Charles De Lint - Dreams Underfoot

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.

A light Friday night drizzle had left a glistening sheen on Yoors Street when Lorio Munn stepped out of the club. She hefted her guitar case and looked down at her running shoes with a frown. The door opened and closed behind her and Terry Dixon joined her on the sidewalk, carrying his bass.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

Lorio lifted a shoe to show him the hole in its sole. “It’s going to be a wet walk.”

“You want a lift? Jane’s meeting me at the Fan—we can give you a lift home after, if you want.”

“No, I’m not much in the mood for socializing tonight.”

“Hey, come on. It was a great night. We packed the place.”

“Yeah. But they weren’t really listening.”

“They were dancing, weren’t they? All of a sudden, that’s not enough? You used to complain that all they’d do is just sit there.”

“I know. I like it when they dance. It’s just—”

Terry caught her arm. Putting a finger to his lips, he nodded to a pair of women who were walking by, neither of whom noticed Lorio and Terry standing in the club’s doorway. One of them was humming the chorus to the band’s last number under her breath:

I don’t need nobody staring at me, stripping me down with their 1-2-3, I got a right to my own dignity—who needs pornography?

“Okay,” Lorio said when the women had passed them. “So somebody’s listening. But when I went to get our money, Slimy Ted—”

“Slimy Toad.”

Lorio smiled briefly. “He told me I could make a few extra bucks if I’d go out with a couple of his friends who, quote, ‘liked my moves,’ unquote. What does that tell you?”

“That I ought to break his head.”

“It means the people that I want to reach aren’t listening.”

“Maybe we should be singing louder?”

“Sure.” Lorio shook her head. “Look, say hi to Jane for me, would you? Maybe I’ll make it next time.”

She watched him go, then set off in the opposite direction towards Stanton Street. Maybe she shouldn’t be complaining. No Nuns Here was starting to get the decent gigs. In the City had run an article on them—even spent a paragraph or two on what was behind the band, instead of just dismissing what they were trying to say as postpunk jingoism like their one twoline review in The Newford Star had.

Oh, it was still very in to sing about women’s rights, gay rights, people’s rights, for God’s sake, but the band still got the “aren’t you limiting yourselves?” thrown at them by people who should know better.

Still, at least they were getting some attention and, more importantly, what they were trying to say was getting some attention. It might bore the pants off of Joe Average Jock—but that was just the person they were trying to reach. So where did you go? If they could only get a decent gig. A big one where they could really reach more

She paused in midstep, certain she’d heard a moan from the alleyway she was passing. As she peered into it, the sound was repeated. Definitely a moan. She looked up and down Yoors Street, but there was no one close to her.

“Hey!” she called softly into the alley. “Is there someone in there?”

She caught a glimpse of eyes, gleaming like a cat’s caught in the headbeams of a car—just a shivery flash and they were gone. Animal’s eyes. But the sound she’d heard had seemed human.

“Hey!”

Swallowing thickly, she edged into the alley, her guitar case held out in front of her. As she moved down its length, her eyes began to adjust to the poor light.

Why was she doing this? She had to be nuts.

The moan came a third time then and she saw what she took to be a small man lying in some refuse.

“Oh, jeez.” She moved forward, fear forgotten. “Are you okay?”

She laid her guitar case down and knelt beside the figure, but when she reached out a hand to his shoulder, she touched fur instead of clothing. Muscles moved under her fingers—weakly, but enough to tell her that it wasn’t a fur coat. She snatched back her hand as a broad face turned towards her.