Rock Hudson

He called himself Rock Hudson. It wasn’t the name that his parents gave him. In fact, he didn’t even know if he had parents. But he had heard the name once from some people who were walking by and it struck him the right way. He just liked the sound of it, he supposed, and figured that he might as well use it. After all, the original R.H. certainly wasn’t doing anything with it anymore.

Some people might have said that it was silly to bother with a name at all. Rock was not particularly social, and spoke to no one. No one spoke to him, not even so much as to address him by name. He didn’t really mind, though. He was a loner by nature, and quite comfortable with himself in that regard.

In other regards, however, Rock was not as satisfied. More than anything in the world he wanted to fly. He spent most of his time staring up into the wild blue yonder, envious of the birds that took their gift so lightly.

Had he parents, they would have told Rock to quit his silly daydreaming, to focus on more realistic expectations.

“You are not a flyer, Rock,” they would have said. “Look at you, all grit and dirt. Down to Earth, that's what you are.  Face it, you are not the aviator type.”

“But I could be,” Rock would have replied. “I will fly someday! I will! You'll see!”

But Rock was older now, and time had eroded his dream from enthusiasm to wistful desire. He still hoped that things would change one day, but he was no longer as optimistic as he had once been. The years will do that to you, he would think to himself.

Lately Rock had taken to sitting by the river all day long. He would listen to the sounds of the white water tumbling past, and contemplate the fish. Swimming was another thing he wanted to have a try at, but that seemed almost as unattainable as flying.

“You would sink like a stone, boy,” his imagined parents would tell him. “Right down to the bottom. Now why don’t you just sit there and behave for once.”

Rock didn’t mind being still and silent. It came naturally to him, in fact. He had to admit that he was very good at it, and that it certainly made more sense for his type than flying or swimming. But that did not mean that the desire wasn’t there.

And then one day it happened. Rock had all but given up hope, almost forgotten the dream, until a young man came bicycling out from the center of New York City. He was tall and slender, the typical bicyclist. He wore the tight-fitting pants, the sleeveless shirt, and Rock nearly laughed at him in his hard, pointy hat.

For some unknown reason the man had stopped suddenly. He dismounted his two-wheel vehicle and left it on the side of the road as he walked over and sat beside Rock.

Neither said a word for a long time, but Rock knew that his life was about to change. And then suddenly, as if compelled by unknown forces, the man took action. He picked Rock up off the ground, hefted him once in the palm of his hand, and then threw him mightily into the river.

It didn’t last long, of course, neither the flying nor the swimming, but it was definitely worth the wait. Besides, Rock knew that it would only be a few hundred thousand years before he reached the shore again. It would only be another few hundred thousand years more before evolution would be kind enough to provide another opposable-thumbed launch vehicle. And then only a few hundred years beyond that before he would have another go.

Even before finishing his swim to the river’s bottom he was already making plans for how he would do it better when the opportunity came again. He had to start preparing now if he wanted to make the most of his next chance.