Size Matters (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters)

by Robyn Peterman

  The best and most awe-inspiring part was Fiberglass Paul Bunyan himself. He stood about twelve feet high in the middle of the parking lot, surrounded by purple morning glories that had crept up his large legs and covered most of his bright red pants. His axe was chipped and broken, but more alarming than the axe and flower legs was that half of his head was missing. The left side. He held a large sign in his axe-free hand: WELCOME! SEARCHING FOR SASQUATCH and VACANCIES. Yet again, I questioned the wisdom of coming on this trip, but fifty thousand bucks for the shelter was fifty thousand bucks.

  “Here are the keys to your rooms,” Kim trilled, handing us keys that resembled tiny axes. We stood like a band of lost souls under the watchful eye, because he had only one, of Paul Bunyan.

  “Where in the hell are the shiny fags?” Mrs. C grumbled.

  “Mrs. C!” Kim admonished.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I meant, where in the hell are the shiny fags, bless their hearts.”

  “Mrs. C, you have got to curb your mouth. This is a huge opportunity for us and I won’t have you ruin it with your homophobic slurs,” Kim told her firmly.

  “You know,” Mariah Carey said, sounding every inch the tiny linebacker that she was, “it surprises me that you’d have a problem with the girlie boys since you’re a rug muncher.”

  “Listen, you little green-haired man with teeny tiny boobies,” Edith shouted, turning an unbecoming shade of red, “we don’t like that term, we prefer lesbos or queers. If you insist on using that name, I will cut your hair off while you sleep, knit it into a merkin, and superglue it to your forehead.”

  Everyone froze for a moment in shock and then started to laugh. Hard. Even the old lesbos were laughing. I laughed too, although I had no idea why.

  “Oh my God, what’s a merkin?” I gasped, gathering myself. They all stared at me like I had three heads. “What?” I said. “I don’t know what it is.”

  “I’ll explain later,” Rich whispered, still chuckling. He patted my back and I felt like an idiot. Maybe I should have pretended I knew what it was . . .

  “Um, okay,” I said, not quite ready to give up. “Is it always made out of green hair? Is it gross?”

  My question set everyone off into hysterics again. Thankfully Frick and Frack pulled up, and all the joy over my lack of merkin knowledge disappeared.

  “They’re here,” Kim squealed. Hugh started dancing around the parking lot like his feet were on fire. I truly hoped they weren’t going to film this.

  “It’s really going to happen,” Boo whispered, teary eyed. She clutched her Bigfoot bible to her chest and grabbed her sister’s hand.

  “Are you ready to find Bigfoot?” Frick yelled, giving us the Sasquatch pose. Knees bent, arms raised in the air, and claws out.

  “Yes!” my crazy group shrieked back, assuming the pose. I stood there wondering when I had entered the twilight zone. Rich gave me a gentle prod and I took up the mortifying position too. Thankfully no camera was in sight.

  “All right, the Duluth Daily Gazette will be here soon to get photos,” Frick said. “Let’s move the van and trailer in front of Paul Bunyan. It’ll be a great shot.” He glanced up at the half-headed Paul and winced. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Pull the van up on the right side. Don’t want to scare off the fans with a lobotomized lumberjack.”

  Hugh jumped in the van and parked on Paul’s good side. The excitement was contagious. Kim was practically vibrating and Boo couldn’t stop crying. An SUV with DAILY GAZETTE printed on it pulled in minutes later. Hugh dove out of our van and started an Irish jig that was disturbing to everyone.

  “Hugh.” Rich put his hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “Take it down a notch, buddy.”

  “Right,” Hugh gasped, breathing hard from his shocking performance. “I guess I’m a little gobsmacked,” he said with a grin.

  “We all are,” Rich agreed, “but let’s play it cool.”

  “Cool. I got it,” Hugh said, sticking his chest out and shoving his hands into the waistband of his biking shorts. I was grateful that he’d put on a T-shirt during the drive. I couldn’t imagine what the Gazette would have made of his bare chest.

  A curvy-in-all-the-right-places gal wearing tight clothes and too much makeup below her blond helmet-head hair greeted us with a Minnesota accent so heavy, I could barely understand her. She was accompanied by two generic bald guys carrying cameras and lights.

  “Hi, I’m Heidi Kugelschmooson,” she said enthusiastically, taking in our motley crew. She blanched as she noticed Mariah’s green hair, but she almost passed out when she got a glimpse of Rich. “Boy, oh boy, oh boy,” she mumbled. “Don’t get paid enough to deal with this . . .”

  “Heidi.” Stu sidled over and handed her his card, touching her hand for about fourteen seconds too long. Not that she seemed to mind. She giggled and tried to toss her hair over her shoulder. It didn’t move. It was so hard, it probably could have been used as a weapon. “How wonderful they sent someone so beautiful to welcome us to Duluth.”

  “Ooo, you’re a charmer,” she cooed at our shiny smarmy little producer.

  “Can’t seem to help myself around a piece of... woman like you.”

  “Well,” she said, batting her overmascaraed eyelashes at him, “I’m not just a reporter. I’m the local weather girl too!”

  Holy God Almighty, Rena would crap her pants. She should have come to Duluth to try her hand at broadcasting. Surely she would have beaten out Heidi Kugelschmooson with her unmovable blond hair and overmade-up face, meteorology school or not . . .

  “The weather in Duluth is blessed,” Stu said to her abundant cleavage.

  “Ohhh, Mr. Greenberg,” she giggled, running her hands up and down his hairy, skinny arm.

  “Call me Stuey,” he said, trying to reach around for a quick grab-ass.

  Heidi Kugelschmooson did a move that most pro football players would have admired to avoid Stu’s slimy little hands. I was impressed and completely grossed out at the same time. Did she find Frick, I mean Stu, attractive? I glanced around at my people. They were mute and confused. Even Hugh had no backup sound track for this disaster. It was kind of like watching the mating ritual of things that shouldn’t breed . . . you knew you should turn your head away, but you couldn’t.

  “So Stuey,” Heidi said breathlessly, à la Marilyn Monroe, “I’d like to follow the team and do a daily article on the search . . . if that’s okay with you, sweet cheeks.”

  Frack’s, I mean Stan’s, head shot up from his cell phone and he gave Stu a measured look. Stuey, as he shall be known henceforth, turned away from his partner’s silent whatever and put all of his focus on the hot mess also called Heidi.

  “On one condition, you feisty little thing . . . you come out to dinner with me tonight.” He grinned and stood up to his full height. About five foot two.

  After the briefest moment of indecision or possibly revulsion, Heidi agreed. Maybe it wasn’t indecision . . . maybe she was playing hard to get. Oh my God, why in the hell was I dissecting the thoughts of someone who used more hairspray in a day than I used in an entire year?

  “Well, if you two are done making your revolting, God bless you, pre-fornication plans, let’s take the goddamn picture. I’m hungry,” Edith huffed.

  Heidi blushed thoroughly, Stuey, with great pride, did a Michael Jackson crotch grab, and I pretty much threw up in my mouth. Now on top of everything else, I was going to have the pleasure of watching Stuey Greenberg try to bag Heidi Kugelschmooson. Could life get any better than this?

  “Line up in front of the van for the picture,” one of the bald newspaper guys barked.

  We did. Chattering the whole time, we made our way to the van. Only Rich was unusually quiet. Edith and Mrs. C pushed their way to the front, only to be repositioned by the bald guy to the back. After they blessed his heart, I’m fairly certain they called him a hairless asscrack. Unfortunately I was put right smack in the center. Boo was next to me and everyone else was lined up behind. Heidi exam
ined all of us with a critical eye. Her gaze rested on Rich a bit too long for my liking. If she said one derogatory thing about my friend, I would yank her blond helmet wig . . . ? WTF? She was wearing a wig? A wisp of dark brown hair fluttered around her temple. That brown hair must be pretty awful if she chose to cover it with the blond monstrosity she was wearing.

  “Stuey, would you and your partner like to be in the picture?” Heidi inquired in a sultry tone. “It won’t be the same if you’re not in it.”

  “Nope,” Stan said, holding Stuey back. “We are the producers, not the talent.”

  “Ooooo, come on, you handsome devils,” she purred.

  Stuey was practically salivating, but Stan stood firm. He swatted Stuey across the back of the head and let Heidi know in no uncertain terms that he and Stuey would not be in the picture.

  “Okay,” she pouted. “On three, everybody smile. One, two, three . . .”

  It took about an hour to take pictures. Mostly because the old ladies kept flipping the photographer off. Once we realized what was causing the delay, Rich and Hugh stood behind the nasty old gals and held their arms down. We took pictures in front of the van and in front of the trailer and two with Hugh and Mariah on top of the trailer. That, bizarrely enough, was at Stan’s request.

  Heidi Kugelschmooson and her bald buddies left after she and Stuey made their evening plans. We then brought our luggage to our rooms and planned to meet back up in the parking lot in an hour. I was pissed to see Rich and Hugh helping the old ladies despite the way they’d treated them, but Hugh and Rich were just good guys. Weird, but good.

  My room was . . . well, it was clean and that’s about all I could say for it. The mustard-colored door theme was carried out everywhere. Clearly the owners had gotten a really good deal on the pukey brownish yellow paint. After staring at it for about twenty minutes I was sure they must have gotten it for free. No one would have used this particular color everywhere and paid for it. I changed into some jeans, tennis shoes, and a pink henley. I glanced in the mirror at my hair. My curls had taken on a life of their own. I spent thirty-seven seconds trying to tame them and gave up. Crapmonkeys, how was I supposed to control my life when I couldn’t even control my hair? Whatever. I took a deep cleansing breath and decided to just go with it. At the appointed time, I grabbed a jacket and headed back out to the parking lot. Even though it was July, Minnesota was chilly at night, especially this far north.

  Mariah and Boo stood next to the van. They were both wearing beautifully made, but garishly colored knee-length sweater coats. We’d gotten a donation of them at the shelter. Most of the women who came through didn’t want them due to the lime green and Day-Glo orange color palate, but Mariah had no such issue. She had several and had asked if she could have one for her sister. Louise and I had obliged happily. Since we couldn’t get rid of them, I even took one. I wore it only around the apartment. The knitwork was exceptional and the yarn was soft and cozy. Rena was jealous . . . I’m pretty sure another box of sweaters had been delivered to the shelter with less offensive colors. The boxes always came in the middle of the night with no note. I needed to remember to look when we got back. That would be a good bargaining tool for future bets with Rena. Although I was done betting with her. The last two bets had landed me in Duluth to find Bigfoot and in love with someone I could never be with . . .

  “Bless your heart,” Mrs. C said, eyeing Mariah. “Your sweater matches your hair, which would make you a yarn-head.” Mrs. C and Edith laughed heartily at the joke that made no sense.

  “Yep.” Mariah grinned, completely unoffended. “And your face matches your butt, which makes you an ass-head.”

  I laughed at Mariah’s joke, which not only made sense, but was accurate.

  “I wouldn’t laugh, titanium badoinkies,” Edith snapped at me.

  “You’re right, merkin brains. I should be kinder to people who are hateful to everyone,” I shot back, throwing that merkin word in again. I still didn’t know what it meant, but I knew it was bad. I’d clearly hit my mark. The ladies were speechless and Mariah and Boo laughed so hard they were crying. What in the hell was a merkin?

  Before I could pry an answer out of anyone, Kim burst out of her room in a panic, dragging Hugh behind her. “Where’s Rich?” she asked frantically. “I have news.”

  The way she said news made my tummy tingle . . . in a bad way.

  “Here I am,” Rich said, ambling over. He had changed muumuus and had on a fresh pair of sweats.

  “Moon-Unit called. The good news is she’s got the evil chi narrowed down to the two back guest rooms in her house.”

  “And the bad news?” Boo asked, wrapping her blinding sweater coat tightly around herself.

  “The bad news is that when she researched the TIT network, there was no mention of Searching for Sasquatch anywhere,” Kim said, wringing her hands.

  “You mean TNT network,” Boo corrected her. Jeez, I was out of the loop. I thought this show was for Animal Planet or something like that.

  “No,” Kim said. “I mean TIT. Totally Inspirational Television.”

  “You mean to tell me I’ve come all the way out here to find Bigfoot for Jesus with boobs?” Edith shouted. “I’ve never even heard of that channel! I thought it was TNT and I had a chance to meet Ted Turner, goddamn it.”

  I was having an out-of-body experience. This was wrong on every level. I was out in the middle of nowhere at a lodge where Paul Bunyan had only half a head, with psychotic people, possibly working for a network that had a name synonymous with breasts. I would have been better off wallowing with my broken heart in my bed at home.

  “Okay,” I said sharply, cutting off Edith’s rant before the talk of boobs reminded her that she believed mine to be fake. “If TI . . . um, the network knows nothing about the show, then it doesn’t exist. We need to repack and get the hell out of here. Now.”

  “What about Stuey and Stan?” Hugh asked, confused and songless.

  “Those little shiny homos are up to no good,” Mrs. C bellowed.

  “They’re not homos, you jackass,” Mariah yelled at Mrs. C. “The really short one hit on the weather girl earlier. Besides, you shouldn’t call them homos, even if they are.”

  “What in the hell am I supposed to call them?” Mrs. C shot back.

  “Homosexuals or gay men,” Boo answered for her sister, who was dangerously close to rearranging Mrs. C’s nose.

  “Ohhhh, so it’s just fine and dandy for you to call me a rug muncher, but I can’t call the little shiny guys, fags? Bless their hearts.”

  “Oh. My. God,” Mariah shrieked. “I’m not calling you that anymore. I’m only going to call you lesbo and queer.”

  That shut Mrs. C up . . . for a second. “Well, in that case, I’ll use the term homosexual.”

  “There has to be a reasonable explanation,” Rich said as Kim nodded like a bobblehead.

  “There is,” came a voice from behind us.

  “Shit,” Hugh squealed, startled. He jumped into his wife’s arms and buried his head.

  “There’s a very good explanation.” Stan approached our group with Stuey close behind. I think that was the most words I’d heard Stan speak so far.

  “It better be good,” Edith said, getting up in his face, “you little homo . . . uh, sexual.” She quickly glanced at Mariah for approval. Mariah gave her a curt nod. Pleased with herself, she continued. “I have never heard of your badoinkie network. So speak up or I’ll let the little green-haired menace have at your man-jewels.”

  Stan pulled Stuey in front of him. Clearly, he didn’t want to risk his testicles. “Tell them, Stuey,” he hissed.

  “Okay,” Stuey began, looking at the ground in embarrassment. “It’s not on the network website because they cancelled it.” There was a collective gasp from my group. “They took away most of our funding.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Boo said gently, sensing Stuey’s discomfort. “If they cancelled it, why didn’t they take all your fund
ing?”

  “We had already rented the cameras and the van and had the lodge reservations before they pulled the plug.” He was shaking and his voice was clogged with tears. I started to feel kind of bad for him. “Stan and I failed at our last two projects,” he whispered, “so we put up the money ourselves so we could shoot the pilot. We have to prove to TIT that we can do it.”

  “When did they cancel the show?” Kim asked, putting Hugh down.

  “The day before we came to your meeting,” he muttered morosely, “but when we saw how enthusiastic you were and how hot Kristy was, we knew we could have a hit on our hands.”

  “Were you going to tell us this?” I asked, mortified that my hotness had anything to do with our being in this mess.

  “We were kind of hoping it never came up.”

  “So lay out your plan,” Rich said. “Tell us what we’re doing here and why we should stay.”

  “Right. Of course,” Stuey said, all business. “We have one camera. We’ll go out to designated spots each morning and shoot as much footage as we can. We have been given secret locations by our Yeti scientists of potential dens and hangouts of Sasquatch.”

  “There are Yeti scientists?” Hugh was amazed.

  “Absolutely.” Stuey nodded solemnly. “Men and women, well, mostly men, who have dedicated their lives to scientific research of the habitat, rituals, and existence of Bigfoot.”

  “I knew it,” Hugh shouted gleefully, giving Kim a high five.

  “So you want us to spend two weeks here searching for Bigfoot to save your shiny little asses.” Mariah summed it up in the way only Mariah could.

  “Basically, um, yes.” Stuey nodded.

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” Hugh said.

  “What about the fifty thousand dollars for the women’s shelter?” Rich questioned. “Is that gone too?”

  “No,” Stuey interjected quickly. “Brooks Spewter, the CEO of TIT, was caught with hookers at a major Jesus conference a month ago. TIT took a big hit, being a religious network and all, so they’re looking for some good press. The publicity department jumped at the chance to give to a women’s shelter. They’re playing it like it was Spewter’s idea.”