The Mountains Grew Up Roosevelt’s Nose.
A short story by Robert Cormack.
“Suppose you were an idiot, and suppose you were a member of Congress; but I repeat myself.” Mark Twain
Nobody considered them mountains at first, at least not enough to cause political intrigue. If anything, the rock formations were more like big abstract granite sculptures breaking through people’s lawns. As the mountains grew, the ocean levels dropped, reportedly caused by tectonic plates forcing the granite rock up while opening fissures in the sea floor.
After years of rising ocean levels, the New England shorelines were now six feet lower. Harbours that used to brag of being deepwater ports were now dotted with red buoys, marking areas where ships risked running aground on old scuppered ships and other flotsam.
At the same time, water systems, septic systems, sewers, gas lines, were all heaved out of the ground. Light standards tilted, streets were deemed hazardous. Granite monoliths poked out of backyard pools.
In South Dakota, Lakota communities painted granite spires with ancient symbols.
A mining engineer in Utah blasted a rock formation rising in his garden. Days later, it had grown back like a giant animal’s horn. In South Dakota, Lakota communities painted granite spires with ancient symbols.
Across the southern Bible Belts, pastors and evangelists alike warned congregations to repent before the “stone fingers of hell rose up and dragged down into flaming pits.” A rock formation outside Dearborn, Michigan, looked so much like Stonehenge, anthropologists were called to see if neolithic sites might be re-emerging from ancestral graves.
Meanwhile in Washington, representatives wanted to declare a state of emergency, but the president said it needed ratification. It was a stall, of course. A fall election was coming up. As he said, the last thing he needed was “losing his momentum and popularity to some stupid hills.”
But still the mountains grew.
The following Tuesday, President Gilford, now in his seventies, heavy, red-faced, a recent pig valve recipient, called a meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. When they entered the room, he was staring at the front page of the Rapid City Journal. A picture showed a large granite spire rising from the rubble at the base of Mount Rushmore. The byline said it looked like a giant finger going up Teddy Roosevelt’s nose.
“Well, gentlemen” the president said, throwing down the paper. “Looks like we can’t ignore this situation any longer. The day one of our nation’s heroes starts taking it up the nose, we have to act. I’m all ears, boys. Nothing’s off the table. Who wants to start? Anyone?”
Most of the granite spires had risen out of the ground with hardly any vibration at all.
Sitting at the other end of the table was a scientist from The Institute of Seismic Activity. Dr. Maynard was a last minute addition to the meeting. Nobody was sure if they needed an earthquake expert or not. It wasn’t like anything had appeared on the Richter scale. Most of the granite spires had risen out of the ground with hardly any vibration at all.
“Well, Maynard?” President Gilford said to him. “You’re the expert on this stuff. What do we do about these things?”
“Mr. President,” Dr. Maynard said, his thick spectacles starting to fog on his otherwise chalky face, “these mountains, as you call them, shouldn’t surprise us considering the Earth is essentially a ball of volcanic magma. If we look at the topography of other planets, granite boulders — some as high as Mount Everest — are very common.”
“Who cares about other planets?” the president said, tossing the Rapid City Journal on the table. “Teddy Roosevelt’s one of our most beloved presidents. I got an election coming up in the fall. This either sinks my presidency or reaffirms it. Now what do you suggest we do?”
“To be honest, Mr. President,” Maynard said, “I’m not sure we can do anything. Based on the Earth’s composition — ”
“We’ve got to do something before November, Maynard. Can’t we nuke these mountains or something?”
“I’m not interested composition,” the president interrupted again, grabbing the Rapid City Journal back. “We can’t have a rock going up Teddy Roosevelt’s nose. We’ve got to do something before November, Maynard. Can’t we nuke these mountains or something?”
The Secretary of Defense, spoke at this point. He said it would be unwise and not inconsequential. “We’re already dealing with lowering sea levels, Mr. President,” he said. “For all we know, nuking these things could cause chasms draining our fresh water lakes and aquifers.”
“Is this true, Maynard?” the president asked.
“Possibly,” Maynard said. “Any sort of nuclear activity below ground would cause chasms. To what extent they’d drain all the fresh water, I don’t know. Quite likely, they would.”
“Okay, then,” the president said, “What do you suggest?”
“There’s really nothing we can do,” Maynard said, wiping his glasses. “We may have to wait until these mountains stabilize.”
“Not an option,” the president said. “Look, either I tell the people something, or the bloody news media’s going to make it up themselves. You know how they are. This could cause widespread panic. What are other countries doing, for chrissake?”
“China turned one of them into a ski hill,” The Secretary for Foreign Affairs said. “Up in the Jiangsu province. Aerial reports are coming in now. It might be a way of placating people, Mr. President.”
“What the hell are you talking about, James?” the president said.
“What if we, say, turned rock climbing into an Olympic sport? We could get the networks on board, broadcasting local and national rock-climbing events, maybe even a few here in Washington. There’s one decent-sized rock out back of the Lincoln Memorial now.”
The Secretary of Agriculture stood up at this point, holding a binder full of damning statistics. “Mr. President,” he said, “I’m getting new information every day. Farmers can’t even plant this year with these damn rocks — mountains — popping up everywhere. There isn’t a farm in Kansas that hasn’t been effected. We’re talking about our food, Mr. President, not to mention exports. Grain sales to Europe are going to be a bust.”
“Did you see The Golden Gate Bridge? It looks like a giant whale breaching right through the centre lanes.”
“Even if we could grow something,” the Secretary of Transportation said, “how would we move the goods? Every major road and railway is damaged. Did you see The Golden Gate Bridge? It looks like a giant whale breaching right through the centre lanes.”
“Well, Maynard,” the president said, “what do you have to say about that? Still think we can wait until these damn things stabilize?”
Maynard was looking pretty shaken at this point. Nobody had ever asked him for solutions before. His last paper of any significance spoke at length about restricting subdivisions along the San Andreas Fault. It was quickly silenced by a consortium of developers and bankers.
“Mr. President,” he said, “the only thing we can do at this stage is see if there are any patterns, study them, and — ”
“Study them?” President Gilford said. “You know I’m not a sit-and-watch kinda guy. If someone says, Call in the army, that’s what I’ll do. But this — ” grabbing the newspaper and throwing it down again — “this makes my skin crawl. We’ve gotta do something now. And I mean today.”
Everyone started mumbling, something the president had expressly told his people never to do. He hated mumbling.“Mumblers are fools,” he used to say, even making a pledge during his inauguration to rid the White House and Capital Hill of mumblers. Now everyone was mumbling.
“Don’t we — in times of war — look for that symbolic moment? You know, Iwo Jima. San Juan Hill.”
“One thought,” Ed Dewy, the Secretary of Defense said, pulling the cuffs of his decorated uniform. “Don’t we — in times of war — look for that symbolic moment? You know, Iwo Jima. San Juan Hill.”
“Okay, Ed,” President Gilford said. “Iwo Jima. San Juan Hill. Good optics. America the beautiful, that sort of stuff?”
“Exactly, Mr. President. Show people we’ve got this tiger by the tail. Give them a source of pride. The American can-do spirit.”
“A distraction, in other words.”
“Absolutely,” Ed Dewey replied.
He reached across the table, picking up the president’s copy of The Rock City Journal. “Say we tell all the newspaper organizations to be in Keystone, South Dakota on this date and time. Keep it a bit of a mystery. Everyone shows up, cameras roll. Then we blow that mountain — that big finger — right out from under Teddy Roosevelt’s nose.”
The Secretary of Agriculture stood up aghast.
“Mr. President,” the said, “we’ve got a food crisis on our hands, and the Secretary of Defense is talking about blowing up Teddy Roosevelt’s nose? Am I missing something here?”
Everyone started talking at once. President Gilford raised his hands, then brought his fists down on the table.
“Shut up, all of you,” he yelled. “Of course you’re missing something here, Barney” — Barney being the Secretary of Agriculture — “We’re talking perception. We’re not blowing up Teddy Roosevelt’s nose. We’re blowing up the mountain going up his nose. It’s the blast that will be heard around the world. Don’t you see? We’re saving the memory of a great president — not destroying it.”
“To what end, Mr. President?” Barney exclaimed.
“Pride, you idiot,” President Gilford replied. “Good ol’ American pride. Speaking of which, we’d better move on this, gentlemen. No excuses, no delays. I want it going off without a hitch.”
A week later in Keystone, South Dakota, with news organizations from around the country on hand, a blast was heard as far away as Hill City. When the clouds of smoke and rubble cleared, Teddy Roosevelt, the 26th president of the United States, no longer had what looked like a giant finger up his nose. Applause and cheers rose from the spectator sites while fireworks exploded in dizzying colours across the sky.
President Gilford stood at a podium, hands clasps above his head, the look of victory in his eyes.
“My fellow Americans,” he said. “Today, we’ve taken the first step towards defeating this scourge facing our nation. In the weeks and months ahead, this administration will fight these mountains until they’re beaten back to the very depths of the Earth’s core. That’s my promise to you — and and one of the greatest presidents that ever lived, Teddy Roosevelt.”
The crowd roared its approval.
Back in Washington, sitting again with his Chiefs of Staff, President Gilford had all the major newspapers in front of him, including The Rock City Journal. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, sitting back with his hands behind his head. “Never let it be said you can’t turn shit into shoe letter.”
“What exactly did we turn, Mr. President?” the Secretary of Agriculture asked. “I’ve reports here saying every field in the United States is so full of rock formations. We can’t harvest a single bean or a cabbage.”
“Let’s just say we bought ourselves time, Barney,” the president smiled. “We’ve got the public on our side now. Perception is everything. I’m even thinking we should proceed with making rock climbing an Olympic event. Let’s suggest it to the IOC and get their feedback.”
“Sir,” the Secretary of Defense said. “That mountain is the Lincoln Memorial now. Lincoln’s hanging from the on top of it.”
“Mr. President — ” the Secretary for Agriculture said.
“I know, I know, Barney, our agriculture is screwed, the whole damn economy is screwed. Until we figure out this mountain business, let’s not leaving our feet swinging, okay? Talk to the Olympic Committee. And get some climbers repelling down the mountain behind the Lincoln Memorial.”
“Sir,” the Secretary of Defense said. “That mountain is the Lincoln Memorial now. Lincoln’s hanging from the on top of it.”
“Then call in our engineers,” the president replied. “We’ve got to get our 16th president down from there. And Bill” — Bill Thompson being the Secretary of Public Affairs — “find a song. Springsteen or something. The minute Abe’s back on the ground, I want singing.”
“Right on it, boss,” Bill Thompson said.
As everyone was leaving the room, President Gilford looked out the window. There before him, teetering up on the mount, sat Abraham Lincoln, beneficent and wise, the sun shining over his head.
“Magnificent,” President Gilford said.
“Ah, sir? Mr. President?”
Dr. Maynard was still gathering up his scientific papers.
“What is it, Maynard?”
“It’s just, sir, something occurred to me last night. Tectonic plates more often than not return to their original position. It’s possible, Mr. President, these rock formations might — I say might subside.”
“How long?” President Gilford asked. “When?”
“No idea. Maybe years — ”
“We don’t have years, for chrissake,” the president said, tapping his fingers against the window. “Not a bad thought, though. The whole subsiding bit. Might give us some breathing room. Write it up, Maynard. Everything but the timeline. Nobody believes timelines, anyway. Stick to tectonic plates. I’ll have our Public Relations people hype it up.”
“But, Mr. President — ”
“Have it on my desk this afternoon.”
“Yes — yes, sir,” Dr. Maynard said.
President Gilford continued staring out the window, watching as a convoy of army engineers started arriving on the scene. They circled the mountain like ants while the 16th president sat teetering on the top.
“Magnificent bastard,” Gilford said. “A hundred and fifty years and he’s still stealing the show.”
“Who is, sir?” Maynard asked.
“Lincoln, you idiot. Best public relations man in history. Look at him sitting up there like a goddamn god. That’s presence, Maynard.”
“It looks like he’s going to fall,” Dr. Maynard said.
“He won’t fall, Maynard,” President Gilford turned to him. “This is the United States of America. We won’t let him fall. Not now, not ever.”
“God, I wish I could blame this on the Russians, Maynard.”
Just then, a great boom was heard. The ants were scattering now. The 16th president of the United States had landed head first into the memorial steps. Dust rose, sirens wailed, the sun went behind a cloud.
“God, I wish I could blame this on the Russians, Maynard.”
“I don’t think that’s possible, Mr. President.”
“No, you’re probably right. Would’ve been nice if we could.”
They continued watching as Lincoln and his chair teetered again and rolled down the Memorial steps. President Gilford winced. Dr. Maynard figured he should do the same. So he did.
Robert Cormack is a satirist, blogger and author of “You Can Lead A Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive).” You can join him every day by subscribing to robertcormack@medium.com/subscription.
