"It is a purposely inauspicious start."
“But when do you suppose it’ll be finished?” I said. The rock-face looked as if it might collapse before Jerry finished carving what he wanted to call his legacy. “You wouldn’t be the first man I knew to spend his entire life trying to chisel Greta Garbo’s face into a prominent area of the Grand Canyon.”
“Really?” he asked, continuing to chip away at the area above what was starting to look like Garbo’s left eyebrow. “Cause-”
“I know some people.” The sun was particularly targeted that day. I stood nearby in silence for a while, taking small, meticulous sips from my canteen. The pick axe moved against the rock like a naïve guest at a rave party moved to the music; slow, but as an attempt to fit in rather than as the result of gratuitous amounts of drug use. And damn, how I wanted a glow stick. The year was 1925, and I, Helen Strambauer, would soon find my time machine broken, my husband missing and my current home in disarray. Even as I stood next to Jerry though, watching him delicately trace Garbo’s hairline, I knew this would be one of my more difficult adventures.
Also there was a doctor. He watched us from nearby, and occasionally shouted down instructions in French.