To Chase a Sunset

I chased a sunset tonight. As I was driving home from work, headed east on the Banfield Expressway with the sunroof and windows open and Beck oding his Black Tambourine, I happened to glance in my sideview mirror where I saw the sun loom large and clear, like it does in all the movies - you know, where the people are trekking across the desert in front of a perfectly outlined sun that is slowly sinking toward the horizon. This was that kind of sunset: not a cloud in the sky, a cool rush of air coming through my windows, but my seat and the steering wheel still warm from sitting in the sun all day on top of the parking garage at work and everything seemed right with the world. As I saw how near the sun was to the horizon, I pushed the pedal a little closer to the floor and felt my body settle back against the seat as I bee-lined for Rocky Butte. This a vantage point where lovers go to watch the sun set and watch planes land at the airport a few miles away and admire Portland's skyline and put their arms around each other and he'll whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and she'll swoon. You can see most of the valley from the top of the Butte. As I wound up the hill behind the too-slow SUV in front of me, I stole glimpses through the trees at the luminous disk, now halfway below the horizon. I muttered encouraging curses beneath my breath at the too-safe, too-law-abiding driver in front of me, and finally made the summit. I parked beneath the staircase and bounded up the steps, suddenly conscious of the fact that this is a vantage point where lovers go. I caught the last oranges and purples of what was surely one of the most majestic sunsets in the history of Portland, Oregon, and I thought of how close I had been. As I watched a plane land at the airport a few miles away, I wondered if the pilots had a longer sunset than the people on the Butte, and I thought how nice it would be to be one of those pilots, but not the one that had to concentrate on landing the plane, because watching this sunset would have been much cooler than landing a plane full of people, even though I would like to experience that, as well, at some point. The sun gone, and the night getting slightly chilly, I took a deep breath and walked down the steps past a family who saw it together, and the father's arm was around the mother and he was whispering sweet nothings in her ear and she was swooning, and their kids were running ahead and turning around as if to say, look at me. I climbed in my car and drove down the hill toward home, satisfied with the glimpses of beauty I witnessed, and my sunroof and windows were open and Beck was singing something about a Broken Drum, and I happened to glance in my sideview mirror, where I saw the sky fading slowly toward a deep purple mixed with dark blue and I let off the pedal a little bit so it would last just a little longer.