What does it mean that I’m always behind the stranger?
‘The ‘Franklin County Rex’ is one of many tyrannosaurus statues that haunt the United States’ vast and tangled highway system. Its feet and underbelly make up a microcosm of graffiti, layers of evolving and conflicted styles, but its upper body has always borne the same message, ‘Sick? Send for Tyrannis!’ the slogan for an out-of-business medical consultancy and a phonetic butchering of the state’s motto.
Longtime residents of Franklin County insist that the ‘Franklin County Rex’ is on the move, that it is nearer, now, to St. Albans than it has been at any time in the past. That St. Albans is more likely expanding toward the statue is not an acceptable explanation for those that favor the myth. They are happy to show you sepia pictures of the ‘Rex’ in near isolation and pictures now of the ‘Rex’ at twilight, when some of the city’s notable (and historical) buildings can be viewed as silhouettes on the horizon. The King of Vermont has expressed, on several occasions, a dislike of the statue, calling it an eyesore.’
The ‘Franklin County Rex’ is burning, to the extent that anything made of cement can burn. Its paint cracks in the heat and there is a fleeting illusion of scales. A small crowd, a very small crowd, has gathered upwind of the smoke to watch the Fire Department’s attempt to stay the flames. It isn’t going well; the statue burns with unnatural ferocity.
“Must be something in the paint.”
“Arson, no doubt.”
“Stupid high school kid’s idea of a prank.”
What do they put up when a statue dies?
No, wait.
What does it mean to always be a step behind the stranger and why is his shadow so thick and why does it stand at odds with other, more conventional shadows? I have started to wonder if it isn’t all related somehow, if, being metaphorically behind the stranger means being literally in his shadow, and if his shadow is literally so thick, if it isn’t also figuratively a hindrance. I wonder how far a man his size can cast a shadow, and if he casts it like a spell or like a flat stone across a still lake.
There is a crack and the ‘Franklin County Rex’ shifts forward.
The gathered crowd gasps and murmurs. The Rex has moved; it approaches St. Albans after all. I forget the stranger, for a moment, and his shadow lifts.
The statue falls forward, the brittle cement of the ankles giving out under the weight of its body. It breaks into several pieces, each extremity tugging out its own portion of an ancient rebar skeleton from the torso. The fire finally begins to die down (“Probably the dust.”) and the crowd disperses. The stranger’s shadow re-forms like a storm cloud over my head in a sky that is already very dark.
-traveler
