Something or Someone

Someone or Something

It was like the dimly hopeful possibility of a Bigfoot sighting- you knew it was highly unlikely, but really, who knew what could happen? All those reported sightings, and across cultures too. That should count for something, it’s at least a little compelling. Stories as old as any, indigenous accounts of wild, hairy men they believed to be guardians of the forest. Euro-Americans want to do with Bigfoot what they want to do with anything- capture it, dissect it, define it, document its chemical compositions, and dominate it. Indigenous cultures see it differently. A creature not to be found, but a mystery humans are not meant to fully understand.

So it was with the idea of coming across a sighting of one like me. I found myself scanning people in crowds, unsure what it was I would see that would reveal them to me, but sure I’d know it when I’d seen it.

I did it at concerts. Watching the crowd raise their beers in some assumed posture no one taught but everyone adopted. The adoration and worship behaviors, faces turned up and shining toward the lead singer. A kind of call and response that reminded me of fervent churches. Using a tone like a Pentecostal preacher whipping up its congregation, the singer would yell, “Are you all here to have a good time?” Like those who fell to the ground of pop-up church tents, shaking and speaking incomprehensibly, the concert crowd would move in unison toward the stage yelling its own babbling vocalizations with a chorus of “Woooo!!”

Unable to contain myself, I would communicate my bewilderment to those I’d accompanied to the concert, a boyfriend or friend, and later my spouse. When they liked me despite myself, they’d try to come alongside me, nodding in agreement, faces contorted into judgment, to match my own. Mostly my husband who tried hard to meet me where I was, would offer this.

I’d go get a drink, maybe that would help me forget it all and be like the others, and walking back, I’d lose my husband, his head bobbing along, indistinguishable in the sea of ceremonial movements. As I would finally locate him, he would look almost apologetic and slightly embarrassed to be caught enjoying himself and I would think, not for the first time, how much he deserved someone different from me. I’d get several more drinks to break up the time, to try to numb myself to the overwhelm of the noise and the crowd, and to detach from the overwhelming alienation I felt as I searched desperately among the faces for a look of recognition, validation that perhaps this scene was ridiculous in some way. But I would see only raised beers and hear whooping and see on the faces around me the drunken appraisals of each other’s bodies.

It was during a cruise I took solace in the observations of David Foster Wallace, in knowing a Bigfoot of sorts had once at least roamed these parts. He had noted a kind of return to the infancy period during cruise attendance, where every need and desire is anticipated and gratified without ever having to articulate. So, there was at least a sense of kinship as I peered out from under my sunhat, watching as the vacationers were practically fanned with oversized leaves as they wandered from buffet to buffet.

There was a moment where a faint scent suggested the presence of a Bigfoot in the form of a woman in the library enthusiastically pushing books aside as she bent her head sideways to read the titles. “Looking for something special?” I asked, excited to discuss literature. “My twelve-year-old wants to read the second Harry Potter.” She didn’t look up. Ah, well. Maybe I’d start the series and find him to talk to.

It actually wasn’t as miserable as I am making it sound. The sunshine, gentle lapping of the water, and occasional sea bird was lovely, as was the unlimited time for lounging and reading. The lack of pressure to do anything was a rare gift. Everyone should have the experience to have such free access to just existing. There were even some moments of belonging to a kind of community, as the same old couples and I tended to gather with coffees in the mornings, watching the wake the boat created behind us, gazing out for an opportunity to see some sort of life.

My husband preferred to stay in the restaurant, chatting with fellow travelers about vacation destinations and exchanging travel stories. He was at his most charming, lit up with shared adventure and an audience. By this point in our marriage, we were gravitating to our own corners, less inclined to join the other where they were. Still, we seemed glad to be reunited for our shared rituals, like dinner and sunsets.

After enough years, I’d all but given up on the existence of Bigfoot. Years of scanning had yielded no evidence of a presence, so a sort of truce was made. Change what you can and all. There were satisfying activities. Book clubs, gardening, having a dog. The comfort of routines. A meal, well planned and created, shared as a family. After dinner walks at golden hour, the tall grasses swaying gently in the breeze. Sometimes, I could surrender my hopes of encountering something more, and find contentment in my fellow humans, even if just in the sharing of an experience or connecting on any commonalities. There was joy in motherhood, and the comfort in long marriage. I’d even found myself at dinner parties or gatherings acting the part, and then very occasionally, forget I was acting, or maybe I really wasn’t anymore but it’s all hard to tell.

Then our family took a trip to Indiana for a nephew’s graduation. It never even occurred to me by then to look for Bigfoot there. We were separated, having booked last minute, throwing into the cart haphazardly whatever seats we could scrounge up. The kids, now teens, looked competent on their own. I wanted to whisper something reassuring to them before we parted, or pat them before I left them up front for the long walk to the back, but they slipped into their seats without a backward glance. My husband was already chatting with the man across the aisle from him as I passed. I heard something about “the best roast beef in Indiana”.

I found my seat and settled in. For a moment, it felt as if I were traveling alone, could be anyone going anywhere, endless possibilities of other lives in front of me. Then I caught a glimpse of my son’s hat, tall enough to rise above those around him, and inhabited my mom body again.

Having decided my chances were always better with a book than a plane partner, I pulled a book out of my bag and examined the cover, avoiding the descriptions so I could go in blind, the reading an open encounter instead.

“Have you started it yet?”

I looked up at my seat partner. We’d nodded politely when I’d sat down and I had noticed his disheveled hair, out of place for his age. He had the look of a college kid on the face of a man who appeared closer to retirement than college. Now I saw an expression of intensity and a kind of seriousness you might miss at first glance.

“No, I just got it. Have you read it?” I felt a curious mix of dread and excitement I couldn’t understand. The kind that arrives before you know what it will ask of you.

“Oh, I feel honored to be witness to the beginning of this journey.” He beamed at me and adjusted toward me, fumbling with his seatbelt for more slack.

“Wow, that good?”

“I wouldn’t say good exactly- more powerful. Profound. It will break your heart, but it will break open.”

“Who couldn’t stand to be broken open a bit more? Sometimes I think we harden protective little layers of ice over ourselves as we move through life. We have to encounter things to crack through it and expose us again.”

“That’s beautiful. And true. And I’m pretty confident you will find the book effective to do just that.”

We smiled at each other, and I could see him searching my face, as I searched his. I broke the gaze and looked down to my book.

“I don’t want to keep you from it.” His voice was tentative.

“Oh, yeah.” I opened it, read the first sentence several times. Shut it.

“You know, I don’t get to talk about books very often. I can read this anytime. You sound like you’d have some favorites. I’d like to hear about them if you are willing?” My heart pounded but I turned to him.

“Oh, thank God.” He laughed.

I laughed too.

Ben and I talked for the entire three-hour flight, our voices hushed as the plane quieted around us while people tired out and exhausted their conversations. He shared his chocolate with me. I let him use my notebook to write down five of his favorite books, and wrote my list under his, tearing it out for him to take. I can’t say I walked away with many practical details about Ben. I don’t know how old he is, or even how he made a living. But I knew once, while stoned, lay next to his dog so long he began to perceive an ancient knowing in her, a never-ending awareness of her environment, even as she slept. I learned he liked to lean against trees, bare feet on the ground to connect to their energy. I learned he loved poetry but told almost no one he did, and even more secret, he sometimes wrote it too. I learned that he felt he didn’t really belong anywhere. He pursed his lips when he was thinking. He tilted his head to the side when he laughed. He fidgeted with his hands before he revealed something about himself. I learned Ben, or at least as much as three hours on a plane allowed for.

He learned me too. I could tell by the way he paused after I talked, looking at me, taking me in. Nearly everything I said was met with a deep nod, his eyes widening as he moved his hands as if to say, Yes, this here.

When the plane descended, people around us begin to rouse, look about to collect their things, pull phones out to text those awaiting them. They began to come online again, already thinking ahead to the luggage carousals, bathrooms, Starbucks. Ben and I became very still, unwilling to move, unable to embrace the landing the way everyone else was.

“Jane. It was a pleasure. Truly.” He reached his hand out to shake mine, his eyes searching my face again. Perhaps he was memorizing it, as I found myself memorizing his.

“Ben. Thank you. It was great to meet you.” I shook his hand, the sensation spreading beyond, throughout.

My phone pinged like an electric shock, electric shock therapy, cutting through my fog and making the world crystal clear again. My husband undoubtedly. “I need to piss real quick.” Or maybe, “Want to try Bob’s Steakhouse in Terre Haute?”

Oh, I wasn’t entirely fair though, was I? Maybe it was, “I hope your flight was good.” It could be that too.

Ben kept glancing at me, fumbling with his hands. I knew what he was wrestling with because I was too. Was there a way to stay in touch? I wasn’t sure yet.

“Hey, why don’t I add my email?” He nodded toward my notebook with the book list. “You know, so we can update those lists after we finish those?” His voice became excited. “Oh, we could have our own book club?” He said this as a question.

I imagined it briefly. I wanted it. More than anything. Almost anything.

“I wish, Ben. I really do.”

I forced myself to rise and look away, to walk.

I saw him standing near the luggage. He saw me too, his face lighting up, then rearranging into restraint.

My husband put his arm around me and led me away.