Sightings (6 page)

“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 been 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.