Charles De Lint - Dreams Underfoot

Verdad, I still don’t know who I am or where I fit in. I stand in front of the mirror and the muchacha

I see studying me just as carefully as I’m studying her looks older. But I don’t feel any different from when I was fifteen.

So when does it happen?

Maybe it never does.

Maybe that explains Poland.

8

All things considered—I mean, this was Upper Foxville—it wasn’t a bad day to be scuffling around in the Tombs. The sun was bright in a sky so blue it hurt to look at it. Good thing I hadn’t forgotten my shades. Broken glass shimmered and gleamed in the light and crunched underfoot.

What’s this thing people have for busting windows and bottles and the like? It seems like all you need is an unbroken piece of glass and rocks just sort of pop into people’s hands. Of course it makes such an interesting sound when it breaks. And it gives you such a feeling of ... oh, I don’t know. Having cojones, I suppose. What’s that song by Nick Lowe? “I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass.” Not that I’m into that kind of thing—okay, at least not anymore. And better it be in a place like this than on the sidewalk or streets where people have to walk or go wheeling by on their bikes.

I was feeling pretty punky by the time I’d been in the Tombs for an hour or so. That always happens when I wear my leather jacket. I may not be a real machona—or at least not capable of violence, let’s say—but the jacket makes me feel tough anyway. It says don’t mess with me all over it. Not that there was anybody there to mess around with me.

I spotted a few dogs—feral, mangylooking perros that kept their distance. The rat that surprised me as I came around a corner was a lot less forgiving about having its morning disturbed. It stood its ground until I pitched a rock at it, then it just sort of melted away, slinky and fast.

It was early for the junkies and other lowlifes that were out in full force come late afternoon, but the bag ladies were making their rounds, all bundled up in layers of coats and dresses, pushing their homes and belongings around in shopping carts or carrying it all about in plastic shopping bags. I passed winos, sleeping off last night’s booze, and hoboes huddled around small fires, taking their time about waking up before they hit the streets of Foxville and Crowsea to panhandle the Saturday crowds. They gave me the creeps, staring at me like I didn’t belong—fair enough, I guess, since I didn’t—obviously thinking what the hell was I doing here? Would you believe looking for Bigfoot? Didn’t think so.

Did I mention the smell? If you’ve ever been to a dump, you’ll know what I mean. It’s a sweetsour cloying smell that gets into your clothes and hair and just hangs in there. You could get used to it, I guess—it stopped bothering me after the first fifteen minutes or so—but I wouldn’t want to have to be sitting next to me on El Sub going home.

I guess I killed an hour or so before I worked my way west towards Yoors Street to look for Lori. It was kind of fun, playing Indian scout in the rubble. I got so involved in sneaking around that I almost ran right into them.

Them. Yeah, I was right. Lori was sitting on what was left of some building’s front steps, sharing a beer with a guy named Byron Murphy. Near Byron’s knee was a plastic shopping bag out of which spilled something that looked remarkably like a flat ape’s arm. I mean the arm was flat, because it was part of a costume and there was nobody in it at the moment. Come to think of it, that would make it a flat ape, wouldn’t 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.