I was flipping through a recent Scientific American
magazine, when my gaze fell on an article entitled "How to Date a
Rock." A painfully earnest piece followed this heading. It detailed the most scientific methods
of determining the ages of various rocks, from sedimentary to igneous,
chalk to slate, and so on. A particularly ancient specimen of igneous rock was noted to have pushed its way through the earth's crust, millennia ago.
Dating and geology might not frequently be discussed in the same breath. However, since romance exists within nature and the natural world undeniably evokes the occasional sonnet, the scientist in me was embarrassed to find itself wondering: what if people dated rocks?
If you're dating a rock, who picks up the tab? Where does a rock keep its wallet? Is it possible to waltz with a rock? How long is it appropriate to date a rock before introducing it to one's family? Should rocks be permitted to drive? How do you know when a rock's had too much to drink?
Is the silliness of dating a rock really so different from the silliness of dating a rock?
The only rock I ever dated accosted me on queue in the bank. I was hoping to order a cheque book, as I didn't want to humiliate myself by offering my soon-to-be landlord rent in cash. I knew that such an order might take more time to clear than I had remaining before rent was due, and so, distracted, did not notice the rock waiting in line behind me.
It was a tallish rock, wearing nothing but a few patches of lichen. Had I not inadvertently kicked it whilst waiting, I would not even have noticed the rock. As it was, I turned on my heel, the heel that was not now bruised. This rock was lively. It shifted slightly on its axis.
"I've never seen a rock come into this bank before," I said.
"But Bank of America serves everybody," the rock said.
"Sorry I kicked you."
"No worries. Happens all the time."
We got to talking. The line was long. The rock asked me about my day. I complained bitterly about a colleague at work who'd dropped an egg salad sandwich into my files. The rock swayed slightly, as if nodding. It was a good listener. I asked it what it did for a living.
"I sell car insurance," the rock said, hopping ever so slightly forward to make room for the growing line of customers.
I was incredulous.
"How d'you manage that?" I said.
"I work from home," the rock said, unperturbed.
"Telecommuting is the way to go,"
Somehow, the conversation turned to our childhoods. I spoke of England and gypsies and inner city crime. The rock described a coastal existence: seagulls diving, mutable sand and tides, tourists, regular swimmers, debris washing in with the seaweed and mussels, anemones.
So entranced was I by the rock's reminiscences that I did not hear the teller inviting me to the counter. Seeing an adjacent teller beckon to the rock, I grabbed a post-it from my purse, scribbled down my name and cellphone number, and stuck it carefully to the rock's midriff.
"Thanks," it said. I was surprised how elegantly it slid across the linoleum floor, away from me.
Later that evening, my phone rang. I picked up, sweating slightly.
"Hi," I said.
"We met at the bank earlier," the rock said. "I'd like to meet you for dinner tomorrow, if you're free."
I pretended to flip through my calendar, which was empty.
"Um, yeah, tomorrow sounds good."
"Picnic?"
"Absolutely."
It was a modest picnic. Grapes and cheese, Californian red wine, celery and hummus, olives. The rock drank more than it ate.
"Are you not hungry?" I said.
"Not for food," it said. I could swear it was leering, but not in a threatening way.
We discussed politics. The rock knew all about campaigns and media coverage. It was not too shy to lambast the corporate monsters funding certain lamentably popular public figures. We found we had similar taste in presidents.
"Are rocks allowed to vote?" I said.
"Only selectively," the rock said, looking pained.
I changed the subject.
After dinner, we strolled through the park, stopping at the edge of a silver pool from whose center sprang a marble fountain, arcs of water shooting out of sculpted shells and branches. Out here, beside stretches of grass and flocks of trees, the rock looked almost human, grainy and awkward, with an ever-shifting countenance. Its lichen patches shimmered as the sun began to set.
Since the rock had no hand for me to hold, I rested my right palm on what might have been its left shoulder. Rocks are ambiguous, after all. On the surface, it was cool, but I could feel radiant heat emanating from its core.
"Have you been sunbathing?" I said.
"No," the rock said. "However, I spent the afternoon doing yard work. Raking leaves and mowing and trimming and such. It was perishingly hot. I never burn, though."
We paused under a pagoda with marble pillars and, on a central island, a rusty spigot shooting a jet of spring water into an iron basin. The basin was overflowing. Water flooded the blue slate flagstones, soaking my sandals and the rock's base. It looked as though someone had pasted a dark silk ribbon around the hem of the rock's form, such was the imprint of the encroaching water. We each took a hasty sip from the spigot.
"You're getting wet," I said.
"Let's climb that hill," the rock said. "We should make it in time for the sun to go down behind the city."
We climbed slowly up a path of long wild grass flattened into a semi-woven trail. Reaching the top before me, the rock turned and, I think, smiled.
"The view's incredible," it said. "Look!"
In my hurry to reach the hill's peak, I stubbed my toes on a log of many browns with mushrooms shaped like spaceships growing from its side. Cursing in a whisper, I limped the remainder of the ascent. At the top, I stood on one leg and leaned against the rock. It stood firm, gazing out over the gray blocks of our small city, tinted by the pastel wash of the setting sun. Some buildings were pink, some almost mauve or teal. Neither of us had a camera.
"This reminds me of dreams I have where the city is deserted," I said. "I'm running from building to building, disoriented by the unusual colors everywhere, looking for someone--anyone--to tell me what's going on. And I'm not sure whether I'm in heaven or the site of an imminent inferno."
"In my dream," the rock said, "the city is underwater, like Atlantis. All the people have gills. They swim to work."
The horizon was too foggy for us to make out its contours. A neon pink half-sphere seemed to melt through the layer of clouds that obscured land's end from invisible, distant sky. Opulent gold of evening drenched swathes and plains of humid white. Where the sky touched the city, a haze caressed each sweeping geometric angle. A ragged "w" of crows hovered over the flat roof of a particularly low concrete building, wondering where to roost.
"I would like to see Atlantis," I said, "before I die."
"The island of Atlas," the rock said. "Beyond the pillars of Heracles."
My toes still throbbed slightly. The rock beckoned to me as it ambled down the darkening hill, and I, in my hurry to follow, narrowly avoided stepping on a moth that had lighted on a blade of grass. Its wings vibrated for balance. The rock had paused at the bottom of the hill, motionless as a cathedral.
The park was deserted, now, except for a homeless man snoring on a bench near the duck pond, arms folded across his chest, as if in prayer.
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