Menver Pt. 1: Rock Guys

Living in “Menver” is terrible and I love it.

Denver is the land of single men. When you live here, you run into a lot of them. Like, a lot. So many in fact that you start to categorize them into specific types.

One of those types are Rock Guys. Rock Guys are fucking everywhere.

Rock Guys aren’t Crystal Guys. Crystal Guys went to design school and journal every morning. Rock Guys are different.

For one thing, Rock Guys don’t buy their rocks. Every piece in a Rock Guy’s collection was pulled from the ground by their own hands, and they’ll tell you about when and where it happened for as long as you’re willing to listen. Sometimes longer.

Rock Guys think people who pay for rocks are silly. Rock Guys think people who pay for anything are silly because Rock Guys are Facebook-Marketplace, dumpster-dive-on-a-hot-Saturday-afternoon, haggle-until-blue-in-the-face frugal.

Rock Guys have trade jobs. They work with their hands. They mountain bike. They dress like they’re between housing situations. They carry Bowie knives everywhere, even to brunch spots, and you just sort of have to be cool with that because Rock Guys are incredibly stubborn.

You know those kids who were super into dinosaurs in kindergarten? Some of them grew up to be Rock Guys. The kids who could name every Pokémon got degrees in Computer Science and invested in crypto and the kids who knew a lot about insects developed prescription pill addictions.

Anyway, back to Rock Guys: You’ll meet them at a dog park and invite them over and they’ll bring rocks. This one was originally from upstate New York. He brought Herkimer diamonds in a Ziploc bag and larger pieces of quartz wrapped in old newspaper. He was tall and lean and standoffish. I was nervous in his presence, which was a sensation I think we both enjoyed.

He had an app that showed all the miles he’d biked. He talked about his times in relation to everyone else's, as if I wouldn’t be properly impressed without the comparison. Turns out Rock Guys sort people into categories too. There’s “Most People” and then there’s “Him”.

We didn’t date, exactly. Rock Guys don’t really “do” commitment or labels. But we hung out for months. He cooked for me. We ate standing up. We fucked standing up. He didn’t seem to like when I knew things but also was mildly annoyed with me when I didn’t know something. It wasn’t long before I realized that he loved the dog he shared with his ex more than he could ever love me, and I was fine with that.

She’s a really good dog.

He had this way of serving up criticism dressed as unsolicited advice, like a shitty personal trainer.

“You should get better dining chairs so that you don’t have to hunch over your plate like a gremlin.”

“Apologizing that much makes you seem insincere.”

“He probably asked where you’re from because of all the makeup. He’s not used to seeing that from girls here.”

And like a shitty personal trainer, his opinion could only matter to me for a short time. He would say something rough and when he left my apartment I would think, ‘God, is that what he really thinks of me?’ and then 25 minutes and a slice of apple tart later I’d be staring at photos of him shirtless and all (well, not ALL but most) would be forgotten.

We fell out of touch, which was more his doing than mine. I didn’t pursue him. Rock Guys are fast, man. Once they get rolling downhill they just don’t stop.

I keep some of the rocks he gifted me on my bookshelf. I like looking at them. They remind of hard, fond moments.