Ana, Me, and Bigfoot
by Matthew Simons
“This is where Bigfoot lives, right?” said Ana, breaking the silence of the car.
“What?” I said.
“Y’know, Bigfoot. Big, brown fur, just happens to get photographed by every crackpot with a camera.” She mimed a camera. “Bigfoot.”
“I’m aware of who Bigfoot is.” I changed lanes.
“Well, this looks like his kind of place.” She positioned her neck on her headrest and gazed out the window at the blur of forest and shrubbery.
I entertained the idea. It was better than sitting in silence.
“I don’t think Bigfoot would be caught dead this close to a gas station,” I said. “He’s more of a recluse. It’d be totally unlike him.”
“Ah, desperate times, you see.” Ana straightened up in her chair. “Picture this: you’re Bigfoot. You’ve had it good so far, living out in the wilderness, eating people and deer for sustenance, scaring the locals every now and then. But then, something revolutionary happens. More revolutionary than railroads and highways and Manifest Destiny.” She closed her eyes and drew her hands out for dramatic effect. “The gas station Twinkie.” She smiled. “You want it so bad that you’re willing to risk a little more exposure to the outside world and sacrifice your beautiful, solitary life of perfect landscapes and waterfalls to get just a little bit of that cream-cake goodness.”
We passed a sign for a tourist trap advertising the world’s largest bowling pin.
“Bigfoot doesn’t eat people,” I offered.
She leaned back and threw her hands up in faux exasperation. “What does he eat then?” she laughed. “You’re the resident Bigfoot expert.”
I laughed, and narrowly avoided missing our exit: 123 for Mt. Rainier National Park.
...
“Well, where does he live then?” Ana chimed. She hadn't spoken since we arrived at our campsite.
“What?” I set down the burner on the wooden table.
“Bigfoot!”
“Oh,” I said. I shuffled through various tarps and blankets in my bag looking for a lantern. She waited patiently for an answer. “Well, maybe he is here.” I settled a knee into the dirt and began unpacking. “In fact, the farther we get from the city, the closer I think he is.”
“Or she.” Ana took a seat on top of the table.
“Or she,” I conceded. I clicked pole into pole until the tent assembled itself. “Well actually, we don’t know there’s only one Bigfoot. We could both be right.”
“Preposterous.” Ana began to root through our dry box. “The photos only ever show one guy. It’s the big, hairy, lovable one we all know from the history channel documentaries.”
“And how would you know a male from a female Bigfoot?”
She popped a marshmallow into her mouth and gave me an ear to ear grin.
“Her personality!” she grumbled through a smile of white molasses. I shook my head and laughed.
...
“Do you think it’s out there?” “Bigfoot?” I asked.
“No, dummy,” she said. “Love.” The summer night had driven us from our tent and we lied on the bench near the fire pit. “Do you think it exists out there, apart from anything else, or do you think we have to make it?”
I mulled the question over for a moment. “I think it’s out there,” I said. “I think that even if the human race died out, and somebody else inherited the Earth—” “Like Bigfoots?” she offered. “Like Bigfoots,” I laughed. “They would still need a whole lot of love to survive. It’s what binds us together. It’s what keeps the human race alive. From nuking each other, even.” I closed my eyes. “I think that outside of people, whoever wants to make it through the night in this cold, dark universe needs a whole lot of love.”
I put a marshmallow in my mouth.
“And rightfully so. It’s the coolest thing there is,” I concluded. Ana beamed a smile at the night sky.
“Cool,” she laughed.
“Cool,” I laughed.
“Cool,” laughed Bigfoot, from the end of the table.
And I spit my marshmallow out.
Matthew Simons
7/21/2020
Matt Simons is a writer from Sacramento, CA. He wrote this piece out of a fascination with cryptids, the wilderness, and the great love people have for one another. He currently lives in Davis, CA.
Cover art by John Towner
