“I’m surprised you’re not taking a million pictures right now,” Gray says. I turn around and he’s standing a few feet away from me. He’s wearing black mesh shorts and a blue UNM baseball t-shirt that matches his eyes.
“It’s perfect,” I agree. “But I don’t think a camera could capture it. It’s more of the feeling you get when you’re standing here. It’s all the smells. And the silence.”
“What does a rainbow smell like, exactly?” he asks and I turn and follow his gaze. There’s a rainbow arched over the eastern sky. Each color stands out individually and it makes me think of piano notes, starting low and getting higher to match each of the colors. The colors even look like they have texture. Some are more fuzzy, some smoother, some matted, some shiny. The arch combines the blue sky with the dark clouds in one colorful frame.
I instantly pull my camera out of my backpack. I look through the lens, but I can’t do the picture justice on the ground. I need a higher angle. I climb up on the roof of Gray’s car and he doesn’t stop me—I’ve done it before—and I find a frame clear of the electrical lines and trees that were blocking the shot. I sit down on top of his car roof for a few seconds. I look at each solid color and it makes me think about people. If we color-coordinated our feelings, our personality, what would we look like? I would be a lot of yellows, oranges and reds. Gray would be darker on the spectrum, grays and blues and greens. And that is why we are perfect. We complement each other. We complete the spectrum.
But rainbows never last. They only appear for a few spellbinding minutes, long enough to entrance you with the kind of beauty life is capable of creating, but they are never permanent. They are just a rare phenomenon when all the right elements line up, when light is separated into its most beautiful form—when the timing is absolutely perfect.
I’m afraid to blink. I don’t want it to disappear.
Gray climbs up onto the hood of his car. He bends down and grabs my camera and looks through the lens before he hands it back to me.
“That’s a good shot,” his says and sits down next to me. Our feet dangle over the side of the roof.
“Too bad they don’t last forever,” I say.
“You wouldn’t appreciate them if they did,” Gray says.
I wonder if he’s right.
“It looks like nature’s Mohawk,” I say.
Gray smiles. “Maybe nature recently joined a punk band,” he says.
We’re interrupted when Sue Anne walks out carrying a loaf of corn bread. I wonder if it’s used as bartering currency in this state. We jump down off the roof and she offers me the bread and a hug. She hands me a piece of paper with her email address scribbled on it.
“Stay in touch, Dylan,” she says and I promise I will. She leans in close and whispers, “Let me know how it turns out. About my theory, I mean.”
Gray
We stop for breakfast in Hebron, Nebraska. Coming into town, we pass a billboard that informs us Hebron is famous for having the “World’s Largest Porch Swing.” I wonder if it lures a lot of tourists. Of course, Dylan insists we drive the extra two miles to the city park to see it. We pull over and walk through the thick green grass. The park is empty and the giant bench looms in the center. It looks like four wooden benches have been glued together and attached to a red metal frame. It’s longer than a Greyhound bus.
We stand in front of the metal monstrosity.
“Who thinks up these things?” Dylan wonders.
“Probably someone related to you,” I tell her. I lie down on the seat and barely take up a quarter of the bench and Dylan snaps my picture. She tries to rock me, but the giant swing barely moves. She groans and pushes as hard as she can and the bench wobbles in response. I kick my feet against the pavement below and try to get it going, but the metal chains only moan and squeak.
Dylan hands me her camera and sits down at the very end of the bench. I snap a picture of her from a side angle. She’s so far away, she almost disappears in the back of the shot.
“All it’s missing is the world’s largest front porch,” she says as she hops up. I hand her the camera and we head back to the car. It’s so unnatural to walk next to Dylan without touching her. I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands. I concentrate on the shadows of leaves painted on the ground by the bright sunlight.
We drive back to the interstate and stop at a roadway restaurant called Mamma’s Place. It shares a parking lot with a taxidermist, which makes sense since I’m sure most people are in the mood to eat after handling dead animals. A banner stretches between the two businesses that says, “You Kill It, We Fill It.”