I’m not Sasquatch
Listening to Harold speak with such a rich tone and perfect diction, I forget about his bizarre appearance, but then I look up and all I can think is how much he resembles pictures I’ve seen of Big Foot.
“Have you ever been mistaken for Big Foot?” As soon as I heard me say it I realized how insensitive the question.
Harold’s eyes narrowed under his huge furrowed brow. I saw that same face as before when I tried to steal his journal. I soon relive the pain of that previous moment as well.
“I am not Sasquatch! Nor am I an offspring!” I hear the words. The anger in them is felt as I ascend off my stone seat and slam to the ground. I think the scattering of the journal documents that loosen from my hands during my sudden ascent and descent save me further physical pain.
My apology comes out reminiscent of my middle school voice full of childlike squeaks. His body relaxes and he begins the task of retrieving the few sheets of journal lying on the floor.
Then, Harold transforms back to his stoic self, “Too many times my efforts to connect with strangers hiking, camping or even worse, hunting I have become no more than a Big Foot sighting. I finally gave up trying.”
“So, has that happened to you here, lately?” The recurring tension of his jaw and shoulders send the message that I cross another forbidden line.
“Not yet, but I’m wondering if I allow you to leave this cave ….”
I do not hear anything past “allow you to leave this cave.” My heart races. I scan the tidy dark cave for a weapon of defense. My mind starts creating viable scenarios that could lead to an escape plan.
Harold gathers the last of the scattered documents, aligns them in order and rebinds them. He turns his back to me and takes several steps away from the entrance to place the bundle behind where I sit.
Even though he stoops beside me, I jump up and dash toward the entrance. I can feel the warm sunlight brush against my face and I can almost smell the air of freedom.
My forward motion is suddenly and definitely halted. A tightness presses against my left shoulder. I feel my body dragged back into the cave and forcibly plopped on the smooth stone that I just left moments ago.
“I was going to go relieve myself,” I smile but Harold is not smiling back.
“Can you hold it just a little while longer?”
“I don’t think so,” I try to be convincing.
“I suggest you try,” Harold’s tone is convincing – very convincing.
I suddenly confess, “You frightened me with your ‘if I allow you to leave’ talk.“
“So, you think I’m a monster,” Harold’s eyes widen and for the second time today I see sadness in them.
“You’re a powerful man easily enraged. I fear for my life at this moment.”
His jaw tightens and his eyes grow dark. I raise my arms up ready to defend. My gesture changes his countenance and his shoulders slump and his arms go limp at his side.
“Go,” Harold’s huge, hairy arm points back toward the entrance.
I sit confused. After several silent seconds, Harold grabs my arm and repeats his demand. I pull my arm away and do not budge.
Harold easily pulls me off my seat and shoves me toward the entrance to the cave. His shove causes me to stumble towards the opening to the cave, but I resist and stand stubbornly just inside.
Only a minute or two ago, I leaped to escape. Now, I refuse to leave. My rebellious nature even defies my own common sense thinking.
Harold’s hand smacks the cave wall just beside my head, “Why did you ever come here?”
I have no answer. I ask myself the same question. This was to be my routine trek along the Pigeon Creek Greenway Passage and around the pond at Garvin Park. Now, it may be my Green Mile.
I write about what I'm thinking or what I've imagined in an effort to regain that childhood imagination and marry with my many years of real experiences. I'm getting better at it the more I write.I am a published author of two romantic intrigue novels.My books can be found at Amazon.com or if you want a personalized copy, by emailing me at email@example.com.