» Fiction
The Bigfoot Parade
Will Musgrove
As the high school band warmed up down Main Street, Kerry slipped the folded napkin under the wiper of the rusted Ford in the Sneakers Grill parking lot. Written on the napkin in Sharpie were the words I’M PREGNANT, CALL ME, followed by a random phone number. Since life messed with us, we messed with it. It was something to do until he and I got out of Podunk. We lived in a small Midwest town, everyone rattling around like the leftover screws from a piece of IKEA furniture.
The door to Sneakers Grill opened. The smell of fried mozzarella sticks drifted on stale, air-conditioned air into the Fuck You July heat, and we took hungry breaths. A family of three, a mom, dad, and son, all wearing We Believe Bigfoot hats, exited the sports bar to search for a spot along the parade route. They nudged their way past fellow believers and disappeared.
Everyone in town had their own Bigfoot story except for Kerry and me. My uncle Gary claimed he’d once seen Bigfoot break up a fistfight outside Walmart before vanishing in the trees behind the big-box store. Bigfoot was always performing good deeds, a local superhero, someone you could count on in a pinch.
If the missing link existed, why would it care about a small town of slaughterhouse workers, a town where all there is to do is look to the woods for help? Sometimes, I’d put on the Bigfoot onesie pajamas my parents got me for Christmas and wander outside. When someone spotted me and called for help, I ran in the opposite direction. I’d run until I was alone and panting, feeling like I could squish the whole town between my fingertips, feeling like I was better than this place because I recognized a costume when I saw one.
Kerry wrote something on another napkin, and the high school band marched down Main. Above the row of spectators, I watched the band members’ hairy hats bob up and down. They looked like groundhogs poking their heads up to see if it’s safe to come out. A float featuring a giant papier-mâché Bigfoot crept along behind the band. Candy scattered the curb, and Kerry and I shoved our way to the front.
We stuffed Jolly Ranchers and Tootsie Rolls into our pockets. A middle-aged woman accused us of being too old, but we ignored her and kept grabbing. When our pockets were full, Kerry spun and asked the woman why her precious Bigfoot hadn’t stopped us. To avoid getting our asses kicked, I grabbed Kerry’s arm and dragged him away. Then we walked down the block to the Kum & Go gas station.
“I can’t wait to get the hell out of here,” Kerry said. We leaned against the fuel pumps. We didn’t have a grand getaway plan. I guess we hoped we’d wake up one day and be somewhere else, somewhere where no one believed in Bigfoot.
Kerry went into the gas station to get a couple of Cokes. I waited outside. Bored, I retrieved a plastic fork from a garbage can and held the fork to my face. I watched the world through the tines. My older cousin Jack’s truck pulled in. Last I’d seen him, he’d just started work at the slaughterhouse, saving to escape, like us. He wasn’t a believer either. He compared believing in Bigfoot to believing in Santa Claus.
He got out of his truck, smiling and wearing a We Believe hat. I studied him through the fork’s tines, how he stood behind bars. When he noticed me, I wondered if he saw the same.