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 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.
To read the rest of this article, please visit our online store to purchase a copy of the issue or order a subscription.