TIME: summer, 2
generations from today
PLACE: near Keystone,
South Dakota
Dante
and his kid sister Uma were pumping their ancient bicycles hard, as they
climbed a steep trail in the Black Hills. The chain on Uma’s Chinese-made
Schwinn skipped a few teeth, and she cursed it.
“Brianna
says that in pre-crash days teenagers like us had their own cars and jeeps and
ATVs,” said Uma. “Only losers used bikes for their daily transportation.”
“That
Brianna says a lot of things,” said Dante. “But she doesn’t know half as much
about history as I do. You’d be amazed the things I’ve learned from the old
guys when I help out at the distillery. In fact, that’s how I found out how to
find the trail to the ancient Big Heads.”
“Well,
Brianna has an aunt who tells her stuff; she’s really, really old. She’s 59!”
“Well,
Tyler, the mash master at the still, is 62, and he knows more about history
that all of us put together,” said Dante, now pumping less vigorously, as the
trail leveled out and turned eastward.
“Hey,
Uma, there’s a history lesson right there, up on the ridge there,” Dante said,
pointing eastward. “See them?”
“What
are they?”
“Ancient
windmills. Tyler says the government wasted billons of dollars on them
pre-crash. He says that because they were made by overpaid union thugs, they
cost too much. But they would never have generated enough electricity to pay
for themselves, anyway. After the government erected thousands of windmills,
the environmentalists turned against them because they were slicing and dicing
too many birds. Now, look at them rusting and corroding.”
“Kind
of cool, though,” said Uma. “Kind of like big metal leafless trees, dead
trees.”
“Dead
like the crazy pipe dreams of their crazy builders,” added her brother. “Well,
I guess they are not just a history lesson but a physics lesson too – if energy
output isn’t greater than energy input, forget it.”
“You’re
just spinning your wheels,” Uma added, grinning at her own joke.
Dante
refused to crack a smile. “They’re called blades,” he said. “Wheels are on
bikes.”
“Okay,
then – you’re just spinning your blades,” she said, and then she stuck her
tongue out at her brother.
The
siblings resumed their bike trek, and their view of the windmills slipped away
as they rounded a broad curve of the trail. At the end of the curve, a gap in
the thick forest foliage gave them a direct view of the mountain known as
Rushmore. They squeezed their handbrakes and came to an abrupt stop, as if the
awesome sight before them was the visual equivalent of a roadblock.
“Wow,”
said Uma.
“Told
ya,” said Dante.
“I thought the ‘Big Heads on the mountain’ was
just a legend.”
“Told
ya. There they are.”
“Who
the heck are they? Important guys, I suppose. Big heads of big shots.”
“Past
Presidents of the states when they used to be united.”
“The
United States of America, USA,” said Uma. “See, I know history.”
Uma
gazed silently up at the mountain for at least a minute, and Dante gazed at
Uma. He’d never seen her so quiet for so long.
“The
one to the left looks familiar,” she said, breaking the golden silence.
“Yeah,
did you ever see an old paper dollar bill?”
“No.”
“Well,
that’s him on the dollar. How about an old quarter coin?”
“Yeah,
Brianna has a necklace made of one; but I thought that was a woman on the
coin.”
“No,
it’s George Washington wearing a wig.”
“Washington?
As in the infamous Washington Dee Cee?”
“Yeah,
I think George was the first mayor or something.”
“So
is he responsible for all the trouble caused by Washington Dee Cee — the
economic collapse, Great Depression II,
the collapse of the power grid, the secession of the states, the Great Famine,
the riots, and the raids, and the epidemics?”
“No,
that came much later. Can’t blame that on old George.”
“Who’s
the second big head?”
“Not
sure, but I think I’ve seen him on a coin too.”
“Looks
like another woman to me.”
“It’s
the wig again.”
“What’s
with the wigs? Were all the Presidents transvestites?”
“Could
be. Who knows?”
“Who’s
the third big head?”
“No
clue.”
“How
about the fourth, then?”
“Yeah,
that’s Abraham Lincoln. Some of the guys at the distillery say he freed the
slaves.”
“No
way. Ah, like, I know zilch about history, Dante; but even I know that
President Martin Luther King and the DemoRats freed the slaves.”
“Yeah,
everybody knows that. I guess some of those guys at the distillery drink too
much of their own product.”
“So
why isn’t MLK up there, carved in stone?”
“Racism,
I guess.”
“And
that weird-looking fifth head that is slightly higher than the rest — who’s
that?”
“That’s
President Barack Obama.”
“What’s
his claim to fame?”
“Well,
some of the old guys blame the whole Washington mess on him — economic
meltdown, mega-depression, collapse of the power grid, etcetera. Others blame
someone named Bush or Brush or something shrubby like that. Oh, and I’ve also
heard some of the guys say that Obama was the first black President.”
“Well,
MLK was the first black President. Even I know that. He was a martyr. He was
assassinated by a crazy white racist named Lee Harvey, while he was driving
through Dallas in a convertible.”
“What
was Lee Harvey doing driving through Dallas in a convertible?” Dante asked,
grinning.
Uma
slapped her brother on the shoulder. “Other way around, wise guy!”
“Yeah,
well, you’re obviously right about MLK, and that would make Obama the second
black President, which isn’t that big of a deal,” said Dante. “So there must be
some other distinction that earned him a spot up there on the mountain; he must
have some other claim to fame.”
The
two stared up at the mountain, as if the big heads might somehow open their big
mouths and speak to them, or at least send them a telepathic message in answer
to their musings about the past.
“I’ve
never seen Obama on any coins,” said Dante. “So he couldn’t have done anything
super significant.”
“Hey, the Obama head is different from the
rest, isn’t it?” said Uma. “And it’s not just that he’s not wearing a wig. The
Obama head is the same size and style as the others, but it doesn’t look like
it’s carved into the mountain so much as sitting on top of the mountain.”
“Yeah,
it is just sitting on top. It’s not made of stone. Tyler told me
that it’s made of composite plastic, millions of ground-up plastic bottles and
glue. You ever see a plastic bottle?”
“Yeah,
Brianna’s dad has one. He thinks it’s some sort of treasure or something. Has
it on the fireplace mantle.”
“Apparently
they were more common years ago. Enough around to make into a giant head,
anyway.”
“Hey,
I thought I saw the Obama head move,” said Uma. “Is it swaying in the wind or
am I dreaming?”
“No,
apparently it does move a bit. Tyler said that it’s mounted on springs for some
reason, maybe to protect it from earthquakes or so it will move with the wind.
He doesn’t know exactly why.”
“Well,
it’s an impressive work of art, I guess, but the way it shifts around is kind
of creepy. I keep thinking it’s going to bounce down off its perch and spring
down here and open its giant mouth and eat us.”
“Don’t
be childish, Uma.”
“That
big plastic head must have cost a fortune to make.”
“They
say the DemoRats spent the last billion dollars in the U. S. Treasury to
finance the Obama head. It broke the bank, so to speak.”
“Wow,
big waste of money. Nobody even knows who he was anymore. Or cares.”
“Well,
it’s a monument.”
“To
what — waste and stupidity?”
“Yeah,
well, there’s plenty of those kind of monuments around – the windmills are just
one example.”
There
was another uncharacteristic moment of silence from Uma, as she gazed upwards.
She seemed to be thinking. Finally, she said:
“Well,
it’s pretty obvious what President Barack Obama’s real claim to fame is, if you
think about it.”
“How’s
that, Uma?”
“Well, just look at the evidence before your eyes,”
she said, as she gazed up at the colossal plastic head on the mountain. “He
wasn’t the first black President; he was the first bobblehead President.”
nnn
