“METAL MAN, METAL MAN!”
The screaming robot of ‘Metal Man National Park’ waves his arms in my direction. I am the only visitor, currently, and thus the sole object of his attention. The Metal Man is… fused in the rock. Or is part of the rock. I approach a sign nearby and find that the question of fused-with/spawning-from/imprisoned-in the rock is still debated, with angry academics on each side attempting to out-talk each other while simultaneously blocking the research of critical peers. It would mean a lot of weird things if the metal man were spawning from the rock. Some less weird things if he were simply fused with it. Nothing weird at all if he were imprisoned in it, given the country’s incarceration statistics.
‘Pity the Metal Man who, for many years, was mistaken for a prank and who we now know is as sentient and as miserable as the rest of us. The oldest visual proof of the Metal Man is dated 1949. He flails next to three cowboys, each standing a cautious yard or so from his blurry limbs. Behind them, ‘Metal Man National Park’ stretches into a desert not yet blighted by the highways that divvy it now. Though these men were perhaps not the first to sight the Metal Man, this picture heralds decades of playful torment at the hands of curious tourists before the installation of a low metal railing in 1994 discouraged visitors from physically interacting with him.
The Metal Man has an uncanny ability to predict thunderstorms, an attribute he showcases by extending a steel rod from behind his neck and into the air above him in order to capture lightning. Some go as far as to suggest he calls the storms.’
I step over the metal railing, as many have before me, and follow a well-worn trail until it stops a few feet from the Metal Man. He’s pauses, arms slack, and then extends a hand my direction.
Here’s the thing about the Metal Man: he looks strong. Metal is just generally stronger than flesh, right? So, even though I haven’t read any cases of the Metal Man pulling someone apart limb from limb despite the many people that stand closer than I am to take selfies with his frantic form, I don’t really feel safe giving him my hand either. This seems to register with the Metal Man. He tries the same thing with Hector and is snubbed again.
He shouts: “Metal man!” This time at the sky.
He kicks at the rock around him, a motion that has broken off much of the stone and thoroughly dented his foot. He powers down suddenly, arms clattering to his sides. The Metal Man’s inside whir and buzz: an established indication of his idle state. The lightning rod begins to extend from his neck.
There isn’t a cloud in the sky when I leave ‘Metal Man National Park’ but I don’t doubt the Metal Man himself and gamble on a southward retreat. The storm gathers behind Hector and I and soon engulfs the park, leaving the Metal Man to the rain.
-traveler
