Rowdy Roddy Pipeman, that doyen of Moabitian culture and commerce, stands erect before the headquarters of Adrift Adventures, the La Sal Mountains rising in quiet consternation above him.
An oar in one hand and a stylish red cap atop his spherical head, Rowdy’s drainage-pipe arms ripple in the sharp morning sun. He’s handsome and quirky, with the sort of dangerous edge that drives girls crazy.
He’s also my deadliest adversary.
But where are my manners? Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Santiago Smith; admirer of Big Things, recovering soda addict, and the world’s only mormon luchador.
Okay, there’s also Donny Osmond, but when was the last time he participated in a steel cage deathmatch against Hulk Hogan?
Fists clenched, perspiration dripping down my hand-stitched silver mask and onto the freshly-pressed designer shirt I’d recently picked up at Ross, I stepped out of the high desert and prepared to face the ghost who had haunted me for so long.
“No longer shall I hunt this swine, no longer shall he feast upon my dreams. Nothing shall get in the way of thy retribution!” I snarled, before sidestepping into a pastel-hued shop. “Well, except for a luxurious red velvet cookie and a bucket of watermelon and coconut frozen yogurt from popular local restaurant MOYO.”
Even vengeful prize fighters deserve a sweet treat every now and then.
BiggieMania XXII: Madness in Moab!
Cars full of happy-faced tourists zipped past as I swaggered down Main Street, frogurt dripping down my chin and hate in my heart.
They dreamed of the Arches National Park, but were unaware that the true main event – one teeming with loathing and lust – was about to occur on a nondescript scrap of pavement.
And then there he was. Rowdy Roddy Pipeman. Smiling that big, beautiful smile of his, despite all he’d taken from me. How could he sleep at night?
“My name is Santiago Smith,” I rasped, launching into the script I’d rehearsed in front of the mirror so many times. “You once left me a four-star review on Etsy despite the knitted cardigan I sent you being lovingly crafted, true to size, and delivered in a prompt manner. Prepare to die!”
But before I could leap for the Pipeman’s throat, knocking his hat and his impish grin into the wasteland, I turned to see a group of startled Korean tourists. Cameras clutched in their lithe hands, they were obviously hoping for a photo – a selfie, if you will – with my detested rival.
A single tear rolled from a Korean girl’s chubby little cheek, plopped onto the dusty ground, and melted my heart.
I realised that Rowdy Roddy Pipeman is a bigger man than me. Not just physically, but metaphysically. He embodies the soul of Moab, and if I tore him limb from brawny limb, I’d be no better than the kangaroo rats that infest this corner of Utah.
And so, instead of beating the Pipeman to a bloody pulp I simply smiled at him, sauntered into Adrift Adventures, and booked myself on a six-day inflatable kayak tour to Desolation Canyon.
That’ll give me plenty of time to have a good, hard think about my anger issues.
