BIGFOOT TELLS ALL

It’s not so bad now but when I was younger I used to spend entire days just wandering around looking for something to couple with. And I mean anything. I once humped a birch tree. I’m serious. Saying things to it: Aw baby, you’re the one, you’re the one . . .

But there was one who really was the one. I called her Sweet Pea, a lovely young black bear I met back east, with eyes you could drown in. And here’s the kicker: she came on to me. Generally I steer clear of bears, black, white, or brown. I’m a pretty tough hombre but I don’t mess with those folks. So when I stepped into a clearing one fine spring morning and there she was, I froze. Forget about trying to run away: they’re quick as cougars when they want to be.

She comes walking up.

I’ll be honest, I was scared.

She starts checking me out, sniffing me all over like mad—balls, butt hole, everywhere. But then all of a sudden, just like that, she quits. Goes walking away. I felt like saying, What’m I, wolverine shit? Sounds crazy, but I felt kind of hurt, you know? Rejected. But then, get this. She pads on up to a little mossy spot, bends all the way over, and looks back at me, gives me this look over her shoulder like saying, Well? How ’bout it, handsome?

And who am I, right? Who am I to argue with a horny bear?

We spent that entire spring together, me and Sweet Pea. Truly, without a doubt, the happiest three months of my entire miserable fucking life. I even gave up eating meat, just so I wouldn’t have to leave her side. We lived on bugs, berries, honey, nuts, mushrooms, and love. You should have seen me, I was in fantastic shape. And at least three times a day she would turn to me with this look meaning C’mere, ya big lug.

I’m telling you, I was crazy about that bear. And I’ll tell you something else, she was crazy about me. I know she was.

So I don’t get it. To this day I do not understand.

It happened like this:

We’re sitting together under a tree one afternoon near the end of spring, sprawling there, both of us completely exhausted after some incredible high-geared lovemaking. Then all of a sudden she starts looking at me funny, like she’s wondering, Who the hell are you?

I said, “What’s the matter, babe?”

She’s up on her feet now, on her hind legs, making low, dangerous sounds.

I get up, too. “What’s wrong, Sweet Pea? What is it, hon?”

She gives this loud, ugly growl like I never heard from her before and rakes her long, beautiful claws across my chest, nearly ripping out my heart, literally. Then she drops back down on all fours and goes loping away, in and out among the trees.

I’m on the ground now, yelling after her, “Sweet Pea, come back! Come back!”

She doesn’t even turn.

For two whole days and nights I laid there, waiting to die, wanting to. By day three, though, I had some company. In the tree overhead a bunch of smug-looking vultures were waiting. I hate those motherfuckers, always have. So I got better, just to spite them.

But the deeper wound she gave me, that’s something I don’t think I’ll ever recover from, not fully. She hurt me bad. And what I’d like to know is, why? What the hell was that about, turning on me like that? What did I do? Like I told you, we were just sitting there.

You know what it was like? It was like she’d been under some kind of spell all spring and now she’d all of a sudden woken up from it. Is that what springtime does to female black bears? Is that all it was for her, a spring fling?

I went back to eating meat with a vengeance.

I even ate one of you recently. I’m sorry but he had it coming. All morning the silly sonofabitch kept following me around from tree to tree, in his L. L. Bean–wear, clicking away. I pretended not to notice—just walking along, another beautiful day in paradise—meanwhile leading him deeper and deeper into the woods. Then I hurried on ahead and hid behind a large oak, waiting for him to catch up. When he did I stepped out very casually. “Oh, hello,” I said. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

The look on that man’s face.

But I want you to know, I only meant to slap the bastard, give him a good hard slap in the face for being such a pest, but his whole fucking head came off. And get this, for a full five seconds he’s still standing there, still upright!

I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

Anyway, I went ahead and ate him: waste not, want not. He wasn’t bad. Meat is meat, right? You’re wondering did I eat the head. I did not. Brains are supposed to be good for you, but frankly I don’t think this fucker had any. Afterwards, though, I borrowed his camera, took a bunch of selfies, let you people see what kind of “monster” you’ve been harassing all these years:

Looking off, pondering the mystery of existence . . . Click.

Smiling down at a cute little chipmunk . . . Click.

Staring into the lens with a smoldering sensuality . . . Click.

Showing outrage at man’s abuse of the environment . . . Click.

Looking lonely . . . lonely . . . Click.

I hung the camera up on a low branch for someone to hopefully find and send the photos to National Geographic—not, if you please, the National Enquirer, sharing the page along with the latest Elvis sighting.

I read all your leavings.

I’m aware of the way you think of me. A freak, a tabloid freak. And you know what? Let’s face it, you’re right. That’s exactly what I am—a freak, a fluke, a mistake of nature. Where’s another like me? Nowhere.

But hey. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Are you kidding? With all this beauty around me? All these trees? All these birds and brooks and butterflies to wander among? Day after day after day? No, listen, I’m so happy out here I could fucking scream. In fact I often do, like this:

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Then you can hear all creatures big and little as they scurry off into caves, into trees, into burrows. Then it’s quiet. All around, it’s very quiet.