MY MARRIAGE WAS DEEP into a tailspin when the video of Bigfoot hit the news cycle and the world shit a brick. Drone footage — 46 seconds of incontrovertible proof. No digital trickery, no blurred imaging. No hillbillies tearing through Umpqua National Forest in a padded-out gorilla suit. Journalists and cranks flooded into the Pacific Northwest. One of the presidential candidates suggested a nuclear strike on the Klamath River. The other remained focused on tax credits and abortion rights. The race was deadlocked. People wondered if Bigfoot was evidence of climate change or the devil. Does he believe in a two-state solution? asked the Mayor of Nazareth. A tattooist in Portland filed a petition to stop the creature from being misgendered. It got 150,000 John Hancocks and an MRA group went nuts, firebombing City Hall on 4th Avenue. By the end of the week, the demonstrable existence of a cryptid bipedal lifeform was fodder for Reddit memes. My agent had been fielding calls for three days straight. The numbers were astronomical once overseas licensing deals were factored in.
I already knew that I would hunt it down — even if it meant divorce.
*
“He’s not even listening to me now,” Zoe said. “He’ll pretend he is, but really he’s thinking about whatever crazy thing he prioritizes over his own wife.”
We were at couples therapy again, the downtown office of Dr. Aaron Finkelman PsyD curated for maximum banality. Cream walls and asymmetrical Nordic furniture. A potted dracaena in one corner and a Vettriano print behind his desk.
Zoe kept talking. “He’s not interested in me anymore. Never mind being in love or sharing a life together. He doesn’t care.”
Finkelman steepled his fingers Bond - villain style — raised his eyebrows at me. “Would you say that’s an accurate assessment of your relationship?”
I blinked as if waking from a dream. “Sorry… what was that?”
Zoe shook her head. “Motherfucker.”
She never knew when I was joking or serious. Neither did I.
But she was right.
Faced with the dissolution of my marriage, all I could think about was Bigfoot.
“You knew who I was when we met, Zoe.”
“And I love you for the man you are. I don’t want you to change.”
“It sounds like you do.”
“There just has to be more. People are supposed to grow.”
“What if I like who I am? I’m happy doing what I do.”
“You’re the unhappiest person I’ve ever known.”
“That’s different.” The mention of my mood swings and depression annoyed me. “Look, you want to know what I’m thinking about? The same as always. It’s a multi-million dollar business. Dozens of employees. Lawyers, merchandise. You act like it’s some stupid game played by kids.”
“You literally run around chasing monsters.”
“And you pretend to be someone else in front of a camera for a living.”
Zoe looked at our therapist for support. “He’s always telling me that he’s gonna slow down. Stop working so much. Stop flying around the world looking for mythical creatures.”
“Yet he doesn’t.”
Was that a yeti joke? Finkelman seemed very pleased with himself.
“That’s how we’ve got the big house in Malibu,” I said.
“The big empty house.”
Finkelman asked if money was an issue in our relationship.
Zoe rolled her eyes. “He’s got more than enough to live out the rest of his days on the interest, and I’ve got my own money.”
Which was true — she still cleared a sizable fortune every year in residual checks from a successful comedy-drama about a law firm of witches that ran from 2006 to 2013.
Finkelman breathed a sigh of relief.
I stood up to leave. “This conversation is going nowhere.”
“You walk out of that door, and we are through. I mean it.”
Ninety minutes later, I was on a chartered plane headed north for Oregon.
*
Dark nights in the forest always lead to self-reflection. The crazy thing is that I did love Zoe, but I lacked any language to express it — verbal, emotional, or otherwise. A self-made millionaire, I still felt as though life had happened to me. My career as a survivalist and cryptid hunter began as a way to travel for cheap and avoid responsibility. It had taken me to six continents and turned me into a brand. I tracked sightings of dinosaurs in the Congo and searched Belize for El Chupacabra (which turned out to be a jaguar with vitiligo and swollen lymph nodes). My books were New York Times bestsellers written by other people. I didn’t own a computer or a cell phone but, as of October 2024, I had 96 million followers on Instagram. More than the prime minister of India but less than Vin Diesel. I was profoundly lonely. There were endorsement deals with Under Armor and a signature collection of steak knives, but I’d never lifted weights and was famous for foraging in the woods and eating grilled elk meat with my hands. Late-stage capitalism dances to the drum of its own faulty logic.
*
A sharp howl woke me up the next morning.
The creature had wandered into my trap. I watched it wrestle against the net, suspended between two black cottonwoods. Spears of light filtered through the dense foliage above. It had to be seven feet tall. Covered in brown fur. Smelling like Satan’s gym bag.
Checking my watch, I realized the election was weeks ago.
I had no idea who won. Did I even care? It was a choice between life support and the mercy killing of a terminally sick patient.
My marriage was over, but the whole world was broken.
I cut the rope and the creature landed with a heavy thump. It stood, sniffed the cold air then looked right at me. Quizzical then comprehending. A quick nod before it turned and started moving toward the mountainside.
We were miles from the search radius. They would probably never find it again.
After a brief moment, I grabbed my gear and followed.
— THOMAS TRANG
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