1. Alert.
2. Tired.
3. Thinking of going swimming.
4. Worrying that he is overdrawn.
5. Plotting to avenge himself
on his mortal enemy, Alan, who has, over the years, stolen two of Bigfoot’s
girlfriends, framed Bigfoot for a crime he didn’t commit (a minor shoplifting
infraction, admittedly, but it’s the principle of the thing), and played
innumerable pranks that resulted in Bigfoot’s humiliation, including one in
sophomore year of college in which he dumped an entire pepper shaker into
Bigfoot’s milk carton and laughed when Bigfoot had to spit out the peppered
milk. Alan Tresser. What a jerk.
6. Itchy.
7. Hungry.
8. Enthusiastic.
9. Thinking of Clara–ah! Clara. What a pity that she had nothing
to her name and so was forced to factor in wealth when she felt around in her
heart for her real emotions concerning this man, or that one. If only her
father had given up his dream of sculpting “the intersection of time and
tempo,” or “the smallest available unit of rhythm,” or whatever it was that he
was on about in those masses of knotted metal. His sculptures had mathematical
names; he had started as a musician and was eternally in search of the
Pythagorean comma. “They should all be called, ‘Bottom of a bottle,’” Bigfoot
said once, unkindly, of Clara’s father, and instantly regretted it, for her
father was a kind man, almost as tall as Bigfoot, though with a stoop when he
stood, and he did not put his eyes wide and scream like an child that night
that Clara brought Bigfoot home. In fact, he was cordial, gave Bigfoot a firm
handshake, let him sit at the table with the rest of them, and the only sign
that there was anything amiss came later, when he pulled Clara aside in the
hallway and dipped once, quickly, to her ear where he whispered, “Honey, maybe
he’s not right for you.” In the car on the way back, Bigfoot mocked Clara’s
father. He could do the voice perfectly; it was light and too sweet like a bad
dinner wine. “Not right for you, not right for you,” Bigfoot said, in singsong.
That night Clara wouldn’t share his bed, and the next week, she told Bigfoot
that she was seeing a man named Kevin. “He’s a lawyer,” she said. “You don’t
know him. But he makes me happy.” Bigfoot stepped backwards to protect what was
left of his dignity. In his heart he experienced a mild pain.
10. Experiencing mild pain.
11. Experiencing moderate pain.
12. Experiencing severe pain.
13. Wondering how much more he can take. First, there was the kid
in the shoe department in the sporting goods store who said he’d go downstairs
and check the stockroom when he knew full well that there were no shoes big
enough to fit Bigfoot’s big feet. Then there was the sleek, impossibly thin
woman, probably a model, who asked Bigfoot if he knew where she could get a
good wax. Bigfoot didn’t know what she was talking about. Some days Bigfoot
felt like he didn’t understand people at all. Then there was the envelope that
he found slipped under his door. It was addressed to him, but it had not ended
up in his mailbox. This happened a few times a week; the mailman delivered his
letters and packages to Mrs. Biedermeyer in 3B. This infuriated Bigfoot. The
names weren’t even slightly similar, except for the fact that they both started
with the same letter. Bigfoot opened the envelope and learned to his horror
that Clara was scheduled to marry Alan Tresser on September 8 in a small
ceremony in St. Joseph’s Church in the center of town. Bigfoot was invited.
This really is the final straw, Bigfoot thought as he went down to the street,
got into his car, drove the two hours to the Berkshires, and rampaged in the
woods for the better part of the evening. One young hiker scrambled to avoid
Bigfoot, slipped on a rock, and got a deep cut on his shin. That should have
made Bigfoot feel better, but it didn’t. The young hiker wasn’t Alan Tresser.
14. Sweaty.
15. Congested
16. Afraid to reply to the wedding invitation one way or another.
If he did not accept, could he ever hope to speak to Clara again? But if he
accepted, that would be a thousand times worse. He would be standing out on the
lawn all by himself, or with a date whose name he could not remember from one
minute to the next, and he would be making small talk about the bride and
groom. “She looked lovely,” one old woman would say. “So pink.” Bigfoot would
not answer, secretly convinced that he should tear off the old woman’s head and
push the headless corpse down the rolling hill in front of the church where,
just moments before, Clara had turned and lifted her chin and, beaming, given
herself to Alan Tresser. How had they even met? The last Bigfoot heard, Alan
Tresser was working as the regional sales manager for an automotive magazine.
Was that enough to give Clara a good life? And what was a good life, anyway?
Certainly not one with too much Alan Tresser in it. Bigfoot was sitting at his
breakfast table dragging his claw through the dregs of some oatmeal. “I wish I
were dead,” Bigfoot said to no one in particular. The lifespan of a Bigfoot was
three hundred years. Bigfoot had at least eighty to go.
17. Contemplating his death.
18. Dead.
