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”
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