Roanoke Ridge by J.J. Dupuis

Author:J.J. Dupuis [Dupuis, J.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 2020-03-07T00:00:00+00:00

NINE

Texas oilman Tom Slick is going after the Abominable Snowman — with bloodhounds and a helicopter.

— Lethbridge Herald, August 2, 1956

SAAD HAS TAUGHT ME ONLY THE MOST rudimentary Urdu, so as I listen to him speak to his mother I can only pick out words like yes and no, as well as okay and mom. She is waiting for him to pick a career, to settle in one place, to have a steady paycheque on which he can support a family. From there, marriage and children. He tells me she keeps an ear to the ground for eligible bachelorettes from good families, she tries to introduce him to these good families at every opportunity. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does.

I search every Bigfoot forum I can think of until I finally come across the footage shot earlier today. It’s a shaky, typical blob-squatch video, no discernable detail except the blur is the colour of dry grass. There’s no shape resembling anything. The audio, unlike the picture, is clear: Footsteps crunching over the dry brush. The sounds of excitement and “look-it” and “there it goes” that fit perfectly into the film.

“Allah hafiz,” Saad says, hanging up the phone and dropping it onto the bed. Turning to me, he says, “Want to check out the Bigfoot Museum?”

I look at the clock in the bottom corner of my screen; it’s six thirty-seven.

“Won’t it be closing soon?”

“Extended hours,” he says. “For the Bigfoot Festival.”

“Nice,” I say. “It beats sitting around here.”

The Roanoke Valley Bigfoot Museum and Gallery is more subdued in scale than something, like, say, the Guggenheim. It’s a hybrid of the great American roadside tourist trap and some kind of religious shrine.

The doors are guarded by two Sasquatches carved out of wood. They stand just over six feet tall, which is taller than me, but seems a little short for Bigfoot. Sitting on the gravel by the door, as if in worship of one of the statues, is a young man with unnaturally orange hair and black ear gauges. There’s a canvas knapsack on the ground beside him, flap open, revealing a gaping pocket. He’s sketching the statue on the left, his pad lying across his knees.

Saad lingers, and the artist looks up at him, his expression half-flattered, half-do-you-mind? “That’s really good,” Saad says.

“It is,” I say, backtracking and taking a second look.

“Thanks,” the artist says.

“Are you in town for the Bigfoot Festival?” Saad asks.

“I sure am. I came all the way from Vancouver for it.”

“Washington or B.C.?” I ask.

“The real Vancouver,” he says. “B.C.”

“Are you an artist?” Saad asks. “Or do you just sketch for fun?”

“I’m hoping to drum up some interest for my comic.” He reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a graphic novel with a glossy cover that glimmers in the sun. He holds it out between us. The title is Sasquatch: Guardian of the Northwest. A Sasquatch is on the cover, one foot up on a rock, a log held high above his head. Underneath is the artist’s name, Andrew Price.

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