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hs49150.jpgbuy prints of select halfsquatch photographs at etsy or dawanda. (prints of all photographs are available upon request) day 49

The reporters assigned to track Rebecca in Vancouver had different faces than those in Whitehorse – they weren’t as bloated by a steady intake of Andrea Thompson’s giant cinnamon buns – but the drill remained the same: shout a question, get no answer, snap a photo, shout some more.

“Rebecca!”

“Rebecca!”

“How long are you planning to be in Vancouver for?”

“Have you spoken to your father?”

“Who’s your friend?”

Devin draped his arm protectively around Rebecca’s shoulders. She kept her head down as he guided her through the crush of microphones and cameras and mini tape recorders. The reporters chased the pair on foot around the corner. The neighbourhood’s streets were awkwardly narrow, making it difficult to maneuver the most compact of cars, let alone the lumbering SUVs most of the media crews drove. Devin pointed the auto-lock on his keychain in the direction of a tiny silver two-seater, unlocking the doors. “Get in,” he said to Rebecca, and they sped off in the direction of the park.

Devin was in no rush to get to work. Rather, he found a shaded space under a tree close to where his Totem Hole installation was roped off and covered with a tarp and sat with Rebecca. “It must be weird,” he said. “Having all those people chasing after you, and taking your picture all the time.”

Rebecca remained silent.

“I’m sorry. I totally get it if you don’t want to talk about it. Forget I said anything.”

“No. It’s okay. It’s just that nobody ever says anything,” Rebecca said.

“So it is weird, then?”

Rebecca let out a small laugh. “It’s really weird.”

Back in Whitehorse, Dave Thompson was dealing with his own brand of weirdness. He refused to visit the Sasquatch Circus and spent his days holed up in the lodge, picking up shifts in the bakery’s kitchen or in the maintenance department, but most often he found himself pitching in to clean rooms. He preferred dirty toilets and mystery stains on sheets to spending unnecessary minutes with mother or father or the Lady Sasquatch. He’d even volunteered to walk the streets in town as The Cinnamon Fun Bun, but his mother dismissed the idea. It was wrong to have such a shameful, perverted boy advertising baked goods to unsuspecting families, she’d said.

Dave sat at his desk in his bedroom and rubbed the spot just above his right ear where Bob Richman’s fist had made contact. It no longer hurt and the bump had receded, but it had become a habit. He checked his e-mail. No word from Rebecca, only messages promising penis enlargement, a handful of short notes from online friends that would go unanswered, and a message from his father. Tucky had taken to e-mailing Dave regarding the upcoming meeting with the producers who were interested in making a television special set at the lodge. All correspondence was copied to Tucky’s agent and lawyer. It is imperative that you make yourself available… You are a key player on the Thompson family team.

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                                                                                                                                                          ©2008 pamela klaffke