Eating With Bigfoot

I tapped into my messages; the gas company wanted a piece of me, and my ex wanted to know when the month’s alimony would be arriving. But it was the last message which caught my attention the most; Big Foot, the wrestler, wanted to meet me for lunch the following day, at The Big Burger, on east 14th street at noon. Who was I to turn him down? A 50 caliber showman with a WWA win list as long as your arm, and a five million dollar contract, with a major west coast TV station. I cleared my appointments for late morning and early afternoon, the following day, and laid out my jeans and WWA T-shirt and a couple of indigestion tabs, with BF’s appetite in mind. It was about 11.45am, when I drove up to the Big Burger’s orange and purple frontage and past the helium-filled, giant airborne, polythene burger, floating forty feet up in the clear blue, summer sky. The place was quiet, a few truckers and an old couple, talking and munching their burgers and fries, off their plastic, melamine plates. The air conditioning was welcome; the sweat slowly froze, then disappeared from the middle of my chest: but it was a news report which caught my attention, on the overhead TV. “Bigfoot announces retirement and unveils plan to open shelter for bigfoot families and abused bigfoot wives in Alaskan wilderness.” Then the main door swung open and he walked in with the biggest grin I had ever seen, and approached my table, all seven feet of him, took my hand and shook it. ”Well kid, it’s all go from here,” he said, thumbing at the TV. “I’m giving you across the board publishing and screen writing rights. I‘ve never forgotten how you helped me, get where I am today, partner.” I closed my eyes and mumbled inside, “Thank you God.” And we ate our burgers, he ate five, and spent the next two hours making plans for, “The Return of Bigfoot to the Wild”