“Once again, you have proven worthy of being the chosen one. There is great interest as well as skepticism behind your appearance here in Pariseema before the Council of Elders. These are trying times for this world and yours.”
As on another occasion, I am compelled to extend my index finger and the gesture is simultaneously reciprocated with a gentle and prolonged touch by the huge index finger of Loquius. I see nods and soft smiles from the elders directly in my view.
“I took heed in your advice,” I say. “I followed the Stone Without Time. I saw you there beckoning me, and here I am.”
Again, there are nods from the elders.
“I believe that in your world you have a noise box called a television, and another called a computer. We have seen these things by peeking through your windows. In those noise boxes are many voices and pictures quite different from those you see and hear in the Stone Without Time. In your world, those electronic voices and pictures look to be determined to overwhelm and entice a desired agreement and predetermined outcome from the listener. In the Stone Without Time, the voices and pictures you hear and see are thought created, they are reflections of your own mind and heart. You are here because of your own self-determined purposes that have found agreement within our Sasquatch universe.”
I smile. It is like a huge weight being lifted from my shoulders because I know what he has said is the truth. I weened myself away from TV years ago, and my use of the computer is limited to mostly those things that serve and enhance my abilities to be happily productive. My life has dramatically changed for the better since I am no longer bombarded with the voices and pictures of big money corporations and media puppeteers.
“I understand,” I acknowledge. “I pride myself in not hypnotized nor subliminally directed like many of my fellow humans. No one thinks for me, I think for myself. I have come to be here on my own volition.”
“Yes, your visions are your own. That is the only way the Stone Without Time can work. It has no value to those that aren’t pure of thought nor heart. That is why you were chosen.”
Excerpt from book 1 of the Conversations With Sasquatch, series The Encounter.
5
On my return to Big Creek, I am aware of some recent activity by other humans. It is not only the physical signs, like the matted down grass and discarded cigarette butts, but also the remnants of their auras. People leave in their wake good or bad vibrations that can hang around and be felt from here to eternity unless cleansed from the emotionally disturbed space. What I am feeling at the moment is not good, and it isn’t long before I find a half dozen empty beer cans and several Twinkie wrappers scattered about.
I have never known beer and Twinkies to mix well with the forest. I am hoping it is just a sign of some rebellious teenagers getting away from the claustrophobic demands of their parents, and what I am seeing is discarded pieces of their rebellion and carelessness that have been shed like the skin of a snake.
My hopes get permanently dashed when I find more cigarette butts and a game camera locked in place to a small sapling of birch. There is a generous pile of untouched corn a few yards away from the lens that snaps my picture. I stick out my tongue and give it the finger.
Tecumseh would throw a fit if he saw this disrespectful approach to the fine art of hunting. I can literally hear one of his angry rants echoing through the forest as I decide what to do.
“They leave their ugly scent behind like mangy dogs that seem to have a purpose to piss on everything,” Tecumseh rails. “They are thankless of all but their own gratification. I weep when I think about how the ancestors of such vile men invaded our tee-pees with their spirits of evil. I pray our eternal wills continue to be reborn without such an abominable weakness for whiskey.”
I look around and heft a broken hardwood bow about the size and shape of a baseball bat. I contemplate and weigh it for my purpose. Knowing I have been captured on the camera, I have decided prudence would be my best course of action.
I wind up and take a healthy cut and catch the camera square in the face. It explodes into different pieces and is not easy to gather back together, but I find the photo chip and slip it into my pocket. The rest of the camera pieces and every other sign of human presence, I put in my gathering bag. All that is left is the cable and lock still wrapped around the birch. I apologize in the name of Tecumseh and cut the cable free.
I then backtrack and gather the beer cans and Twinkie wrappers, finger-rake the grasses back to standing the best I can, and collect all the cigarette butts. I am happily gratified to feel the forest rejoice.
With the area cleansed of trash and bad vibrations, I am able to return to contemplating my original purpose. I had been looking forward to another philosophical melding with my Bigfoot friend, Loquius.
I have been pondering, that if the Sasquatch are immortal beings that have roamed this planet since the beginning of time, then they have survived the endless disasters of climate change, including ice ages, volcanos, earthquakes, drought, famine, asteroids, and even pandemics.
Man is relatively new to the game, and what is most important in this age of narcissism, are the symbiotic relationships that have and can be further developed between man and nature; each one can enhance the other when common sense and basic ethics are applied to such things as forestry, farming, housing, and industry. Even cities can be redesigned with regenerative energy and agriculture in mind. Man is basically good and will strive for the greatest good for all concerned when he realizes that one lifetime is but a growing and cleansing journey for his immortal soul. To survive, you have to learn that you do not shit in the bed to which you must return.
I hope to garner much more insight into what answers Sasquatch might have to help the human race as it seemingly hurtles unawares towards oblivion.
As I trek, I am elated to have removed the footprints of the litterbugs and their bad vibes. The forest has returned to its harmonious songs within itself. I hear the distant drumming of a partridge, the chatter of squirrels, and the peeping of some snipes at the edge of a meadow filled with dancing grasses. A porcupine scuttles over a log, parks it itself in a defensive posture and raises its quills as I pass nearby.
The walk to meet Sasquatch is over two miles of ever changing terrain. The forest is rife with organic smells and subtle changes of temperature. I have come to recognize many sun dappled openings verdant with ferns as well as groves of various trees. I am traversing the edge of the hardwoods that are easier to navigate than the thick cedars, tag alders and small pines that thrive next to the creek.
It is on the ridge where the hardwoods turn to cedars that Sasquatch appears. I am immediately struck by the aggressiveness portrayed in his muscular stance. There is nothing soft or serene in his posture towards me. My first instinct is to cut and run, but I will myself to keep my poise and hold my ground.
He vocalizes an unearthly bugle of screeching sounds that all but rattle my bones. Instantly, there is movement to his right and another Sasquatch appears at his side.
I have had to readjust my beliefs and rethink many an opinion since I met a Sasquatch while out hunting for morel mushrooms in Lewiston, Michigan. I had no idea that these mushrooms were high on their list of dietary delicacies. They prize and love them.
I would have been afraid and crapped my pants if it hadn’t been for the long outstretched arm that offered me a half eaten morel. There was nothing aggressive or hostile in this gesture. He effused a welcoming aura of curious friendliness.
I took the half-eaten morel and popped it into my mouth. As I shook my head affirmatively, I offered him my paper sack that contained about twenty morels and two or three beefsteaks I had gathered along a cedar ridge beside Big Creek.
It was then that I noticed the pure silence that had fallen over the forest. The crow’s look-out caws had vanished, the squirrels had shushed their chatter and rattle in the trees. Not even a bluejay or a mosquito was daring a peep.
I struggled to swallow the copper taste that had encroached to dry my mouth.
Sasquatch smiled. He had jaws filled with yellow teeth and eyes that twinkled with delight.
“Thank you,” he said, and jiggled his lips like a horse as it eats a sugar cube off your hand.
“You’re welcome,” I replied with another swallow.
“There’s a storm in the air,” Sasquatch offered with a gesture towards the sky, “the ozone is lifting my hairs.” He proceeded to run his hand a few inches above his upper chest where I could see the hairs stand up as if a magnet were being run over a cache of metal shavings. He abruptly slapped his chest and laughed. It sounded eerily like the shriek of an eagle guarding its kill.
The sky was clear, but I thought I could hear a distant rumble of thunder to the west. I couldn’t remember any rain being in the forecast. I had come dressed only in jeans, a polo shirt and sneakers.
“You humans are such frail creatures,” he said. “I remember when you were more like us, hunters and gatherers of the health and fruits of The Creator.”
I really couldn’t tell if he was speaking to me verbally or telepathically. There was such a sense of otherworldliness. I had a hard time getting a grip on my racing thoughts and emotions. In the absence of abject fear, I felt a combination of elation and serenity. I guess it was what you’d call dumbstruck.
“Not much of a talker, are you?” he asked and popped a fresh mushroom into his mouth.
“I have never met a Sasquatch before,” I managed.
“Not many a human has,” he whispered conspiratorially. “You are the first in many thousands of years I have spoken to. You are the chosen one.”
“I am honored,” I humbly croaked.
“I am not so sure you should be. You humans are blowing it. You are blind to the world of the Sasquatch. You have lost the memory and instinct of your body’s genes and the very essence of your immortal soul.”
A darkness crept stealthily over the ridge. Lightning flashed and a huge clap of thunder reverberated off and rattled my teeth. I began to shiver uncontrollably as Sasquatch melted into the rain with a welcoming gesture meant for me to follow him there to wherever there was going to be.
Two fingers Kim had been sitting at a table near the door to Tin Man’s doughnuts when the old Indian walked passed and out the door. He had watched the Indian and the kid with the cast do their little dance and it didn’t add up. Why would the old guy write a check to a punk kid? The little prick had actually smiled and kissed the check. Something was going down.
Two fingers slipped out of his chair and followed the Indian.
Skinny didn’t need to turn around to know who was standing behind him, but he turned anyway and stood up to face me on his broken ankle. We were about the same height. He wasn’t a bad looking kid. He had long eyelashes that any woman would have envied. He also had high cheekbones that gave him an exotic look. His downfall was his perpetual sneer.
“I knew this day was comin,” he said quietly. “I have a rep, old man. You planing to step on me?”
Our noses were almost touching so we were virtually privately engaged in our conversation.
“Not today,” I replied, “I want you to keep your rep, so no, I won’t stand on you.”
“That be cool,” he said and relaxed noticeably.
“I’m interested in making a deal with you,” I said. “Care to hear me out?”
Skinny looked around Tin Man’s. Several of his peers were having coffee and trying to keep their pants from falling all the way to the ground. They were oblivious to our confrontation.
“Shoot.” Skinny said.
“I’m offering you a high paying role in my new venture,” I explained, “It involves being a leader. I need one.”
Skinny looked at me perplexed.
“You’re a natural,” I said. “You have what it takes. You have charisma.”
“Don’t know much about none of that,” he said. “Besides I already got me a job.”
“I ain’t offering you a job. I’m offering you a life.” I said emphasizing life.
His eyelashes twitched. “You want me to be an actor?”
“You’re already one of those, so no, I want you to be yourself.”
Again that puzzled look. I hoped that I hadn’t overstepped myself with my sarcasm.
“You want me to be myself? What kind of BS you talkin here anyway?”
“Not BS, I just need you to be yourself,” I said. ‘You interested?”
Skinny stared at me with his sneer in place. “This high pay, how much you talkin?”
“If you are in, I’d say $1,600.00 a week to begin with.” I said.
“You deal’n drugs or what, old man? I’m not into being served up as jail bait.”
“This has nothing to do with selling drugs or anything else against the law.”
“What is it I got to do for this money?”
“Meet with my partner and I. We’ll fill you in. I know it’ll be a bit cumbersome with your foot in a cast, but we’ll work it out.” I extended my hand.
Skinny stared at me long and hard then tentatively shook it.
“You have a bank account?” I asked him.
“Of course,” he said.
I pulled out my checkbook and wrote him a check for sixteen hundred dollars.
“First week’s pay in advance,” I said. “We’ll meet this Friday. Be here at noon and I’ll come and get you.”
Skinny almost gave up his perpetual sneer and snapped the check. He stuck it under his nose, took a long whiff and kissed it. Then in a flash it disappeared into his pocket.
TBone Ditty was born on a north country farm. He was surrounded by home craftsmen and influenced by their skill and assortment of hand tools from an early age. He built tree houses and soapbox cars out of the scrap lumber he rummaged from old coops and dilapidated barns. His beech tree house was where he formed his first band.
He was eight years old. He created a xylophone out of an assortment of soda pop bottles and a set of drums out of old metal milk pails and creamery cans. He found an old whiskey jug in their farmhouse basement and a Hohner harmonica that had been sat on way too many times. One of the neighbor boys brought along a rusty old cowbell they incorporated as well.
They called themselves “The RagTag Boys” even though TBone’s older sister Carla did the vocals. She was a screamer but could carry a tune well enough to get them by. She also took a liking to ringing the cowbell and yodeling at opportune times.
Music wasn’t just a flash in the pan for TBone. He convinced the other kids to come to the tree house almost every weekend to practice and help write and perform his silly songs. It wasn’t but three months later and they played in a talent show down at the local church. They didn’t win but they raised some eyebrows. They became a hit among their school friends and were invited to play at birthday parties and family picnics. They even earned some pocket change.
TBone kept the RagTag Boys musically motivated for a couple of years and then his mates seemed to outgrow the simple instruments and TBone’s overbearing devotion. Their were baseballs to be pitched and hit over the fence. There were girls that needed teasing and kissed. Those things, chores and homework absorbed their precious free time. The RagTag Boys disbanded and went their separate ways.
TBone himself continued along his musical path by toying more and more with woodworking and the building of sophisticated stringed instruments. By the time he reached his twelfth birthday he had built his first fiddle and an acoustic guitar. Both were functioning instruments when he formed his second band called “The BuzzCuts”. It was made up of a batch of new friends with the exception of their lead singer who was once again Carla. She had blossomed into a pretty and bodacious entertainer.
The band graduated into the realm of being a bonafide garage band until the fateful day when Carla was accepted and called away to acting school. TBone tried to forge ahead, but without Carla the band lacked the vocals necessary to carry them forward and the BuzzCuts went the way of the RagTag Boys.
TBone was 16 years old. (to be continued)
Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books® http://www.quickturtlebooks.com
I ran into The Vulture as he was coming out of Mrs. Cooley’s market. He was carrying a paper bag with an assortment of healthy looking greens sticking out of the top.
“Good stuff.” I remarked, gesturing toward the bag.
His eyes darted right, then left two or three times before he backpedaled. Then he realized he had nowhere to go but out through me.
“How’s Skinny’s ankle?” I asked, hoping to disarm some of his mistrust.
The Vulture wanted no part of it. He sidled further away.
“He been bothering you any?” I asked.
The Vulture stepped toward me and feigned like he was going to scuttle out past me, but I didn’t budge.
“Those for your mother?” I asked, pointing to the greens.
He mustered a slight nod of his head.
“Good lady. Tell her Sugar says hi and wishes her a happy birthday.”
The Vulture dropped his guard slightly and a wry smile twitched his lips.
I turned to the side and let him scuttle past. He rocketed up the street like a worried crab.
I had already decided that I needed to pay Skinny a visit and my encounter with The Vulture reminded me I had better confront the matter directly. I needed him. He was one of the cornerstones for Ned’s and my endeavor though I hadn’t confessed this point to Ned.
Skinny was fairly smart and in the scheme of things I knew that could be his downfall. I needed to find out if his intelligence could be redirected toward a greater good and that would have a lot to do with how he perceived weakness and strength in himself and in others. I was hopeful after what had transpired in the alley by Gordo’s Liquor Store that I had a running chance.
I found him down at Tin Man’s Doughnuts. It was a popular hangout for many reasons. Mostly it was cheap but the doughnuts were actually pretty good and the coffee was rich and flavorful. The place was also lively. There were always chess games and people playing cards. It was populated by a mixed bag of gamers, gangsters, bookies and cops. It seemed that everyone got along while indulging in gambling and sweets at the Tin Man’s.
I hadn’t been there for a few months, but nothing had changed. it smelled of sugar and stale grease. The Tin Man was parked behind the counter lording over the cash register. He was very large, probably six foot five and 280 pounds. I think that is why everyone seemingly got along.
He cordially nodded at me and I nodded back.
Skinny was at the counter with a pair of crutches leaning against the wall a few feet to his right. His ankle was in a cast. I’d heard rumors that he’d invented a story about how he had been the victim of a nasty skateboard fall.
“I hear you fell off your board,” I said standing directly behind him.
“Yah, took a good one over on Petrero.” He said without turning around to see who I was. “I really busted up my ankle.”
“Tough hill to skate,” I said.
“Not so much,” he replied, “I just don’t give a shit.”
“Me either,” I said, “your version is as good as gold to me.”
Life itself is a calculated risk. You never fully know the consequences of your actions or inactions until after the fact. Those with honor do their best. Those with the heart of a snake become corporate bullies, psychiatrists or politicians. They do not kill before they eat. They simply poison and swallow you whole.
That is what happened to Berlinski’s Hardware. Ned stood and tried to fight the snake when he should have run. It swallowed him. He could have sold the property for half a fortune when Home Depot wanted it, but Ned hung on because he loved his business and its place in the community in which he had invested his life.
He was also stubborn.
“I don’t need any of your charity, nor do I want it,” he said shaking his head.
“It is not charity I’m offering. We can make good use of the property and I also need your help,” I consoled.
“Bullshit.”
“Bullshit right back at yah. Look, I got accosted by those little punks. You know as well as I do it’ll happen again. If it hadn’t been me things would have turned out badly.”
Ned stared at the floor.
I pressed on.
“We can make something of this, Ned. Let go of the past. It’s time to move on.”
He sighed.
“You built something once, you can do it again. I believe in you and I believe in myself, and that’s not bullshit.”
“Okay! Okay, I’ll listen. I ain’t saying yes and I ain’t saying no. I’m just saying.”
“Good enough for me,” I said. “Let’s walk it off.”
Ned had grown accustomed to my hikes. He was even beginning to enjoy them as much as I did. We were loitering in a grove of eucalyptus looking down at the parking lot of the Home Depot and I was pointing at the array of buildings that had been his empire. It looked beaten and pushed into a corner by the corporate bullies.
“We can put in a new entrance off Biscayne,” I said. “There’s plenty of room for parking and expansion.”
“You know what she looks like to me?” Ned chuckled. “She looks like that hooker with the green wig and Beatle boots that hooks down there by Larry’s. She looks used up.”
“Used yes, but not used up,” I said. “We don’t need the current structures. we can start from the ground up and the wood from the buildings can be reclaimed for a lot of our interiors. Even the graffiti can be used to add some character. The kids will like that.”
“You really think this is a good idea?”
“No. I think it’s a great idea. With my money and your leadership, we can’t lose.”
Ned chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds and then smiled. He looked me straight in the eye and stuck out his right hand. I greedily grabbed it.
Don’t be a Doofus! Go Ask Boris!
Author Richard Rensberry 