Motel. Pool. by Kim Fielding

in red, brown, gray, and yellow stripes teetering at crazy angles, a reminder of cataclysms that happened long before the first human walked the earth. A big bird soared overhead, and a middle-aged couple near Tag squabbled over whether it was a condor or just a turkey vulture. Tag didn’t care. He found a smooth stone and sat.
    He sat for a very long time. Tourists came and went. They chatted with each other in English, German, Spanish, Japanese, French, Russian, and other languages he couldn’t identify. They took pictures with their cameras, phones, and iPads. Little kids chased squirrels and were warned not to go too close to the precipice. Teenagers moaned about the lack of cell phone coverage. Couples smooched. Almost everyone oohed and aahed and exclaimed over the stunning beauty in front of them.
    Tag gazed out at the very same view, at the same natural wonder. But even though he remained there until his ass hurt and his legs cramped, he felt no stirring in his soul. It was a hole and a bunch of big rocks, with a little squiggle of green water at the bottom. That was all. He’d felt more emotional when he’d spied the Golden Arches in Flagstaff.
    Around noon, Tag stood and stretched. He ambled along the sidewalk that hugged the rim of the canyon, and he hoped for lunch. Those hopes were fulfilled when he found a gift shop, an ice cream place, and a couple of restaurants. After a quick self-assessment, he decided he was presentable enough to eat indoors. The restaurant hostess must have agreed, because she smilingly led him to a window table, where he could look out at the park’s star attraction.
    Although his stomach growled, he didn’t really have an appetite for anything, so he ordered the first thing he saw on the menu. While he waited for his food, he looked dutifully at the view. A few clouds scudded over the vista, creating more complex colors as rock was shrouded in shadows and then revealed by the sun. The seat across the table from him was accusingly vacant. He felt a strange compulsion to speak to that empty space, to share some idle premeal chatter about the dining options, the scenery, the passing hiker with the great legs. He was relieved when his meal arrived. Probably the food was good, but it seemed bland and tasteless to Tag, as did nearly everything else now.
    He lingered over coffee when the food was gone, and the waitress didn’t seem to mind. He left her a good tip, then succumbed to his restlessness and wandered back outside. He hadn’t gone far before the gift shop caught his eye, and he went inside. He browsed the T-shirts and books and magnets without really seeing them but paused when he came to a postcard rack. The cards displayed shot after shot of the beautiful scenery, but Tag reached out and chose a card picturing a pair of mules plodding their way down a steep trail. When he paid for the postcard, he bought a stamp as well, which he stuck on the card right away. Then he slipped the blank card into his jacket pocket and left the store.
    The clouds thickened as the afternoon advanced. Tag wandered the rim trail, stopping every now and then to sit and gaze at the canyon. He stopped hoping for an epiphany, or even a distinct emotion. He still had a fuzzy brain and a blank heart, but at least he was getting a little exercise and fresh air, a nice change after being cooped up in the car for a couple of days.
    Near sunset he found the perfect place to watch the sun dip below the horizon. It was, Tag admitted dispassionately, a gorgeous sight. He stood near the cliff edge as the sky turned the color of flames and then deepened to a royal purple. He listened to the other people exclaiming over the show, and he watched them take pictures that would never capture the glory of the real thing. Aside from a slight chill from the cooling air, he felt nothing at all.

Six

     
    O NCE THE sunset was over, only a few tourists continued to stare out into the darkness, perhaps searching for