The Legend of "Big Foot" Szeferes
by Charlie Cole
One day at break, Jonas Szeferes and I came in from the shipping yard. Ours was dirty work, and Jonas liked his hands clean, as if he was delivering a baby. He was drying them when Mary-Margaret plunked her clementine peelings into the food disposal and hit the switch. He must have been distracted because he jumped a foot.
“Your hands,” she said, noticing. “You need to take better care of yourself. They’re so dry.” She held one up. “Look, Suellen.”
“Chapped and chafed,” agreed Suellen, clicking her tongue knowingly. “I’ll bet he doesn’t do the dishes much.”
Jonas pulled his hand away, but looked closer, interested.
“A man’s hands should be rough,” I said.
“Rough, but not parched, not bleeding.”
“Who’s bleeding?” asked Mr. Fillmore, the manager, poking his head out of his office.
“His hands are chapped,” said Mary-Margaret.
“Are you okay to work?”
“It’s nothing,” said Jonas.
“Why doesn’t someone lend him some hand cream? The girls’ll fix you right up.” Fillmore shook his head and ducked back out of sight, closing his door.
Later, Jonas and I were lifting a large refrigerator because the dolly was broken.
“My hands feel greasy,” Jonas said.
I tipped the unit back toward him. “Got it?” We hoisted it up between us and started walking down the ramp onto the dock.
“I think so,” he said.
“You think so?”
“It’s slipping!”
“We’re over halfway there, but if you need to stop . . .”
“I guess not,” he grunted. We were just stepping off the ramp when it happened. “She’s going!”
The refrigerator dropped right across his feet.
“You okay? I’ll get Fillmore.”
“Funny, they don’t hurt at all.”
Fillmore came running. “How do you feel, boy?”
“Tingly all over. And kind of hungry.”
“That’s the shock setting in,” blurted Suellen.
“I feel so responsible,” said Mary-Margaret, joining.
Fillmore and I moved the fridge.
“It’s not like that. It’s a good tingling. I’m fine, really.”
“That’s for a doctor to decide,” said Suellen.
Fillmore had me drive Jonas to the clinic. Dr. Graves reported no broken bones, but he recommended Jonas alternate between keeping his feet up and soaking them. While Fillmore gave Jonas the rest of the day off, I was pretty sure it was only because Dr. Graves insisted.
That night Jonas went contradancing because it was Thursday and that’s what he did Thursdays. For a big nothing, he was known for great flair on the dance floor, but this night, so I heard, he had two left feet. It was funny at first, then embarrassing.
The next day, Jonas was twitchy. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he said. “My feet feel heavier.”
“Heard you were out,” I said. “Did you at least soak them first? They’re probably still swollen from being smashed.”
“It’s something else, like they’re not my regular feet anymore.”
On Monday, Jonas arrived barefoot for work. His feet were whiter but, except for being the “wrong size” for his body, they didn’t appear damaged. I punched in and pulled him aside.
“Are you out of your mind?” I asked.
“My shoes don’t fit anymore,” he explained.
“So buy another pair,” I offered.
“It won’t do any good. They’re just going to keep getting bigger.”
Fillmore noticed. “How are the feet, Jonas?” he asked.
“Big, sir.”
“Do they still hurt?”
“Never did, sir.”
“Would you say you received adequate and timely medical attention?” Fillmore asked.
“Sure,” said Jonas.
Finally, Fillmore said, “What’s wrong with shoes today?”
“I’ve gotten too big for them, sir.”
“Jonas, here at Fillmore’s Cut-Rate Appliances, there is no room for eccentricity, but I’ll be glad to be a reference.”
And that was that. No longer coworkers, Jonas and I sort of came around to being friends. I’ve always had a soft spot for underdogs, being one myself. We were going through the Burger Palace drive-through behind Millicent Pritchard, the head cheerleader for the Duquesne Sentinels, when I had an idea.
Sitting at his desk, Coach Ray, my brother-in-law, rolled the chewing tobacco around in his mouth before spitting into the plastic replica Grecian urn.
“You can always use a great place-kicker,” I insisted.
“He’s five years older than most of my boys.”
“He’s never done any high schooling. You’d probably have him for four or even five years. He doesn’t smoke or drink and he plays a mean game of cribbage.”
“But can he kick?”
After the fifth straight time Jonas had booted the ball through the goal posts from the fifty-yard line, Coach Ray said, “What if they call it an unfair advantage? We can’t exactly hide those things.” Those “things” were, at the time, seemingly paused at a tight size 21 shoe.
“They’re one hundred percent Grade A natural. No drugs. If someone complains, think of the publicity you’ll get out of it.”
“He’ll make the papers for sure. And it’s not like our stats don’t have room for improvement. But if his feet shrink?”
“Then everyone’s still better than where they were before.”
I gave Jonas some breathing room for a few weeks. He went from awkward oddball to overnight sensation.
At the first pre-season exhibition game, the opposing coach threatened to take his ball and go home, except a college scout was there to watch his son, the quarterback. I saw Jonas later at a victory celebration. I had to wade through a sea of curious fans.
“Is this crazy?” he asked.
“So things are well?”
“A few kids go out of their way to step on my feet, but maybe that will change when they get to know me.”
“Been dancing lately?” I asked.
“Just at a friend’s house, and I knocked over two lamps. I’m taking a break from contradancing.”
“So you’ve got friends, that’s great!”
Two pretty girls grabbed him and started pulling him back into the throng. “We caught Big Foot!” they cheered.
We shrugged our wordless goodbyes as he disappeared into the chanting crowd.
“Big Foot! Big Foot! Big Foot!”
Charlie Cole lives with his family in Maine on land once owned by his great-great grandfather. He has been previously published in Bewilderingstories, The Blue Crow, The Sandy River Review, The Café Review. Contact Charlie.
