Dreams Underfoot

it?

Byron worked at the sports clinic at Butler U. as a therapist. Like most of Lori’s old boyfriends, he’d stayed her friend after they broke up. That kind of thing never happens to me. When I break up with a guy it usually involves various household objects flying through the air aimed for his head. You’d think I had a Latin temper or something.

I backed up quickly, but I shouldn’t have worried. Neither of them had spotted me. I thought about trying to find Ruth, then realized that I’d have to wait until later to let her in on the joke. What I didn’t want to do was miss getting this all down on film.

Byron putting on the apesuit. The two of them setting up the shot. I wanted the whole thing. Maybe I could even sell my photos to

The Daily journal—“BIGFOOT HOAXERS CAUGHT IN THE ACT”—and really play the trick back on her.

Circling around them, I made my way to an old deserted brownstone and went in. After checking around first to make sure I was alone, I got comfortable by a window where I had a perfect view of Lori and Byron and settled down to wait.

Gotcha now, Lori.

9

The best kinds of practical jokes are those that backfire on whoever’s playing the trick. Didn’t you ever want to get a camera on Alan Funt and catch him looking silly for a change? I didn’t get many opportunities to catch Lori—and don’t think I haven’t tried. (Remind me to tell you the story of the thirtyfive pizzas and the priest sometime.) The trouble with Lori is that she doesn’t think linearly or even in intuitive leaps. Her mind tends to move sideways in its thinking, which makes it hard to catch her out, since you haven’t a clue what she’s on about in the first place.

She gets it from her mother, I guess.

It might not explain Poland, but it says volumes about genetics.

10

I had to wait a half hour before they finally pulled the gorilla suit out of the bag. It didn’t fit Byron all that well, but did an okay job from a distance. I figured Lori would put him in the shadows of the building on the other side of the street and move the camera a bit while she was taking her shot. Nothing’s quite so effective as a slightly blurry, dark shot when you’re dealing with whacko things like a Bigfoot or flying saucers.

Me, I was wishing for a telephoto lens and a decent camera, but I was pretty sure the Vitoret would work fine. We weren’t talking high art here. Anyway, I could always have the prints blown up—and no, smart guy, I’m not talking about dynamite.

I got the whole thing on film. Byron putting on the costume. Lori posing him, taking her shots. Byron taking the costume off and stashing it away. The two of them leaving. All I wanted to do was lean out the window and shout, “Nya nya!”, but I kept my mouth shut and let them go. Then, camera in hand, I left the building by the back, heading for the Tombs.

There were no steps, so I had to jump down a threefoot drop. I paused at the top to put away my camera, and then I froze.

Not twenty yards away, a huge figure in a bulky overcoat and slouched down hat was shuffling through the rubble. Before I could duck away, the figure turned and I was looking straight into this hairy face.

I don’t quite know how to describe him to you. You’re not going to believe me anyway and words just don’t quite do justice to the feeling of the moment.

He wasn’t wearing anything under the overcoat and the sun was bright enough so that I could see he was covered with hair all over. It was a fine pelt—more like an ape’s than a bear’s—a rich dark brown that was glossy where it caught the sun. His feet were huge, his chest like a barrel, his arms like a weightlifter’s. But his face ... It was human, and it wasn’t. It was like an ape’s, but it wasn’t. The nose was flat, but the cheekbones were delicate under the fine covering of hair. His lips were thin, chin square.

And his eyes ... They were a warm brown liquid color, full of smarts, no question about it. And they were looking straight at me, thinking about what kind of a threat I posed for him.

Let me tell you, my heart stopped dead in my chest. It was all a joke, right? Lori’s gag that I was playing back on her. Except there had been that article in the newspaper, and right now I was staring at Bigfoot and there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I had my camera in my hand. All I had to do was lift it, snap a shot, and take off running.

But I thought about what it would mean if I did that. If there was a photo to really prove this guy existed, they’d be sending in teams to track him down. When they caught him, they’d keep him locked up, maybe dissect him to see what made him work .... Like everybody else, I’ve seen E.T.

I don’t want to sound all mushy or anything, but there was something in those eyes that I didn’t ever want to see locked away. I moved really slowly, putting the camera away in my bag, then I held my hands out to him so that he could see that I wasn’t going to hurt him.

(Me hurt him—there’s a laugh. The size of him ...)

“You don’t want to hang around this city too long,” I told him.

“If they catch you, nobody’s going to be nice about it.” I was surprised at how calm I sounded.

He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, looking at me with those big browns of his. Then he grinned— proof positive, as if I needed it, that he wasn’t some guy in a suit like Byron, because there was no way they’d made a mask yet that could move like his features did right then. His whole face was animated—filled with a big silly lopsided grin that made me grin right back when it reached his eyes. He tipped a hairy finger to the brim of his hat, and then he just sort of faded away into the rubble—as quick and smooth as the rat had earlier, but there was nothing sneaky or sly about the way he moved.

One minute he was there, grinning like a loon, and the next he was gone.

I sank down and sat in the doorway, my legs swinging in the space below, and looked at where he’d been. I guess I was there for awhile, just trying to take it all in. I remembered a time when I’d been camping with my brother and a couple of friends from the neighborhood. I woke early the first morning and stuck my head out of the tent to find myself face to face with a deer. We both held our breath for what seemed like hours. When I finally breathed, she took off like a shot, but left me with a warm feeling that stayed with me for the rest of that weekend.

That’s kind of what I was feeling right now. Like I’d lucked into a peek at one of the big mysteries of the world and if I kept it to myself, then I’d always be a part of it. It’d be our secret. Something nobody could ever take away from me.

11

So we all survived our casa de grillos in Upper Foxville. Ruth had gotten bored walking around in the rubble and gone back to Gracie

Street, where she’d spent the better part of the day hanging around with some graffiti artists that she’d met while she was waiting for us. I got my film processed at one of those onehour places and we made Lori pay up with a fancy dinner for trying to pull another one over on us.

Some reporters were in the area too, we found out later, trying to do a followup on the piece in the Journal yesterday, but nobody came back with a photo of Bigfoot, except for me, and mine’s just a snapshot sitting there in the back of my head where I can take it out from time to time whenever I’m feeling blue and looking for a good memory.

It’s absurd when you think about it—Bigfoot wandering around in the city, poorly disguised in an oversized trenchcoat and battered slouch hat—but I like the idea of it. Maybe he was trying to figure out who he was and where he fit in. Maybe it was all a laugh for him too. Maybe he really was just this hairy muchacho, making do in the Tombs. I don’t know. I just think of him and smile.

Maybe that explains Poland.

Romano Drom