The basketball season ended, as did Sasquatch’s perfect attendance at Wallerton High. After the Meadowbrook game, he began showing up for school a bit more sporadically, rarely completing an entire week without my spotting the empty desk in pre-calc. Since the season was over, Coach didn’t much care whether he was there or not, but strangely, some of his teachers did. Though it was always pretty apparent if there were no eight-foot-tall hominids in the room, Mr. Hernhold made it a point to read his name from the roll at the start of each class.
“Sasquatch?” he’d call, peering over the tops of his glasses. “Has anyone seen Sasquatch?”
By mid-March, sightings became something of a rarity, something worth whispering about in the halls.
One day after English class, Mrs. Gerry called me over and said, “Arnold, do you know where Sasquatch lives?”
“I mean, I know the general direction,” I told her, thinking back to all the times I’d seen him vanish into the underbrush after games.
“Well, do you think you’d be able to deliver this?” she asked, offering me a fresh copy of Huckleberry Finn, required reading to finish out the year.
I stared at the book without taking it.
“It won’t bite, dear,” she promised, placing it in my palm.
I slipped it into my backpack alongside my math and bio books, each day Huckleberry growing flatter beneath their weight. A week later I realized that what I’d mistaken for a heavy backpack was actually my growing guilt. And since I didn’t want Sasquatch failing English on my account, I decided to do what was asked of me.
One afternoon I loaded up with bug spray and an ice-filled water bottle and carved a path through the woods, following – to the best of my ability – the footprints he’d left behind.
It was about a forty-minute trek to the Winnebago, but when I finally got there, there was no mistaking it. There were huge dents in its sides and all the windows were covered with trash bags. A fifteen-foot TV antenna pierced the sky, and just beyond it, a screened door torn from its hinges. Though I couldn’t see him, his musk was so pungent my eyes began to tear up. Instead of knocking, I held a few feet back, summoning the courage to take another step forward.
A sudden rustling from behind, and I turned to find him there, eyeing me curiously, a basketful of blackberries clasped tight to his chest.
“Um . . . hey,” I gulped. “Nice place. I like your . . . trash bags.”
He didn’t answer, just reached deep into his basket, devouring a handful of blackberries.
“You get cable?” I asked, nodding to the antenna.
He opened his mouth, so I reached for the water bottle, tossed a few ice cubes onto his tongue.
“Anyway, I’m supposed to give you this,” I said, handing him the book.
He reached out a gigantic hand to retrieve it, smearing berry juice all over the pages.
I smiled, nervous, then smacked a mosquito.
“Well, okay. I guess I’ll see you around then. In class or . . . wherever.”
He grabbed my water bottle, helping himself to the remaining ice cubes and offering me the basket in exchange.
I stared at the bug-covered berries, watching all those thoraxes mounting the fruit.
“Nah, I’m okay. Thanks, though. They look really fresh.”
Shrugging, Sasquatch returned my water bottle before turning his attention to the book – examining it from all angles and fluttering pages as if searching for the way inside.
I never could get a good sense of Sasquatch the student. Like I said, he had the quadratic formula nailed down pretty well, but I couldn’t speak to his other subjects. I know his English skills weren’t particularly strong because sometimes I’d spot him working through Huckleberry Finn with Mrs. Gerry after school, his gargantuan finger following along in the text. From the hallway, I’d watch his lips stumble over the words like speed bumps, Mrs. Gerry nodding supportively while he waded through our language. Maybe he was a Huckleberry Finn fan, or a Mrs. Gerry fan, but whatever the reason, after my visit to his Winnebago, he began gracing us with his presence at Wallerton High with a bit more regularity.
Supposedly, he had a passion for shop class as well, and there was a rumor going around that he’d made just about the worst spice rack the world had ever seen, though Mr. Dillard – too afraid to comment while surrounded by Sasquatch and a surplus of buzz saws – simply gave him two thumbs up.
Quite proud of his handiwork, Sasquatch insisted on carrying that spice rack around with him everywhere he went, clutching it protectively to his hairy chest as he walked from Spanish to Art History.
“Got enough spices to fill that rack?” people often teased. “Plenty of dill? Got enough basil, Sasquatch?”
But Sasquatch knew better than to drag himself down to their level. He had a habit of smiling whenever there was even the slightest threat of confrontation, though admittedly, Sasquatch’s smile was threatening in itself, the teasing typically halting the moment he bared his yellow teeth.
Maybe it was the spice rack (or the fur), but the girls paid even less attention to him than we guys did. That is, except for Becca Marsden who, toward the end of the year, took an unexpected fascination in him. She found him surprisingly alluring, often confiding in her female friends that she thought him the most “mature male” in the class. True, he was the only one among us with significant signs of facial hair, though it seemed an absurd indicator given his body hair.
Some days I’d catch Becca flash her smile at him in the hallway, or corner him in the locker room, staring up adoringly as she placed a tiny arm to his chest. Judging by his coos and purrs, I figured the feeling was mutual. It was love, almost, and while we assured ourselves that stranger things had happened, we had a hard time coming up with examples.
Prom season hit like an epidemic, girls driven to resort to never-before-attempted tactics in order to secure their dates.
“Hey, Squatchy,” Becca called, playfully slamming him against the lockers one day after gym class. “Listen, if you’re not doing anything next weekend, maybe you wouldn’t mind taking me, huh?”
Sasquatch stared blankly, then offered her his spice rack.
“No, I don’t want that,” she said, pushing it aside. “I want you. I want you to take me to prom. You know, the dance?”
She softened, bearing her own beautiful teeth. “So? What do you say?”
She leaned in close, allowing him full view directly down the front of her already low cut shirt. She smelled like flowers – an entire field of them.
“Well?” she repeated, running her nails through his fur. “What do you say, Teddy Bear?”
He nodded emphatically – yes, yes, of course.
Probably, he would’ve built her ten spice racks if she’d asked him.
“Great! Pick me up at 7:00?”
He nodded as she skipped off down the hallway.
And he continued nodding until I walked over to him, looked him straight in the eye and said, “Well, that was easy. Now the hard part’s finding you a suit.”
But as we were soon to discover, that wasn’t the hard part either.
Through some twist of fate, point guard Dave Malton had an uncle who owned the big and tall store over on Fourth Street. Apparently the man didn’t get a lot of requests for size 40 × 60 pants, so he let us borrow slacks and a coat free of charge.
“It’s for this basketball star,” Dave explained to his uncle. “It’s kind of his first date . . . ever.”
Logistically speaking, there were other complications far more difficult than acquiring an enormous pair of slacks. For instance, we soon realized that Sasquatch was much too big to squeeze into any conventionally-sized car, and while there was some discussion about sprawling him in the back of a limo or flatbed truck, we eventually decided he and Becca would be most comfortable riding along with me and my date in the back of my father’s convertible.
One problem solved, though the more difficult complication involved feet. It had b
een hard enough tracking down a pair of basketball shoes, but stumbling across dress shoes in Sasquatch’s dimensions was virtually impossible. Thankfully, power forward Lester Freeman’s mother was a master seamstress – she’d been hemming our dress pants for years – and for six sleepless nights she manned the sewing machine, extending a normal pair of hush puppies into gigantic leather canoes.
“They’re not perfect,” a red-eyed, hair-frazzled Mrs. Freeman admitted as she hefted them to Sasquatch, “but hopefully they’ll do the trick.”
One day after school we all headed over to Lester’s house to watch Sasquatch model the whole ensemble.
“Not bad,” Dave Malton nodded. “And hey, if that doesn’t get her in the sack, nothing will.”
But we knew better than to believe it.
At one point or another, we’d all endured the unfortunate experience of glimpsing a wet-furred Sasquatch showering after practice, and we remained confident that if the suit and shoes didn’t get Becca Marsden “in the sack,” his anatomical abnormality (“scientific miracle” as Dave called it) would probably prove successful. We were equally amazed and horrified by Sasquatch’s member, perhaps more so than our actually spending time with Sasquatch himself. The guy made it hard for us to compete on a number of fronts. He already had the height advantage on the basketball court, and after the shower sightings, it became abundantly clear that he had the length advantage, too. I admit, the idea of Sasquatch laying Becca on a bed of roses made us uncomfortable, as if rendering all our own future sexual conquests somehow irrelevant. Still, he was our friend, or at least our Sasquatch, and what better way to boost the team’s morale than to sacrifice what we loved most?
Sasquatch eyed himself in Lester’s full-length mirror, as if he too had trouble recognizing the dapper (albeit fur-covered) gentleman staring back. Suddenly there was a new air about him, a slight panache deserving of any basketball star, though we didn’t think he’d adapt to it so quickly.
“Got a couple burrs,” I said, picking at his fur. “Lester, does your mom have a brush or something?”
“My dog does,” he said, rushing down the stairs to retrieve it.
Since we’d all managed to survive the previous year’s prom-related traumas, we figured ourselves experts on the subject.
“Now you’re going to want to open the door for her,” Lester coached.
“Right, and pull back her chair,” Dave added. “And be nice to her parents.” “And pick up the check.”
“And get someone to help you with those cufflinks.”
As I picked out the burrs, Sasquatch appeared suddenly woozy, as if he’d been the target of a few well-placed tranquilizer darts.
“You got all that, Big Boy?” Dave winked, clapping his shoulder.
Prom was still over a week away, but that didn’t prevent Sasquatch from staring at me with the most mournful eyes imaginable. It was as if – despite our efforts – he was already acutely aware of the certainty of his extinction.
After we endured the awkward photo shoot at Becca Marsden’s house – “Sasquatch, you mind crouching a little lower? I want to be sure I have you in the frame,” – we whisked our dates off to a steakhouse where I paid for everything with my father’s credit card. Sasquatch’s lifelong career of hunting and gathering hadn’t converted into much in terms of U.S. currency, but he offered me a few pinecones and berries and a trout, so we decided to call it even.
“Thanks again for the lovely corsage, Sasquatch,” Becca repeated as we walked back to the car.
It was a lovely corsage, and one that had set me back $17.00 (three pine cones and a trout after the conversion rate).
But the truth was, I felt awfully good about being able to give him the prom he deserved, and judging by the enormous erection floating around his trousers, he was feeling pretty good, too.
I couldn’t blame him; we were talking about Becca Marsden after all. My own date, Jenny Rabin, was an incredible girl in her own right – my faithful, metal-mouthed girlfriend of two years – but all the hairspray, make-up, and push-up bras in the world couldn’t transform her into Becca.
Becca in her peach-colored strapless dress.
Becca with breasts like balloons.
A goddess. A vision. Someone fit for magazine covers other than Orthodontia Illustrated.
Throughout the week, I’d done all I could to catch Sasquatch up to speed on all things prom-related. We’d dedicated an immeasurable amount of time on “date etiquette,” and while he now knew the proper procedure for ladling Becca a cup of punch, it didn’t occur to me until we entered the gymnasium doors that he didn’t yet have the slightest clue how to dance.
After hours of arbitration, the illustrious and all-powerful prom committee had settled on the “Under the Sea” theme, and the walls were coated with what appeared to be blue plastic wrap, cellophane seaweed, white lights blinking up and down the walls like tiny bubbles.
I could hardly pay attention to any of it, far too preoccupied with Sasquatch’s initiation into the brutality of high school romance.
“Want to dance, Teddy Bear?” Becca asked, pushing back her hair. Sasquatch looked to me for guidance, wondering whether he was supposed to get her the punch like we’d practiced, or, as Dave Malton had coached, if he was supposed to take her into the back of the Winnebago.
“She wants you to dance,” I repeated, demonstrating a few moves myself. He imitated my one-foot shuffle, though his actions only managed to magnify my own uncoordinated efforts.
She rolled her eyes, so he stroked the front of her face with his palm as nature dictated.
“Hey! Don’t be a brute,” she joked, reaching for her compact and eyeing herself in the mirror. Upon spotting the damage he’d wrought she turned serious. “Damn it, Squatch. You smeared my foundation.”
We watched her stomp into the bathroom, trailed by her entourage, and when she finally returned ten minutes later she didn’t return to us.
Becca – who had found Sasquatch so endearing just minutes prior – was quickly tiring of his inability to be a proper date. Upon their return, we wandered back within face-petting distance of our dates, though this time – rather than continuing where he’d left off – Sasquatch began massaging Becca’s scalp, instead. She started shooting S.O.S. looks to her friends; the message received by all the homo sapiens in the room.
“Maybe you want some punch?” I asked Becca, hoping to get Sasquatch back on track or at least momentarily out of her hair. She shrugged as if she didn’t much care either way, so I started toward the punch bowl, Sasquatch trailing.
“Now look,” I shouted over the music, watching as Sasquatch shoved through the punch line, leaving a few linebackers sprawling. “Becca’s going to want to dance with you, so you’re going to have to dance with her to keep her happy, does that make sense?”
He was so preoccupied fitting the ladle into his gigantic palm he didn’t hear a word I said.
“Dance,” I repeated, sashaying. “Think you can do that?”
Ignoring me, he kept his attention on fishing out the ice cubes as if they were wild trout.
“Okay,” I said, grabbing his wrist, “nod once if you understand me.”
He shrugged instead, his hands swallowing up the punch cups as we started back across the gymnasium floor.
But upon finding Jenny standing alone in the corner, braces glinting like a buzz saw, Sasquatch’s confidence quickly subsided.
“What happened to Becca?” I asked her.
Jenny – who, on more than one occasion had said, “Arnold, if Sasquatch is so important to you, why not take him to prom?” – flipped her chin to the opposite side of the gymnasium. There, Becca stood engaged in what appeared to be a spellbinding conversation with her ex-boyfriend, Ed Gorman. Probably, he was apologizing for having felt her up prematurely, though in comparison to Sasquatch’s face-petting/scalp-massaging, at least Gorman’s groping seemed a bit more conventional.
Jenny clopped off herself, and I reas
oned there wasn’t much point in following.
Sasquatch and I planted ourselves firmly on the bleachers, a pair of downtrodden wallflowers with nothing but droopy boutonnieres. We knew this gym well, having hustled down every inch of it, but everything looked different when we weren’t the center of attention.
Years later, I’d return to that gym and find myself still haunted by the memories. All those missed free throws, lay-ups. The three-pointer from the top of the key. The jump shot. The other jump shot. How I pulled instead of passed. Ducked instead of dribbled.
But there were other regrets, too: wishing I’d found the nerve to ask out all the girls I hadn’t. Wishing I’d unfastened the push-up bra when I had the chance, smeared the make-up, run my hands through a girl’s perfect hair. Wishing also that I’d applied to schools, sent out game tapes, tried walking onto a team or two.
But I didn’t, not ever, and as the years slipped away I just grew older, fatter, and accepted my place on the bleachers alongside everyone else.
Thankfully, on prom night, Sasquatch and the rest of the team managed to hold the future at a safe distance, boxing it out the best we could as the precious minutes of youth wound down. While most of the guys made it a point to stop by and tell Sasquatch how damn good he looked in that suit coat, those shoes, it didn’t seem to shake him from his stupor. Breaking up was hard – I would learn myself a few weeks later – and not even Sasquatch’s freshly combed coat provided adequate protection for his heart.
Two slow songs and a chicken dance later, I glanced over to catch Sasquatch’s curled fingers fiddling with a loose cufflink while Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight” wafted through the air.
“Here,” I sighed, taking hold of his hand and placing it on my knee. I rolled his sleeve down his hairy arm, inserting the metal piece back into its fitting. He didn’t pay me the slightest attention, his eyes still focused curiously on the lovely Becca as she folded herself back into her ex.
Sightings Page 4
