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Rocky Ford and Harrison, Too
Have you ever had a giant rock chase you, like Harrison Ford did in Raiders of the Lost Ark? Neither have I. Some guys have all the luck. Whenever I start getting close to finding a priceless artifact lost centuries ago (when robbers looted an ancient Mayan civilization and booby-trapped the treasure in a labyrinth of caves), fate intervenes and keeps me from fulfilling my destiny of greatness. Maybe if I moved to Colorado… they have lots of giant rocks up there, even named a city after one.
No, on second thought probably not. I don’t think Colorado has any jungles to speak of, or Mayan treasures either, for that matter. Who am I trying to kid? I’ve never been outside the state of Tennessee and don’t even own a passport. I did take the bus to Nashville once, but about the most exciting thing that happened was the impromptu craps game that broke out while the driver fixed a flat tire about twenty-four miles northeast of Jackson. I didn’t actually join the game, I only had thirteen bucks and needed that for a bite of supper and bus fare back to Spivey. I just sat in my seat and looked out into the woods on the side of the road, hoping that a lost band of Mayans would attack the bus with a giant rock, and I’d have no choice but to get out and run for my life, maybe even save a maiden or sidekick in the interim, who knows…
No such luck.
If only I’d been lucky enough to be born the charismatic son of a renowned archaeology professor teaching somewhere in the Middle East during World War II, I’m sure that my chances of being crushed by a giant rock, shot with a poison arrow by Mayans or mauled by a savage beast would have improved remarkably. I mean, Lord knows I’m handsome enough. Clarice Pender once told me that if I held my jaw just right, with the moon back-lighting my profile, she could see a hint of a cleft in my chin. Now, there’s not actually a dent in it, like Orville Nevers has, but at least I can tie my own shoes, which is more than I can say for Orville. The poor guy is a basket case. If his daddy didn’t own half of DeKalb County, I don’t think Clarice would have married him. A year later, she had quadruplets, and not a single one of those boys has a cleft chin.
Serves her right.
I guess I could save up and buy a giant rock, but there’s still the problem of the Mayans. I think that for the most part, they’re pretty much extinct, like the dinosaurs and wooly mammoths. I suppose I could hire some of the migrant farm-workers that help Chester Parsons bring in his beans every summer, they would probably pass for Mayans. “Excuse me, hombres, who wants to make a few extra bucks? Any of you guys own a blowgun?”
And where does a guy go to buy a giant rock? I don’t recall seeing them advertised on any late-night infomercials, and I should know, because I watch them all. Who among you can say that he’s the proud owner of six Pocket Fishermen, four Flowbies and ten George Foreman Grilles? In all honesty, there’s probably a good chance that I’ll never need them all, but when they offer those buy-one-get-a-second-one-for-half-price specials, I’m helpless. I gave one of the Flowbies to my sister for Christmas last year, and when I opened her closet to hang up my coat, there were six more sitting on the shelf.
I think the QVC gene runs in our family.
It’s time I faced the awful truth. There’s only room for one Harrison Ford on this planet, and I ain’t him. I’ll never get to feel the exhilaration of narrowly escaping the snapping jaws of a savage beast while I hang over a cliff on a vine (with a small boy clinging to my leg), as a giant rock barely misses us before crashing into the sea. I guess it’s time for me to quit daydreaming about having an exciting life and close up Mr. Everett’s chest. In all likelihood, he’ll be up and around in a few weeks, his new heart beating better than his old one ever did.
Who knows, maybe he’ll be chased by a giant rock.
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