Moving is never easy. Even harder when there’s not enough room in your new life for your most treasured possession. Nora and her sasquatch cutout, Lenny, have been together through thick and thin. And though she knows it's childish to hold onto him, adulthood is calling. How can she give Lenny the send-off he deserves?
I stand next to the once-black silhouette of Big Foot that Granddad made for me. He’s taller than me, twice as wide and a half-inch thick, splattered, and polka-dotted with neon paints of all hues. Weighs more than me, too.
Big Foot—not Granddad. Granddad’s dead. The last of Mom’s kind in the area, aside from her two offspring. And that’s why the U-Haul backed its hollow anus up to our three-car garage.
“We have to take him. You’ll make room or I’m not coming.”
I’d wrestled the plywood cutout from the ground an hour ago. I was kind enough to remove the stakes that stabilized him in the ground so mud wouldn’t get on the rest of our belongings. Even scrubbed off a few bird droppings near his ear and elbow.
“Nora, he can’t come. We’ll find another one in Boise.”
“Someone in Boise made the Sasquatches in Boise. Granddad made Lenny and he’s coming or I’m staying. Here. In Billings.” I’m much too old to be pitching this kind of fit. I’d thrown a fit about moving, and that was understandable. My brother, two years older, had thrown a similar tantrum over relocating.
And since we’re both adults, technically anyway, I guess big bro and I could’ve decided to stay put. But we didn’t. ‘Cause we’re only technically adults and have no earthly clue how to behave like reasonable members of society—or so the reasonable adults in our lives tell us.
I named him—the Big Foot, not my brother—after Granddad’s army buddy who’d saved his life back in Number Two. Granddad lost his right eye, but “Leonard saved the rest of me, he did. He did. Good ol’ Lenny.” I can hear his gravelly voice. Mom and Layton had grown tired of the old war stories long ago, but I could listen to those tales all day as that glass eye of his drifted a tick off center.
“Nora. We’d have to rearrange, and shift things, and we’re already behind schedule.” My stepfather is a stickler for schedules. How Mom—who couldn’t tell time if she was zip-tied to Big Ben—ended up with him, I’ll never understand.
Dallas comes into the garage, lugging a slim metal gun case as tall as me. “Behind for what? What’s in Idaho that can’t wait for us to arrive?”
“Oh no,” I point at Dallas. “If he gets to take that thing, Lenny’s definitely not getting left behind.” Dallas didn’t even keep guns in his gun case. He used it to stash his pool cues. Granddad had gifted him the case hoping to “make a man out of him,” but my brother had no interest in shooting anything but billiards.
“Guys, we already decided what would go and what would stay. You’ll get the money from the auction for your belongings. Neither of you are taking either of those,” Layton says.
My brother and I, twenty-two and twenty years old, give each other that look. We each set our prized possessions down on the garage floor in synchronized loving care and then sit ourselves down, cross-legged and cross-armed. Sometimes we’re so in synch people mistake us for twins.
“We’re moving to an apartment. A small one. Until the company gets going. You can’t take those. Where will you paint, Nora?”
Before I can snark back a borderline disrespectful one-liner, Mom comes around the corner lugging her prized possession—a set of snow skis she’d won some tournament with ten years ago. And my brother and I know that Layton has lost the war.
Layton, poor guy, ducks his head in defeat and begins rearranging dining room chairs and mattresses to squeeze in three unneeded, but indeed very much needed, items.
“Stick with me, Lenny. I’ve got your back.” I pat the cut-out’s enormous head. He smiles at me.
My brother. Not Lenny.
“You do know you have an epically sick relationship with that piece of wood, right, Sis?”
I glance at Dallas’s crotch and raise an eyebrow at him.
Dallas stands and gathers his gun case. “Don’t even go there, Nora.”
#
From Billings to Boise in twelve hours. From our maternal grandparents’ home of decades with room for Dallas’s pool table and my tower of paint cans to a three-bedroom, high-end apartment. I can imagine the behind-the-door conversations Layton has had with my mother. “Cramp them into a smaller space, they’ll leave the nest.” Or, “If they don’t like it, they can always move.” Then Mom, “But they’re not ready yet.” Or “I’ve already lost so much.” Here, I can’t help but imagine Layton would’ve rather spent his scheduled days and orchestrated calendars alone than with our hot mess.
Billings has been rough on him. Boise will be another story.
Layton’s original twelve-hour micromanaged itinerary included two pit stops and lunch from the coolers as we drove.
We had finished lunch from the coolers ten minutes ahead of schedule before Mom hit a land-tortoise-sized pothole with the Honda in Dillon, Montana. Layton swerved the U-Haul behind her and nearly took out her bumper. Not even halfway to our new life.
Well, Layton’s new life as the head of some weird startup company of which I don’t care enough about to retain the details. I don’t know what to call what’s about to happen to mine. “New” sounds too nice. And now I feel the urge to pull Lenny out of the U-Haul and take him for a walk down the highway for a therapy session while Layton makes unreasonable demands of Dillon’s one mechanic who has the only available service bay for our car.
Layton relays the mechanic’s news and Mom melts down, apologizing for putting such a ding in her dear husband’s schedule and breaking more than just a rim on the Honda.
We squeeze into the moving truck, I sit on Dallas’s lap, Mom sits in the middle of the bench seat and we drive a couple blocks down to a Best Western complete with wood cabin/lodge themed exterior. Every hotel out here has a lodge-themed exterior. It’s some sort of unwritten rule, I think.
And now Mom’s back hurts and she’s pitching a fit that she’d packed her lumbar support cushion in a green tote—no not that tote, the other green one way deep in the U-Haul—and needs it badly if we were to rough it in this tiny town overnight.
I can’t tell if Layton is seething or sympathetic. Likely equal parts. My ability to read people was destroyed after Dad did what he did. So, there’s that.
Layton is cussing under his breath as he wrestles the skis, the gun box and finally Lenny out of the trailer to make room for him to wriggle to the far-green-cushion-filled tote. “A little help, Dallas? I wouldn’t think I’d have to ask for help. I’d think you’d see what was going on and actually be present for a moment.”
Dallas leans against the side of the truck, nose is stuck in his phone, bemoaning the start of a long-distance relationship with his Billings bimbo. I don’t think he’s aware we’ve stopped. Or that I sat on his lap for two blocks. Billings, Dillon, Boise. It didn’t matter to Dallas. I give it two weeks before my lover-boy brother lands a new chick with only two requirements: walks upright and enjoys watching him play pool. His standards aren’t that high.
I’m afraid he’s like our father.
While my stepdad and brother argue and shuffle, I lean Lenny against the side of the truck. Then I lean myself against my big Sasquatch and wish he could wrap his arms around me like Granddad used to. Big, strong arms that would squeeze out the fear and uncertainty. An embrace to erase the bad and the hurt and the anger.
I inhale deeply to avoid the barrage of tears welling up. The air is crisp and clean. The distant mountain ranges tower, unmoving. Unchanging. We’re close to Yellowstone. And some other side-park called Beaverhead National Forest. But it’s all the Rockies. Lots of good memories with Granddad, and if I’m honest, even my own father. But Mom has done her best to try to convince me there was nothing good about him—my real dad. Maybe she’s right.
The truck bounces against my back slightly as the guys hunt for Mom’s cushion. I reach behind me and feel the rough edges of the plywood and the bumps the layers of paint have left on Lenny’s arm. I’d really like to dig out my supplies and have another round with him, but I know I can’t. Given my current circumstances, I may never get to paint my Sasquatch again.
He was a cheat and a liar—my dad, not Lenny. Turns out good ol’ Dad named Dallas after the city where he’d met his new true love. Then I came along, and he named me after yet another true love who loved reading romances. Neither of these “loves” was my mother. I remember throwing up after my dad told me these things. No wonder Mom looks at Dallas and me with such hurt. She’s not hurting for us. We’re ever-present reminders—named reminders—of his infidelities.
I can’t help but wonder if I have a half-sibling that’s named after Mom somehow—the town she was born in or after a waitress from some diner they’d had breakfast in back in the day. I imagine the look on some other woman’s face when Dad describes my mom as his one true love. I imagine meeting some other family he’d drug through emotional turmoil. Then I wouldn’t have to be alone with my internal misery and have only Lenny to listen to me wail about the unfairness of life.
A crash from the end of the U-Haul turns heads from a couple of passersby in the parking lot. I walk to the end of the truck. A table lamp kissed the concrete and lays scattered in a bazillion pieces.
Mom loses it all over again.
Dallas and Layton argue like kindergarteners.
No wonder I’m not an adult.
Outside of Granddad, I don’t think I know what one looks like.
#
I watch from the back of the Best Western as the U-Haul pulls away, and I’m weak in the knees that those three went for my idea. After the cushion-lamp-pothole episode, Mom and Layton were heading for divorce court in the parking lot of the Best Western—not that I’d care one way or another about that, but Mom couldn’t handle it, then I’d have to deal with Mom’s brokenness all over again. And there aren’t enough shadow cutouts of sasquatches to self-therapy my way out of that mess.
I stepped up—surprising myself and everyone else—with a somewhat reasonable solution. It’s not like I can’t stay in Dillon while the car is being fixed. I do have a license. It’s valid and everything. I’m even insured.
I suggested the other three take the U-Haul on to Boise and unload (only two hours behind Layton’s precious schedule), and I’d navigate my way to the apartment with the Honda tomorrow. It’ll be the most adult thing I’ve done in a long while, and that bit made Layton stand up a little straighter. Dallas wanted to stay with me, but I insisted he go because they’d need his muscle to unload. He liked that I acknowledged his muscles. Mom was sold on the thought of resting her aching back on her own mattress tonight rather than the lumpy one in the hotel room.
The guys found my overnight bag and some toiletries and left me with cash to pay for the room and the car and a couple of meals out, because the cooler had to stay with Layton—to keep them on schedule.
There is only one problem. I stand and face the back outside wall of the hotel. Lenny’s leaning there. Keeping me company. He wouldn’t fit back in the truck after all the commotion to find Mom’s green tote. To avoid another epic manly meltdown, I told Layton to forget it. I’d find a new home for Big Foot.
And that made him happy.
Layton—not Lenny.
Lenny stands stone-still against the wall. I remember when Granddad made him. Lenny was one of a dozen. The other eleven went to a local farmer’s market/craft fair the summer my Dad left. Granddad liked those fairs with the bluegrass music and barbeque smoke wafting through the air. Other vendors sold blackened silhouettes of leaning cowboys, howling wolves, or Superman with his cape blowing. I’ve even seen an octopus shadow lurking under pine trees in a yard back home.
But I liked the Big Foots best.
I remember watching Granddad work the miter saw, the blond dust shavings spraying all over the garage and down onto his pant legs. And the smell. I must’ve sniffed Sasquatch’s pits hundreds of times after we put him in the yard until the fresh-cut wood stopped smelling so fresh. He’d let me paint Lenny black. Mom whined about the mess and the stains under my nails, but I didn’t care. I had a friend. An always-there, never emotional, secret-keeping friend.
I turn to face Lenny.
“We’ve been through it, haven’t we?” I pick at a purple dot near his nose and pat his yellow and white stomach. “I’ll be right back.”
I make my way to the front desk and ask for the manager. A young woman, probably not much older than me, but because her name tag’s engraved with MANAGER and she’s got the uniform, she seems older. At least wiser. More adult, maybe.
Manager Angie listens as I explain the situation with Big Foot. She smiles and says it’s okay if he stays there, but she’s got some space inside a storage closet that would be better. So no one takes off with him. I leave my overnight bag with the desk attendant and take her up on this offer.
As we walk through the hotel’s hall to the back lot, I ask, “So, how old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“My brother’s age. You’re young for a manager.” I can’t imagine Dallas managing anything.
She swiped her key card and opened the back door. “It doesn’t take much. Just show up and follow directions, mostly. Promoted from within.” Her face breaks into a huge smile when she sees Lenny. She reaches out and touches the globs and splatters of paint. He’s more color than black now. “Wow. He’s cool.”
“Yeah.” I don’t know what else to say to this stranger. How do you introduce your wooden therapist to people?
“You’ve had him a long time.” She looks closer at the layers of paint and pulls him away from the wall to look at the other side.
“Yeah.”
“It must be hard to leave him behind like this.”
“Yeah.” We lift him up and swing him onto his side to make him easier to manage. Angie opens the back door with her key again. We maneuver the cutout into the hallway, and I lean him against my shoulder as she opens an interior closet door.
To a very tiny closet.
With no room for Lenny.
She begins to apologize, but I say, “You know, it was a kind idea. Thanks for your trouble. I’ll just put him back outside.”
“No. Take him to your room. Just don’t, uh—”
I brighten a bit. “No therapy sessions. Got it.”
She grins and helps me onto the elevator with him and pushes the three button. I notice scars on her fingers as she helps me steady Lenny. Tiny scars. I try not to stare at them. We’re quiet on the way up, but she’s staring at my paint job.
In my room, Angie helps me slide him between the double bed and the wall. I’m heartbroken that this is my last night with Lenny. But at least I get to keep him close. A final goodbye, of sorts. Maybe I’ll score some microwave popcorn and diet soda from the mini-mart across the street and Lenny and I can toast the misery away. Both of us moving on.
“You know, I get off in a couple of hours. Want to grab some dinner?”
I can’t tell if she’s being genuinely kind or dishing out pity on her fellow twenty-something who can’t cope with life and spends countless hours throwing paint onto wooden Yetis.
I shrug. “I guess. Okay, yeah.”
“Good. The front desk has your number. I’ll text you when I’m done.” Angie leaves and Lenny watches her go.
And I swear that Sasquatch is winking at me.
#
A quick nap and freshen-up, a quick conversation or two with Lenny about what to do next with my life, and Angie texted that she was ready at the front desk. I pat Lenny goodbye, promise to be back soon, and ride the elevator down to meet Angie.
“There’s a nice locally-owned spot near the kids’ park. Let’s go there. It’s not expensive and the views are great.”
“I’m at your mercy.” We leave the hotel in semi-awkward silence and ride in her little gray Toyota, used but clean, a few miles out of the heart of Dillon. She rolls the windows down. I hope Boise smells as fresh as Dillon. But I doubt it will in a stuffy apartment.
She slows the car and signals a turn.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I burst out laughing as I see the name of the diner. “Big Foot Bistro?”
“Yup. Best cold-cut sandwiches and soups this side of Yellowstone.” She parks and rolls up the windows. “And check out the view.”
I get out of the car and walk to the edge of the parking lot. I ignore the mountainous skyline and sprawling evening clouds. A children’s playground, complete with metal slides and twisting jungle gyms catches my eye. Not because of the typical equipment. Because of the Yetis. At least two dozen of them. Cutouts like Lenny in all sizes. Some peeking from behind pine trees. Some in the trees. One is attached to the side of the slide’s ladder, beckoning children—and me—to climb on up and take a ride. One cutout lies on the ground in a glamour boudoir pose, hand behind his head.
Every Sasquatch is splattered and slapped with all colors of paint.
“Come on in and I’ll tell you about it.” Angie holds open the diner’s door, but I’m not hungry anymore. I want to explore the small park before night falls, but I follow her anyway.
The older waitress with glasses hanging from a chain around her neck seats us and makes small talk with Angie. They obviously know each other. I admire her uniform. Someone’s taken the care to embroider black Sasquatches on the collar tips of the button-up shirt and on the apron’s rim. She pops on her spectacles and pulls out the ticket book. We order soup and sandwiches and look out the window at the darkening clouds and disappearing Big Foots.
“Unbelievable. Of all the places.”
“Well, when I saw yours, I thought maybe you could donate him to the park. They let the kids come every few weeks from around the area. One week it’s art students from some university and they’ll paint murals on the Yetis and pose with them for selfies. Another week it’ll be kids from child protective services. I help with that group when I can. The Bistro feeds them lunch and the local paint store donates returned paint and supplies and the park lets them come out and relieve frustrations.”
“I get that.”
Angie looks at her scars and shows them to me. Fine white lines along most of her fingers, crisscrossing at odd angles. “I used to take my frustrations out via glass-smashing. Pottery pieces, china plates, drinking glasses. Then I found this place. It’s a lot less painful to clean up an emotional outburst here than in my mother’s backyard picking up shards of stupidity.”
The waitress places our soups in front of us. The steam from my broccoli cheese makes my mouth water and reminds my stomach it hasn’t had anything since Layton’s scheduled PB&J just before Mom hit the pothole.
I show Angie my hands. Not scarred, but paint sticks under the nails. A permanent rim of color around the cuticles. She smiles. I tell her mine’s from daddy issues.
“Aren’t they all daddy issues of some sort?” She nods toward the Sasquatches. “I can never tell if its heartbreaking or freeing. Watching the little ones go at those cutouts.”
“There’s probably mommy issues out there too.” I take a bite of soup and it warms all the way down.
Angie nods. “No doubt. What will you do next?”
“Boise’s next, I guess.”
“Doesn’t sound like you want that to be next.”
“Nope.” I take another bite of soup.
“So do something else.”
The waitress brings our sandwiches and a refill of my diet soda. “If you’re looking’ for something to do, we’re hiring in two weeks. Full time. Trudy’s quittin’ to go work upstate with her man.” She said “man” in air quotes.
Angie and I laugh. I feel frown lines replace my smile and my brain starts spinning. I remember why I’m here. The Honda. The looming drive to Boise. My stuff still in the back of the U-Haul. And I’ll need my own car. But…
Angie sees me thinking. “Nora. You’re considering it aren’t you?”
“Probably time I start acting like an adult.”
“That’s the key, isn’t it?”
“What?”
Angie smiles. “Acting like an adult. No one really knows what an adult does. I sure don’t.” She slurps her soup like a toddler.
“I guess so. I’ll just pretend I am. At least for a while.” I take a too-big bite of my sandwich. I imagine my next painting session amid others like me. Young ones damaged by someone who was never supposed to hurt them. Abandoned. Lonely. And no doubt many of their tales of woe far, far worse than mine.
Orange streaks in the darkening sky cause the Big Foots to lose their individual splashes of color and their black silhouettes dot the park. Dark. Looming. Guarding the secrets and rages and tantrums of a hundred children. Keeping them safe until morning breaks.
I think about Lenny back in the hotel and the big wink he’d given me earlier. He knew. He always knew. Just like Granddad with that wobbly glass eye had always known what I needed. Maybe this is Granddad watching out for me. I hear his gravelly voice retelling how he may have lost an eye, but “good ol’ Lenny saved the rest of me.”
He did. Lenny did. I may have lost some traction, but good ol’ Lenny saved the rest of me.
As I watch Angie finish her meal, I make an adult decision. The second one in a day—I’m on a roll.
The next therapy session I have will be in this little park next to Big Foot’s Bistro with Lenny in uniform.
I’ll be wearing the uniform—not Lenny.
