The Sun Sets In Iowa

            I have often apologized to people.

            Well, strike that.

             I still apologize to them, once in a while, whenever my life has come to a point where I feel it necessary. I really don’t know these people I’m apologizing to, in fact, I don’t really know if they exist.

            You see, for some unknown reason, I sometimes catch myself wondering what it would be like if my life were a book, being read by some higher form of sentient beings, or other humans for that matter. And not some cut of my life where it only shows the interesting things, like the fight in 5^th grade against Paul Scant, or my first kiss with Sheryl Rosenberg during a nighttime encounter with the classic Truth or Dare, none of that, rather, just the free flowing oratory of my life, from my first breaths in the morning to me sitting at math class pondering the history of the gum beneath my desk.

            Then, I apologize.

            I apologize because I am almost absolutely positively certain that my so-called book has to be the most longwinded unwieldy over embellished and boring piece of literature these people own, and that reading it must be a fate worse than any torture thought up by the infamous Spanish Inquisition. You remember them from history class right?

            In fact, one must ponder why these people would even bother reading my story. I guess they don’t get the Harry Potter books.

            But, some part of my brain thinks that somewhere out there is a soul that is so forgone he has chosen to read my life story, and thus it is my duty to apologize to this person ever so often, just to make sure he doesn’t get too angry with me for having such an uneventful life.

            Now, the way I have told this all makes it seem like I’m some depressed self-hating child who has no self confidence and contemplates suicide every fourth Tuesday of the month, just to escape from his horrible life.

            Believe it or not, that’s quite untrue. I live a rather enjoyable life. It’s just that I can’t see my story topping the New York Times Best Seller’s list, in any world, real or not.

            I suppose by now you’re at least somewhat interested in knowing what the basics of my life entail. I suppose you deserve at least that, where are my manners?

            Well, my name is Joseph, I’m seventeen and I am most certainly not an alcoholic. I live in a quaint suburban house with my mom and my dad, as an only child, and attend James-Monroe High School here in smoggy Los Angeles as a junior. My mom and pop are okay parents, but nothing really special. Hopefully they’ll never get to read that part.

            I suppose I could’ve make my life story a lot more interesting with that last paragraph, saying my parents been beatniks who raised me as a recovering alcoholic, and although this might be quite the fun fiction story, it would be a trifle far from the truth.

            So, adhering to the truth, my life is often times boring, a thing for which I have already apologized.

            But.

            There was this one time.

            In the big book of my life, this part would certainly have to be bookmarked. At least if I were reading it, because I don’t underline and mark a lot in my books, but even I would know that this part had some heavy importance. I might even drag out my highlighter from the kitchen drawer for it.

Might. That highlighter is sure a long way away. It’s pretty dusty too.

            Ah, I’m sorry again, I’m dragging this story out like the FOX Finale of Hells Kitchen. I’ll proceed.

            Rewind the tape about 4 months for me, to Spring Break. It all took place on the springtime beaches of Acapulco during a short span of two days. I know, a short time for such a big thing to take place, but you’d be surprised at the power of a few memorable days.

            I had been there for a few days. I really wasn’t into the party/drinking part of the Mexican festivities and was just there to say I had [a] been to Acapulco for Spring Break and [b] had a nice relaxing escape from suburban California. One reason was a large amount more important than the other, take a guess.

            As a result of my reluctance to get involved in the highly volatile party scene, I had spent the early days just relaxing in the sun, getting a nice sunburn, and simply listening to music and enjoying the landscape, away from whatever stress I had acquired in the States. I hadn’t met anyone really, aside from a few exchanges of hellos and smiles from some blank faces that one usually goes through in a foreign place, as foreign as Acapulco can get.

            Essentially, in the eyes of our general society, I had done nothing. A thing I was quite content with.

            But, one night, let’s say Wednesday night, to make up for my entire nothing, there was a something.

            It was a beautiful Mexican twilight. The sun had just hid beneath the horizon, leaving an array of shimmering oranges and purples in the clouds. The sky itself was a faded blue, with the white twinkles of stars just faintly visible through the atmosphere. It was a comfortable room temperature, with the breeze off the ocean providing an extra bit of cool.

            I was walking along the sandy beach, enjoying the sky and stars, listening to the ocean’s waves caressing the world to sleep, being wholly relaxed. As I walked, I came upon a point where there was a girl, seemingly my age, gazing out into the ocean.

            Assuming with the two eyes she had affixed to her head she was able to perceive the beauty around her, I approached her to make sure I wasn’t the only one appreciating the surroundings.

            Surely enough, she had seen me walking along the dusty dunes of sand, and as I came closer she turned her head, smiled and said, “They don’t make these sunsets in Iowa.”

           I smiled of course, and not knowing whether or not she was right, (as I had never been to Iowa), I chose to trust her. It is my understanding people in Acapulco who appreciate sunsets don’t make good pathological liars.

            Her name was Andrea, and since the generally accepted standards of written stories mandate I describe her, we’ll say she was about 5’ 8”, had shoulder length brown hair, with matching brown eyes, attractive, but no Miss America. The rest, fill in as you desire.

            I asked her if her if the log she was seated on had some more room, and further inquired whether or not the said log provided a good view of yonder sunset.

            It did, in both respects. It was quite a log.

            We both sat there until the sun had finally fallen asleep and the stars were doing what stars do, twinkling and fluttering in the nightlight. I turned over to Andrea and uttered a non-sequitur about cantaloupe or honeydew or some assorted form of fruit. It resulted in a chemical release of endorphins in her and subsequently she smiled, or she smiled because one of the more crafty stars said something funny.

            Either way it resulted in a sparkling conversation about something or another, the exact contents of it I cannot recall. All I know is that it went by like lightning, or something of similar velocity, and by the time it was over I wished I had a replacement jaw, or at least something to drink. It so happens salt-water isn’t a very good thirst quencher.

            In the end, something had monstrously changed, because the big bright orange thing that had formerly gone down over the water was coming up over the lawn chairs and white buildings of the tourist areas. The stars were still the same, however, and the funny one was still out there, because Andrea was still smiling.

            We said our good mornings to each other and departed our separate ways, myself returning for some breakfast and a good day’s sleep. I consumed some food, and proceeded to fall asleep, much to the confusion of the hotel staff, but I’m sure a kid going to sleep in the morning is far from the weirdest thing they’ve seen. I hope so at least. If it is the weirdest things ever, I hope they apologize a lot to the readers of their stories.

            When I woke up, I had a somewhat magical feeling. My first, second, and third thoughts all involved the mysterious Iowan I had met just a few ours prior. My fourth thought was how I was going to pass the time until the next sunset, and my fifth was a nagging question involving the location of the bathroom.

            But still, a whopping three-fifths of my thoughts had all involved her, it was a feeling I was quite unaccustomed too. But it made a good deal of sense, or it seemed to then. Here was this girl, who I had never met before, but in the course of six hours I had gotten to know to the point of absurdity. The point of absurdity is really a subjective location, but I think it was pretty close. And it’s not that I knew about her, it was that I knew her, and what she was, was so familiar to me.

            So, I did what most people would do in my situation, got ice cream. What, you say? Don’t you know how long the lines for ice cream are in Acapulco during spring break? By the time I had received my delicious sugar-filled snack it was practically the evening. Well, not really, but it was later, and my tongue was quite happy.

            Nevertheless, I occupied myself until again, the sun tripped and fell, and the stars reappeared. I went to the same beach, where yet another pretty sunset was unfolding over the blue shining ocean. It was pretty, but it wasn’t as pretty. Or at least that is how I remember it, because although this night was probably equally important as the previous, it just wasn’t as special, which probably seems like a paradox, but life is full of them, might as well add to the list.

            And just as we had left it before, the log was there, and on it was an occupant. My heart fluttered in anticipation but when the occupant turned around it happened to be another girl. A part of me thought that hey, maybe all girls who are on this log during sunsets are all the same. So, I sat down and struck up a conversation. The way I describe this is really quite keen, because I struck up this conversation, that is, I had to bring it to life. The other one, well it just started itself. I point this out because it’s sort of important, and I used keen back there because I like to bring back retro seventies words.

            Her name was Megan. She was a blonde who hailed from the far reaches of Vermont. It was of her opinion that the sunset couldn’t match the beauty of the Vermont sunrises. A fact I find quite amusing considering Vermont does not have any ocean front property. I guess she happened to be a pathological liar, or perhaps just didn’t want to admit being from New Hampshire.

            This isn’t to say we didn’t have fun. We smiled, talked, and reminisced about the differences between the East Coast and the West Coast, all while at least I enjoyed the pacifying Pacific Ocean. It was much later into our conversation when above the dune I saw the outline of a brunette. It so happened that this brunette was Andrea, who upon seeing me thought I had a funny face, because she smiled again.

            I think a very small portion of me saw a girl on either side of me and thought this could make a very satisfying illicit encounter, but alas, that part of me will have to wait for a while for that to come true. I imagine the people reading my book will highlight that portion of the text if it ever comes true. Hopefully my parents won’t.

            Andrea continued smiling, but as she climbed the hill she saw the blonde next to me. Her smile quickly vanished, as did she. I rose up to see where she had gone, and I guess I should’ve remembered the part where she said she was a member of the track team. She flew down the sand dunes, and although my instincts told me to run after her, my legs looked up at me and shook their heads. In a way, it is good, because I can’t see it being so awesome for Megan if I just upped and left. I so often forget my manners.

            I sat back down and told the now very confused Megan that it was a girl who liked to race, and she saw I was occupied, so she decided to race herself. She didn’t believe me.

            At least, I’m pretty sure about that. But, we continued talking anyways, and somewhere later in the night, I decided it was my bedtime. The conversation was a tad slow, and the Andrea sighting had distracted me. Before we left though, we exchanged contact information, just so we could say we knew someone on the opposite end of the country.

            I was reasonably tired, and decided to sleep. However, this time when I woke up, I had an utterly feeling. I had an insatiable guilt. I don’t know if it was warranted or not, but so many times when emotions enter the scene, logic has a tendency to get lost. I reversed the situation to myself, and thought what I would have done had I seen Andrea on that log, talking and smiling with another person.

            Now, my logical response would be: [a] it’s not like I had anything official with her [b] I can’t expect her just to hold the log for me all night and [c] it’s a vacation. But, like I said, logic was on break, and filling in was jealousy.

            So, I felt bad about how it had happened. It seemed like I had missed a great chance for another fun night. I wish I would’ve listened to my gym teacher when she told me that not doing my speed training would come back to haunt me some day.

By then it was Friday morning. My plane back to Los Angeles left at 2 P.M. I bided my time until the departure time, and meandered around the beach, soaking in the last of the vacation time, and also hoping to see Andrea one last time. As the time neared noon, I veered back to the hotel to catch the shuttle to the airport when over a dune I saw Andrea’s brown hair waving in the wind. We made eye contact and stood and stared at each other, standing forty yards apart.

            We stood still, continuing to stare, as I reached into my pocket, looking for a piece of paper to write my information on it, but as I did, my cell phone alarm vibrated, reminding me it was time to leave.

           I took my hand out, and after seeing me look at the time, she yelled to me, “You’re going to be late!” and she smiled, then turned around and walked away.

            She lied. I made it to my plane on time, and I flew back to Los Angeles, back to reality.

            You can really stop here if you wish. There’s a little more to the story, but if you’re the type who likes to figure out stories on your own, you can get off the bus right here, you might have to walk a bit to get home though.

            The days, weeks, and months following that little foray, I still thought about what had happened, not sure whether or not what had happened was for the best. Megan and I still talk quite frequently, and it is really to one’s benefit to have a good friend so far away. You might be surprised to know how useful it is to have a third party to talk about things. They always have a different view on things, and you can be sure they won’t tell your problems to your friends. They might tell it their friends or something, but unless someone from Vermont shows up to your school next year, you’re okay.

            Don’t go to college there either, just to be safe.

            So, I got a friend out of it, a memory, and two pretty fun nights. But, I always wonder what would’ve happened had that second night been with Andrea, had we still known each other. I know it would’ve been great to talk to her, keep in contact, but I also wonder if I could take it. Some part of me knows there would be a certain pain in being so far away, and having her around would be a constant reminder that something is missing.

            I guess it’s a bit like gambling. The more emotion you put into it, the greater you can get back, but the greater you can lose too. So, I guess my actions follow the way I play cards, I bet small, and won small. Not to say a friendship is a small prize by any means, sometimes they’re all you’ve got.

            But…you never know.

            Sometimes it is fun to put all the chips on the table, and see what happens. Iowa’s only 1600 miles away.