The Sun

     Dave knew someone who worked for the Grand Canyon giving tours. That person wasn't in Arizona so he pawned us off on friends of his. These people, small town people, canyon people are a people of their own. Everything is Grand Canyon. They bounce facts like puns and exchange hiking stories instead of drinking stories.
     In this place, the sunset is entertainment. It is referred to as such, "we are going to sunset at 8." It is spoken of as if it were a fond friend. I couldn't tell if they wanted to show us the sunset of our lives or if they were genuinely excited but plans to see sunset were discussed and planned like Thanksgiving. A sack of beer was packed and the Subaru Outback was filled. Head nods and casual hand gestures got us through the toll entrances to the park; tourists sat in lines, the futility of their endeavor rising sharply with the sun's decent. The Subaru carved curves of tour bus exclusive roads and was parked at a harsh angle: a warning to any approaching buses.
     We sat at the canyon's edge on blankets made to look like those of her native keepers. A Tecate in one hand and a camera phone in the other, I was prepared for a sunset to be burned into my skull. The sun slid slowly down a foreground of corpulent clouds in horizontal lines, thinning their dimensions by lining them with gold. Clouds not touched by the sun's benevolence dropped virga like cowhands dusting off their bandannas at the end of the day. Jess, the only girl but seemingly the most canyon acquainted of the group, was so afflicted that I thought she'd fall off the crest in her bemused bustling about.
     As a finale to the sunset, rain began to fall. We made our way to the car, cameras held tenderly to chests and a bag of empty cans where once were full. We faced the tourists on the road ledge like the winning team does to its defeated but with almost no respect.