I was headed north by northwest when it happened, on my way to visit Redfish, or was it Whitefish. Bluefish? One of those fish towns in the Pacific Northwest. That’s when I encountered a tall, hairy, Wookie-like figure. Bigfoot? I immediately dialed 911 on my cell phone and waited for the police to arrive. Instead, a minivan painted in the colors of a local television station pulled into the parking lot. Parking lot? Yes, it happened in the parking lot of a Wells Fargo branch office, where I’d stopped to draw some cash from the automated teller machine. That’s when the creature appeared in my peripheral vision.
An attractive young female reporter alighted from the van, followed by a less attractive cameraman. Would I consent to an interview? she asked. “Okay,” I said.
“About that Bigfoot,” she started. “What can you tell us?”
“Well, it was tall and hairy. And scary!”
“Male or female?” she asked.
That one threw me. What was she driving at, I wondered? I mean, geez, ours was just a brief encounter, not an intimate relationship.
“Boobs?” she asked, thrusting the microphone into my face.
“I can’t say,” I answered. “It was wearing a parka. That’s why I was going with the gender neutral pronoun.”
“Good idea,” she said. “We’ll run with ‘they.’ So, you say they were wearing a parka?”
I nodded in the affirmative. “North Face,” I said. Which surprised me. Normally, you don’t recall brand names unless you’re hypnotized, or sound asleep.
“What happened next? She asked.
“Nothing, really. Like I said, I just got a fleeting glance. I was standing at the ATM, punching in my PIN while casting fleeting glances. Situational awareness, as policemen advise. So, it was just a fleeting glance, or maybe just a reflection of a hairy face in the ATM screen.”
“So, what happened next? Did they hang around or run away?”
“They must’ve ran away,” I said. “Because when I took a second look they wasn’t there.” Why can’t I get my verbs and pronouns to agree, I wondered. Why was I now talking like a hillbilly?
“Was only one of them,” I continued, “and I don’t reckon whar they went off to. Why don’tcha talk t’ that feller over yonder?”
The news crew turned their attention to an elderly gentleman who’d been kibitzing from the sidelines. He’d emerged from the bank about the same time as I’d been standing at the outdoor ATM. As the news crew approached, he made a half-hearted attempt to run away, but didn’t get far because, like I said, the local news reporter was an attractive young woman. With boobs.
“I’ll talk,” he said. “But only if you fuzz out my face and alter my voice.”
“Hey!” I hollered. “What about me? Can you fuzz out my face and alter my voice as well?” I’ve always thought my voice was squeaky, and lately I’m not too crazy about my face.
“Too late,” squeaked the homely cameraman. “We’ve already interviewed you.”
Crap. Now I’m thinking I should never have agreed to be interviewed. Nor should I have inserted myself into a criminal investigation, no matter that no a crime been committed. After all, it’s not against the law to be tall and hairy and scary nowadays—just look at the NFL. And it’s not public nudity provided you’re wearing a North Face parka. Trousers? I hadn’t noticed. As I said, I had only stopped to draw some cash from a Wells Fargo ATM. I wasn’t looking for love in all the wrong places.
