A team of Bigfoot believers, a legion of “Haters,” more than one Walmart parking lot, and the showman at the center of it all.
Amarillo has three such behemoths, and on a bright, noticeably warm February day, seven of us had gathered at the 42nd Avenue store. The group—a small gaggle including some state and local media types—was packed into an enclosed cargo trailer parked at the far edge of the lot’s constellation of lampposts, that twilight zone where none but runaways, criminals, and budget travelers dare turn off their engines. The only light in the modified trailer came from a few afternoon rays,and wood shavings scattered around the floor like confetti gave the interior a decidedly pleasant smell of fresh lumber. Half-opened boxes of promotional T-shirts were stacked neatly along the edges. Small spirals of fuzz hung from a frayed roll of commercial carpeting tucked in the corner, a sign it had been cut without the use of a proper utility knife. In the center of this tableau was the marquee exhibit—a nine-foot-long coffin topped with Plexiglas.
Amarillo has three such behemoths, and on a bright, noticeably warm February day, seven of us had gathered at the 42nd Avenue store. The group—a small gaggle including some state and local media types—was packed into an enclosed cargo trailer parked at the far edge of the lot’s constellation of lampposts, that twilight zone where none but runaways, criminals, and budget travelers dare turn off their engines. The only light in the modified trailer came from a few afternoon rays,and wood shavings scattered around the floor like confetti gave the interior a decidedly pleasant smell of fresh lumber. Half-opened boxes of promotional T-shirts were stacked neatly along the edges. Small spirals of fuzz hung from a frayed roll of commercial carpeting tucked in the corner, a sign it had been cut without the use of a proper utility knife. In the center of this tableau was the marquee exhibit—a nine-foot-long coffin topped with Plexiglas.