Rendezvous at Smiley Face Rock
I SWALLOW AN OCCASIONAL person not because I am hungry, but because I am tired of all the shenanigans. For starters, they keep incorrectly referring to me as a mountain. I am no more a mountain than Abba is a metal band. I am a rock, pure and simple. It is not my fault that I was created with two creepy eyes and a permanently frowning mouth and a long and bald crown that could give Telly Sevalas a run for his money.
The comments from the hikers are the worst part of my day. Oh my God, is that Freddy Krueger lookout? Look mommy, there’s a big ugly man in that mountain! Come over here and get a picture of me standing in front of this big mopey bastard! I suppose that people just don’t have class anymore.
And I can never grab a hold of them and exact my revenge when they hike in groups. That would lead to screaming and hollering and way too much attention. But every so often one of them stumbles into my mouth while wandering about my little canyon all alone.
I ate my first one in 1984. He was a middle-aged dude with a red bandanna tied around his forehead and a black KISS concert t-shirt covering his chubby torso. He had a transistor radio tied to his backpack and when he sat down in my mouth to enjoy his lunch, I was forced to listen to grown men with long curly hair and silly bangs sing about groping chicks and getting high. In one quick and mean bite I felt that sweaty music lover collapse and explode and then slide down my gullet and into the center of the earth. That first meal made me feel a bit uncouth. But if I am being completely honest, it felt rather good to take charge of the situation for once.
My next meal was a hummer. You know, one of the world’s least graceful creatures who wake each morning with a burning desire to push an unending stream of tortured tunes from their diaphragm, up through their chest and into their voice box, only to let the tortured musical notes barely escape through tightly pursed lips. These individuals need to either sing or shut the hell up. This woman was on the younger side, perhaps 20 years of age. She wore braided pigtails that looked childish on her, coupled with blue overalls and mood rings on most of her fingers. There was also a silver hoop adorning her left nostril, which I did not mind so much.
At first, I could not tell what she was humming. Then I recognized the tune as Friend of the Devil by the Grateful Dead. This annoyed me instantly, as the woman was much too young to have actually remembered the Grateful Dead, and I therefore decided that she was a poser and had to go. But the more she hummed that delightful tune the more I found myself tapping along and wondering if I might possibly spare her. I was rather flattered that she decided to stop at my humble corner of the world to take a break and enjoy her lunch. She crawled up into my mouth and dangled her legs over my bottom lip. She swayed her legs back and forth more carefree than a monarch butterfly on an August afternoon. She kept on humming Friend of the Devil and I continued to listen and enjoy her lovely voice. Then, I heard the popping open of a pull tab, as her gentle throat guzzled a soda to wash down her lunch.
This would have all been fine and dandy if the young woman had been more careful with her drink. But when she slapped the can down onto my bottom jaw, the sugary liquid sprung forth from the opening and splashed onto my tongue. Cactus Cooler! I consider myself to be a rather patient rock, but this was a step too far. The young woman had to go. My mouth closed down onto her so fast and hard that she never knew what hit her. The worst part about this ordeal was that I had to ingest the entire contents of the Cactus Cooler can.
My most recent meal was a talker. Perhaps I should be more precise. He walked with his phone in his hand and an ear piece shoved into the side of his head. I could hear this prick coming from a mile away, yammering on and on about stock trades and baseball teams and why his favorite car is a Saab. The closer he got to me, the more I started to tremble with rage. As he stood directly before my eyes, he could have never imagined that I was actually looking straight at him.
Holy shit, man! I wish you were here to see this big stupid mountain. I’m going to take a picture and send it to you, dude. It looks like some old broad who got scared in her bedroom in the middle of the night by a burglar!
This guy kept droning on and on to his friend as he quickly closed the distance between us with each step of his dorky man sandals. He was maybe 40 years old, with a few days worth of dark razor stubble and a fanny pack hanging too low and covering most of his nuts. He climbed right up into my mouth and crawled around on his soft belly. He told his friend on the phone that I smelled like a dirty hamster cage and that he would have to come out and see me for himself sometime. But the final straw with this guy was his phone’s ring tone. When another call came in a few minutes later, I was forced to endure the theme for Miami Vice rumbling through my cranium with a vicious intensity. Those goddamn electronic drums.
Adios, Sonny. CHOMP!
I’ve been taking it easy lately and I haven’t had a “meal” for almost nine months. The days are getting longer, though, and summer will be here soon. Summer means more hikers and more hikers means that my patience will be pushed to the limits once again. Perhaps humming some familiar tunes will help me to pass the time and soothe my volatile temper.
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