West Of Here Part 9

"Look, I just don't move a lot of this seventies stuff, kid. Luke Cage, Hero for Hire Luke Cage, Hero for Hire? Rom s.p.a.ceknight Rom s.p.a.ceknight? Sorry, but I couldn't give that stuff away."

As it turned out, neither could Curtis. He tried to give the rest of the box to the guy for free, so he wouldn't have to lug the thing back to school. No dice. Begrudgingly, he salvaged all the Native American c.r.a.p and left the rest in the alley by the Dumpster.

The day had only gotten worse for Curtis after abandoning the comics. Still twenty bucks shy of that elusive eighth, he'd returned to school, stashed what was left of the Marvel universe in his locker, and proceeded to Coleman's office to deal with the stupid job shadow bulls.h.i.+t he was getting roped into in order to pa.s.s Gerke's cla.s.s.

"What about shadowing one of the elders?" Coleman had said. "Or somebody from the Tribal Council? Or the Jamestown Heritage Museum? They might even have an interns.h.i.+p for you down there."

Coleman wasn't even Indian. He'd just married an Indian so long ago that he'd managed to convince himself he was Indian by a.s.sociation. The ponytail, the politics, the ugly sweaters. On his desk, a leather st.i.tched pencil cup with beads and ta.s.sels.

"Why not keep it local?" Coleman persisted.

"It is local," Curtis observed impa.s.sively from behind a curtain of black bangs.

Coleman frowned his guidance counselor frown.

They'd never let him forget it - Coleman, the elders, the guy from the fry bread stand at Sunday market. They were always enn.o.bling the tribe, clinging to the past with a grip so tenuous it was almost silly - potlatches, totems, canoes. Please. Like he was going to carve a totem or ferry people around in a canoe? Why couldn't his people just adapt? And what were they trying to sell him, anyway? Curtis was no dummy. He'd done his research. He'd read the history books. He knew that being a Klallam back in the day wasn't all communing with nature and dancing with spirits. He knew about the slave trade. He knew about the Hudson's Bay Company, and the Dungeness Ma.s.sacre. He knew about the violence and hatred the Klallam had visited on the Tsims.h.i.+ans as well as the whites, how they'd burned them and decapitated them. Funny, but you never heard the elders singing that tune. They were always trying to get you to succeed, to do the tribe proud, give back give back to the community. Give what? For what? The stupid casino? to the community. Give what? For what? The stupid casino?

Coleman was pensive. He picked a ball of lint off his ugly sweater, considered it, lobbed it over his shoulder, and scratched his ear with a sigh. "All this acting out - the bad grades, the skipping, the att.i.tude - is this about your dad?"

Curtis heaved his own sigh and looked out the window. "Why does everything have to be about my stupid dad? Ancient history - there's a cla.s.s I could pa.s.s."

"I was just wondering whether -"

"No, okay? No."

"But maybe if you just -"

"I'm fine. Seriously ... can we stop?"

Why was it that somebody was always there to offer unsolicited advice? And they always wanted to talk. Let's talk, Let's talk, they'd say, they'd say, tell me about it, you'll feel better, tell me about it, you'll feel better, but mostly they'd ask, but mostly they'd ask, Why are you angry Why are you angry?

"What are you angry about?" Coleman wanted to know.

"I'm not angry. I'm annoyed."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Of course I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk at all. I just want to not talk, not talk, okay? Do we okay? Do we have have to talk? Couldn't I just listen? Couldn't you just tell me a bunch of stuff about how it's going to be for me if I don't to talk? Couldn't I just listen? Couldn't you just tell me a bunch of stuff about how it's going to be for me if I don't get my grades up, get my grades up, and how I ought to and how I ought to embrace my heritage embrace my heritage and and take responsibility for myself, take responsibility for myself, and I'll just sit here and listen? Or maybe you could just and I'll just sit here and listen? Or maybe you could just not say not say all those things this time and just give me all the papers and stuff I'll need to fill out for the job thing." all those things this time and just give me all the papers and stuff I'll need to fill out for the job thing."

For once, Coleman didn't say anything.

AMBLING DOWN THE sunny side of Front Street toward the center of town, in no hurry whatsoever, Curtis took a small comfort in knowing that whatever bulls.h.i.+t awaited him at High Tide Seafood that afternoon, it couldn't be as bad as three days ago. He pa.s.sed the boarded storefront that was once Pop's Restaurant and, before that, Charlie's. The only thing left now were the big brown letters sunny side of Front Street toward the center of town, in no hurry whatsoever, Curtis took a small comfort in knowing that whatever bulls.h.i.+t awaited him at High Tide Seafood that afternoon, it couldn't be as bad as three days ago. He pa.s.sed the boarded storefront that was once Pop's Restaurant and, before that, Charlie's. The only thing left now were the big brown letters RESTAURANT RESTAURANT, partially obscured by a FOR LEASE FOR LEASE sign, and in the window, hanging crookedly, half of a waterlogged menu. Prime-rib dip $7.99. Surf-and-Turf $9.50. Curtis paused briefly at Coho Unlimited, Port Bonita's premiere tourist boutique, with its regionally famous window display: an explosion of stuffed giraffes and ceramic chickens, and faux-Indian art, phony muskets, and wooden seagulls, and mermaid-encrusted fondue bowls. There was a five-foot chainsaw-sculpted salty sea dog captain named Old Ned, smoking a pipe by the door. There were racks and racks of postcards near the front entrance. sign, and in the window, hanging crookedly, half of a waterlogged menu. Prime-rib dip $7.99. Surf-and-Turf $9.50. Curtis paused briefly at Coho Unlimited, Port Bonita's premiere tourist boutique, with its regionally famous window display: an explosion of stuffed giraffes and ceramic chickens, and faux-Indian art, phony muskets, and wooden seagulls, and mermaid-encrusted fondue bowls. There was a five-foot chainsaw-sculpted salty sea dog captain named Old Ned, smoking a pipe by the door. There were racks and racks of postcards near the front entrance. Gateway to the Olympics. Hurricane Ridge. Thornburgh Dam. Gateway to the Olympics. Hurricane Ridge. Thornburgh Dam. And though there were no tourists about, a four-hundred-year-old poster in the window boasted 30 And though there were no tourists about, a four-hundred-year-old poster in the window boasted 30 PERCENT OFF OF ALL STOCK PERCENT OFF OF ALL STOCK! Next to this hung a yellow flyer: Dam Days, September 23!Come celebrate over 100 years of Port Bonita history!Featuring Live Music, Logging Compet.i.tion, Chainsaw Carving Contest, and World-Famous Salmon BakeProudly presented in part by your neighbors at Wal-Mart.

f.u.c.king Wal-Mart. They killed everything. Curtis could hardly recognize this place anymore. He was almost embarra.s.sed to admit that as a child, Port Bonita had seemed like a glorious place, the center of the universe, and Dam Days had seemed a grand occasion marked by fry bread tacos and bra.s.s bands. Now it seemed stupid: a bunch of fat whites and sad-looking Indians mulling around Lake Thornburgh as if there were anything to see, anything to celebrate but a hulking ma.s.s of useless concrete and a lot of chain-link fence. As if Port Bonita were anything else but one big f.u.c.king Wal-Mart.

A half block later Curtis pa.s.sed Gertie's, where even at three in the afternoon, a handful of sketchy-looking dudes and one old lady with yellowing bleach blonde hair stood out front smoking cigarettes. She looked like Skeletor. They all looked like Skeletor.

Curtis fired up a Salem. Deadsville, that was this place.

Sasquatch Field Research Organization Report 1017 (cla.s.s B) Year: 2006 Season: Spring State: Was.h.i.+ngton County: Clallam Nearest town: Port Bonita Nearest Road: Elwha River Road OBSERVED: The following events happened roughly two miles above the Thornburgh Dam along the Crooked Thumb trail, the first week of April 2006. This area has had a lot of sightings (mostly cla.s.s B) over the past several years, so I was not completely surprised by the events of that night. In fact, my purpose out there was to call-blast after dark (using uncompressed digital recordings of the Snohomish Whoop-Howl and Del Norte calls), employing a Peavey JSX 212 cabinet and a 120-watt Joe Satriani Signature Head. Loud as h.e.l.l. I used a 12-volt marine battery with 300-watt square-wave inverter for juice. I had to make three wheel-barrow trips in with all my gear, which I could hardly fit into the Goat (my '73 GTO 400ci sport coupe).

My plan was to get in early and stay put, hunker down, and drink a few brews in the dark (but I wasn't drunk during any of what transpired; with the amp and everything else, I could only carry four beers on the last trip - I can't even feel four beers). I'm an experienced hiker with a lot of cryptoid-tracking experience (I had a cla.s.s C encounter off of Highway 112 near Joyce 7/6/99, as well as a possible cla.s.s B near Hoko River 9/11/2003. Both sightings, nos. 0645 and 0914, are in the SFRO sightings database). I am also very familiar with the area, having lived my entire life here (Bucket Brigade cla.s.s of 84!). Lastly, I know what a bear sounds like. I've hiked Crooked Thumb many times. Above the dam along the western sh.o.r.e of Lake Thornburgh is a lot of second-growth fir and hemlock, which has seen a little harvesting in recent years, but most of it is protected, or supposed to be. I parked at the slab and hiked to just shy of mile marker 2. I employed the use of a scent mask (Dave's Pop-Up Scent Canisters combo kit with detachable wick - got it at Big Five). I also hung pheromone chips around my encampment. These I acquired via a guy on the Internet and are supposedly the same chips utilized in the Quachita Project in 2001, made of part-human and partgreat ape pheromones. They don't really smell like anything, but I'm not a Bigfoot (although I wear a size 13).

The Elwha might be dead below the dam, but above the dam it is still wild. I've been told by hikers it is some of the wildest and most rugged country anywhere. My theory as to why the Crooked Thumb trail is proven to be a hotbed for sightings in the past, and why I've chosen this area as the focus of my field research, is because it is heavily tracked by deer in all seasons. This allows the Sasquatch an abundant food source in the winter months. Also berries are prevalent (huckleberry, thimbleberry, salmon berry) and there is an accessible freshwater source via both Lake Thornburgh and the upper Elwha. The trail is broad and flat for the first few miles allowing for easy migration, but the lake is otherwise hemmed in by mountains.

After my camp was set up, I hunkered down until dark. The antic.i.p.ation gets creepier the darker it gets and the less you can see. About an hour after dark I blasted my first call (a ten-second Del Norte). As anyone who has ever call-blasted knows, to hear these sounds amplified is incredibly eerie. It was extremely dark, and the moon was hidden deep behind cloud cover. I'm not afraid of the dark, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid of this dark. This is a big kind of dark. I never get used to it. A third-generation NVD is at the top of my wish list right now. (I saw the Night Optics D-300G-3A goggles at Big Five for a little over 3K - I should've bought them!) I waited nine minutes before my second blast (another Del Norte). I got no response to the vocalization, but I did hear something move in the brush uphill from me (probably a deer). I decided to try a few tree knocks on a nearby fir. For this purpose, I brought a 33-inch, 31-ounce Louisville Slugger Triton Softball bat (also a Big Five purchase). I wrapped the barrel of the bat in a half inch of duct tape so it would lose the aluminum sound and make a good thud. After a series of four syncopated knocks, I listened for a few minutes and received no response.

I waited seven more minutes before blasting a Snohomish Whoop-Howl. My neck hair stood on end when four seconds later I got a faint response from (I'm guessing) a quarter mile to the west. The response did not sound so much like a Snohomish as it did a Skamania Howl. It was the most chilling thing I've heard in my life. I suddenly felt extremely cold and I actually got the s.h.i.+vers and my teeth were chattering together. The other thing is that I suddenly felt like I had to go to the bathroom.

I waited about sixty seconds with my teeth chattering, when I heard another vocalization from the west. This was particularly alarming because this thing was moving pretty fast. The second vocalization sounded considerably closer. I immediately blasted another call and got a response seconds later. The closest one yet. My hand was shaking badly. I could hardly press play. I'll be honest, I was about ready to get the heck out of there. I didn't like the way this thing was coming after me. Suddenly, from the east I heard the strangest vocalizations I've ever heard. It sounded like talking, like somebody speaking in tongues and it was very close, in fact it was all around me, as if I were being surrounded. I was so scared at this point that I almost blacked out. I huddled up in a ball, clutching the Louisville Slugger.

The vocalizations were really deep, deeper than anything human. They were fast. They kind of floated on the air. I can't quite explain it. The smell was pretty strong, like skunk cabbage or rotting garbage. I couldn't really tell how close they were because to tell you the truth even though my senses were sharp, I wasn't sure I could trust them. My heart was beating in my ears, and that may have affected my judgment. I really cannot say how much time pa.s.sed. I kept expecting them to walk right into the camp. In which case I would've probably had a heart attack. But at the same time (and this may sound weird) I felt more alive than I've ever felt before. My whole body was like one big nerve ending.

Finally, I got up the b.a.l.l.s to turn on my headlamp and jump up and swing the beam of the light in a circle at the woods all around me. I can't say for sure what I saw. All the shadows were disorienting. But there was definitely movement in the woods. I saw something big move behind a tree, and I heard brush snapping behind me. As I swung my head to the north, I thought I saw another big shadowy figure move through the beam of my flashlight, too quickly to identify but big enough that it could only be one thing. It was moving away from me, scrambling up a steep embankment. From west of me came another chilling vocalization that almost gave me a heart attack. It was more of a screech than anything else, similar to the Gifford Pinchot recordings from fall of '96. After a minute, I began to realize that they had all moved off, and a few minutes later I heard another vocalization from the west, pretty far off. These things were fast. It's hard to imagine anything moving quite that fast in the dark.

I'm still not sure how many there were, but if I had to guess I'd say there had to be at least three because of the directions of the vocalizations and the forest noise. I know what I heard, and I don't care who thinks I'm crazy.

I did not sleep one wink. I kept making noise throughout the night. It was by far the longest and most terrifying night of my life, and for sure the most memorable (even more memorable than the night I scored 39 points against North Mason in the '84 regionals). As soon as it was light enough to see out, I started loading my stuff out. On the way back to the Goat on the second trip, I noticed something that looked like animal scat (see Also Noticed).

ALSO NOTICED: On my second load back to the car in the morning, about two-tenths of a mile east of my camp, I noticed what I believe to be fresh Bigfoot scat. It was really big. It looked like a big melted caramel or something. I sent samples to SFRO for a.n.a.lysis, but they were returned with a nasty letter from the postal service. I later gave the samples to SFRO investigator Greg Beamer who sent them to Central Was.h.i.+ngton University for a.n.a.lysis.

OTHER WITNESSES: None. I do all my cryptoid-tracking solo to avoid forest noise. In this case I wish I would have brought somebody. It would have been a lot less scary, and I might have collected better data instead of curling up in a ball clutching a baseball bat.

ENVIRONMENT: This is a thickly wooded area running along the lake sh.o.r.e on a high bluff. As I said earlier, there is abundant game along this trail. My camp was approximately two miles above the trailhead, which obviously isn't that far, but as experienced cryptoid-trackers know, most sightings happen in the ecotone.

Report submitted by: Dave Krigstadt Follow-up investigation pending.

the shadow JUNE 2006 2006.

"Krigstadt! Your shadow's here," said Jared. "And I need an invoice for those clams FedExed off to Fletchers ASAP. As in, before lunch. And don't forget to order wet-locks. I'm not eating another two hundred pounds of coho because you for -"

"Yeah, I got it. I got it." Krig made a show of rifling through some papers on his desk. When he was sure Jared had turned, he grabbed his nuts. "I got it right here."

Jared disappeared into his wainscoted office.

"Little p.r.i.c.k," Krig mumbled. It was one thing to take orders, but to take them from a little a.s.s-munch like Thornburgh, who'd only been there five months, was almost too much to endure. G.o.dd.a.m.n little senator's son - just like the CCR song. Where the h.e.l.l was Thorn-burgh when Krig led the Bucket Brigade to the regional champions.h.i.+p on the glory of his sweet stroke and sure-handed crossover, huh? Where was he when Krig dumped in thirty-four against Forks? In eighth grade, that's where. On top of all that, who was pulling honor roll two years in a row? That's right, Krig. Not as dumb as he looked. He was even in philosophy club for a while, with people like Edward C. Posniak and Katherine Lewis, but the geniuses were even smugger than the jocks. And their humor was insufferable. C'mon, seriously, Spinoza jokes? The point is, it wasn't about brains, getting ahead; it wasn't even about who you know, because, well, Krig knew everybody in this town. It was about, it was about ...

Swiveling around in his squeaky office chair, Krig discovered an Indian kid standing in the doorway of his cubicle. The boy, at least he thought it was a boy, looked about thirteen, but he had to be older. The counselor lady said she was sending a junior. His baggy gray T-s.h.i.+rt read: WHAT THE h.e.l.l ARE YOU LOOKING AT? WHAT THE h.e.l.l ARE YOU LOOKING AT? His jeans looked like a wolverine had gotten to them. He wore his greasy black hair to the shoulders, framing a perfectly round face. He was squinty-eyed and impa.s.sive. Krig thought he looked baked. His jeans looked like a wolverine had gotten to them. He wore his greasy black hair to the shoulders, framing a perfectly round face. He was squinty-eyed and impa.s.sive. Krig thought he looked baked.

"So," said Krig. "You must be my shadow, right? Curtis? Chris?" Curtis or Chris didn't say anything. He just stood there.

"Okay, then. Let's do this thing. You got a notepad or anything? Aren't you supposed to take notes or something?"

The kid s.h.i.+fted his weight, just barely, from one foot to another.

"All right, then, f.u.c.k it," said Krig. "Let's get started. First things first: I'm Dave, the production manager around here. You can call me Krig. That little p.r.i.c.k in the brown office is Jared. He's the GM. That stands for Gay Man."

The kid didn't even blink. Tough nut to crack, thought Krig. Figures he'd get a weirdo. I mean, really, what kind of kid wants to work here here when he grows up? Why did he ever agree to this job-shadow bulls.h.i.+t in the first place? when he grows up? Why did he ever agree to this job-shadow bulls.h.i.+t in the first place?

"So what do you know about this place? You know what we do here?"

The kid gave no indication one way or another.

"Right. Well. We process seafood, since you asked. About four million pounds a year. Most of it salmon. Sounds like a lot, right? ... Right. But before you get the idea you're gonna just waltz into a job here after graduation, you oughta know that we're the last commercial fish processor in Port Bonita. This whole industry went t.i.ts up around here long before your old man ever squirted you out, even before logging hit the skids. There used to be like twenty of these places working around the clock. The whole harbor was lined with them. My old man and my uncles and their old men all used to do this s.h.i.+t. Back in the day, my great-grandfather used to pull hundred-pound chinooks out of the Elwha - June Hogs, they called them. That was then. Most of the fish are in Alaska now. There ain't beans for fish around here. So you see, kid, it's all about sustainability - but I'm not here to give you any history lessons or environmental c.r.a.p. All you need to know is this: you wanna process fish in P.B., you're working for me. And this here," Krig said, indicating his murky cubicle with a panoramic sweep of his hand, "is the nerve center of High Tide."

The kid was apparently unimpressed. Sullen little f.u.c.ker, eh? Wait'll he's spooning fish guts for a living. Wait'll he's squaring his tab at the Bushwhacker five nights a week at closing, pining for some waitress who looks like a mud shark.

"Any questions before we get started? ... Okay then, good. Let's walk you through this. Out there is the processing center."

They stepped out of Krig's cubicle and walked a short ways down the corridor, past a big blurry window, through a heavy door and down some metal stairs. The processing center was a cement gray cavern reeking of fish, a hissing, rumbling dungeon in the bowels of the plant. Curtis saw his mother slitting bellies near the front of the line. She looked stupid in her rubber ap.r.o.n and her paper hat. She waved. Curtis ignored her.

"You know Rita, huh?" said Krig. "Rita's cool. So, how do you know her?"

Curtis didn't answer.

The closer they got to the line, the more deafening became the hissing and rumbling, so that Krig was forced to project his voice over the racket.

"That big f.u.c.ker right there is a hydraulic tote dumper. Fish comes in, that f.u.c.ker picks it up, slaps it onto this f.u.c.ker here - this is the conveyor - and boom, boom, we're locked and loaded. First the cutters - we're locked and loaded. First the cutters - thwack - thwack - there go your heads. Next, we slit the belly, slice the neck, and scoop out the guts. Then we slit the bloodline and bleed the f.u.c.ker. We spoon the bloodline, rinse the b.i.t.c.h, and - there go your heads. Next, we slit the belly, slice the neck, and scoop out the guts. Then we slit the bloodline and bleed the f.u.c.ker. We spoon the bloodline, rinse the b.i.t.c.h, and - boom boom - this f.u.c.ker's ready for market. Any questions? Good, I need a smoke." - this f.u.c.ker's ready for market. Any questions? Good, I need a smoke."

Curtis followed Krig out back to the parking lot, where Krig offered him a smoke. Curtis accepted with the slightest of nods.

"So, what, you don't talk?"

Curtis lit his cigarette and let the question pa.s.s.

"Suit yourself," said Krig, pocketing his lighter. "You smoke weed?"

The kid arched an eyebrow.

"Yay or nay?"

Curtis tendered another slight nod.

"Well, then, I'd say it's about four twenty, how about you? C'mon, time for a safety meeting."

Curtis followed Krig around the back of the warehouse, past the loading dock, and across another dirt parking lot to a lobster red GTO.

"This is the Goat," said Krig. "Pretty sweet, huh? 'Seventy-three. Got it off of some schlub who lost his nut down at Seven Cedars."

"Cool," lied Curtis.

In the car, Krig procured a slim joint from an Altoids container in the glove box. "Kind of a pinner," he said, by way of an apology. "But I gotta maintain at work."

Krig sparked it and took greens. "This s.h.i.+t's the chronic," he said, holding his breath. "No sticks, no stems, no seeds. Whoo-ee gimme some-a-that-sticky-icky-icky. Whoo-ee gimme some-a-that-sticky-icky-icky." He pa.s.sed the joint to Curtis and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke, which hung in the air.

Curtis thought the guy was an idiot. How old was this guy, anyway? He had to be older than his mom. He took a long pull and pa.s.sed the joint back to Krig.

"So, what," said Krig. "You're an Indian, right?"

Curtis didn't say anything.

"That's what I thought. I got a buddy who's an Indian. Doesn't pay s.h.i.+t for taxes. So, you believe in Bigfoot, or what?"

"Nah," said Curtis.

"I thought all Indians believed in Sasquatch."

"That s.h.i.+t's made up."

Krig took another pull from the joint, which was down to a nub already. "Yeah, well, you never know," said Krig, exhaling. "I've seen some s.h.i.+t."

"You were high."

"Heard, anyway. Couple of them. And I've seen a pile of dookie about this big on the Crooked Thumb trail."

"Yeah, and I'm a medicine man."

Krig let the subject pa.s.s. n.o.body wanted to believe him. "So, how do you know Rita?"

"I live with her."

"She's your sister?"

"Yeah, right."

"Your mom?"

"So what?"

"So nothin', just asking. What about your old man?"

"Nothin' about my old man."

"That's cool. I gotcha." Krig handed him the joint. Curtis. .h.i.t it and looked out the window. "So, your mom's like single or whatever?"

"She's whatever."

Krig let this subject pa.s.s, too. Better not to push it. "So, this is seriously what you wanna do when you get out of school?"

Curtis shrugged it off, still gazing sullenly out the window.

"It's not exactly glamorous, as you can see," pursued Krig. "It may seem like good money, but -"

"But you're doing it."