Big Head On The Mountain

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.”

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