Signs for ‘THE Rock Shop’ loom large over I-15 where it passes through Montana. It’s not on my radar, initially, but the more signs I see the more I become convinced that I’ll find it in the book. When Hector and I pull over to load up on gas and beef jerky, I confirm it. Sometimes the Wayside just comes to you.
‘It’s reasonable to misinterpret the peculiar formatting style of ‘THE Rock Shop’s’ name as an example of Wayside hyperbole. Claiming to be the best, cheapest, largest, anything seems to be fair game in regards to highway advertising.
The truth is that the capital ‘THE’ is there only to describe the ‘Rock’ and not the ‘Shop.’ ‘THE Rock Shop’ has just the one rock to sell and as long as the signs remain up, it’s safe to assume that the business model is about as effective as it’s been since 1987, when ‘THE Rock Shop’ was founded by two men who felt it was something special.’
It’s immediately clear which rock is for sale. It’s a boulder, really, fenced off as though someone might dig the lower half from the ground and steal it. I hope to circle the thing once and check it off the list but the screen door of the nearby house squeaks open as I step off the bike. One man appears first, dressed in a sagging robe and slippers. He waves a paper and pen and shouts:
“Just a dollar, sir! Just a dollar and it’s yours!”
Another man follows shortly, dressed in sweats against the chill wind. “Over here! We’ll give you the tour!”
The man in the robe is on me before I can respond meaningfully to either. I nearly topple backward over the bike as he waves the paper in my face- a deed or agreement of purchase or something to do with buying the rock. I put my hand out in front of me and he shoves a pen into my palm, tries to curl my fingers around it.
“Sign here, sir! Just a dollar for THE rock. Just a dollar!”
The man in sweats rattles off qualities of the rock in the background. I can hardly make any of them out over the robed man’s fervent sales strategy. I’ve lost the key to the bike in the dirt somewhere. I drop to my knees to find it and the man drops with me, plastering the contract over the visor of my helmet. I’m dimly aware of Hector panicking in his kennel on the bike.
There’s a high pitched whistle, suddenly, and the man ahead of us is screaming. The robed man is gone in an instant, running over to help. I snag the key from the ground and pull the paper from the helmet and see the man in sweats is laid out on the ground, bleeding from a head wound. The robed man curses the rock and begins to drag his companion inside.
I’ve frozen, trying to discern the threat- trying to understand whether I have better odds in the house with them or on the bike or whether there’s anything immediately dangerous about what’s happening. The robed man makes the decision for me. He slams the door and in a matter of seconds his face is pressed against the nearest window. I can hear him through the glass and through the helmet- he’s shouting for me to sign the paper and leave a dollar at the door. Then THE rock will be mine.
It’s a quiet autumn day and cars glide past us on the highway. I consider the tour I’d planned on taking and see a little impact crater where the man had been bleeding. Probably not worth the risk.
I’d like to be the person I was when the idea of a stationary boulder inflicting blunt force trauma at a distance for no discernable reason seemed unlikely. I’d settle for being the sort of person that would stick around long enough to help these men or to at least understand what sort of dread force binds them to THE rock. I’m the sort of person that drives a mile down the road and calls an ambulance, instead. The kind of guy that feels a little bad for the EMTs that will have to put up with that peculiar sales technique.
-traveler
