a lot: being in community with other people fighting for justice, and writing poetry. He lives in Los Angeles with his husband.

11 July 2025