Sasquatch Seeks a Mate

Sasquatch Seeks a Mate aharon levy fiction Tonight he‘ll call himself Steve. He bounced around when he was young, long stretches with no name at all and others when they called him whatever came to mind. Steve’s one of the few that stuck, as good as any. He’s here because he’s heard that if you can’t get laid at Stanley’s, you need to check your pulse. That’s what the kid at the gas station 62 Ecotone: reimagining place said, anyway, handing him the fake ID and a few bills as he pocketed the mushrooms Sasquatch had brought down from the mountain. The kid, who never seemed to listen to Sasquatch with more than one ear unplugged from his iPod, always had a hell of time understanding his accent. “You from Atlanta or something, man?” the kid asked him tonight, then nodded without waiting for a reply. “Nice and warm there, I bet.” They looked together at the misted peaks, past the bright buzz of Stanley’s Patio in the middle distance. Sasquatch is not sure of his own age. He can count—of course he can count—but there’s been no reason to. Somewhere between ten and fifteen, he thinks, but his bones have been telling him that his life is more than half over, it’s time, it’s time to find a mate. He’s tall, he’s fully haired, and the ID is just a precaution. He’s managed this long without one. The bouncer didn’t even glance at it. It’s one of the advantages of being what he is. Which is what? The question has not bedeviled him—Sasquatch doesn’t spend much time in contemplation, it’s not in his nature—but still he wonders, staring at the evidence of his thick fingers , feeling the pinch on his shoe-trapped feet (big, but no bigger than the rest of him). Sasquatch hasn’t had schooling, but he knows about evolution. He’s overheard plenty of talk radio on the subject, and gathers that the split with humans, among whom he has spent his whole life, must not be so ancient. He remembers the joke the kid repeated again and again until Sasquatch understood: “You got any Polish in you? Well, you want some?” Sasquatch laughed when he finally got it, in a voice so loud and deep that the kid was scared. He’ll have to watch that tonight. Stanley’s isn’t as crazed as it seemed from the gas station, but it’s early, the peaks still calling to him with a little bit of light. Sasquatch feels for his stash of money, built up through visits down the mountain. He finds it implausible that these greasy bits of paper have any value, as implausible as someone having thrown out the shirt he now wears, foundinthegasstationDumpsterafteroneofhisexchangeswiththekid. And here are the first few females, teetering on pointed shoes and collapsing onto moldy bar stools, most of them far too short but the two at the end broad-shouldered, exposing flesh to pull attention away from their size. 63 aharon levy He walks to the bar and nods at the women. “You’re a big one, aren’t you,” says the taller, giving off a pungency of fruit, whether from her own flesh or the bright slushy drink she’s sipping through a straw, he can’t tell. He grunts, mutters, “Drink?” She blinks, takes a moment to realize what he’s asked, indicates her almost-full glass. “Not ready to double-fist yet.” She sticks out her chin. “But what’ll you have?” Sasquatch feels excitement at the odor of alcohol—like wild apples fallen from the tree, only sharper and stronger—but shakes his head. “Nothing.” “Come to the right place, huh?” She laughs with her mouth open, head thrown back. Out of the corner of his eye, Sasquatch sees her redheaded friend stare at him unhappily. “I can . . . I can . . .” His voice, ordinarily so deep, has taken on the whiny flutter that he uses to imitate birds. When he is alone, he can entertain himself for hours producing the urgent chirp of...