When you live in a place in the way that I live in Iowa––enthusiastically but sort of insincerely, because your ID and your accent are from elsewhere, and your accountant says you don’t need to officially change your residency if you’re just a student––you might know when a storm comes, but you won’t know the damage it does. You don’t read the local newspaper, so there’s no way to know that the county declared emergency after one particular storm, and the part of the river that has swelled over its banks is a long walk away for someone without a car, so it’s days before you’re driven by the submerged picnic benches, the washed-out baseball diamond.
We drove down the highway to the bigger city, but not the biggest city, to see a baseball game. The Cedar Rapid Kernels were playing Wisconsin and I said, absentmindedly, my principles accidentally showing and not at all to be cute, “Which team should I vote for?” Sweet corn was just a dollar that night, hot and wrapped in foil, you got charcoal on your palms and the silky inner fibers fell and stuck to the canvas of your shoes when you ate it. The jumbotron man zoomed in on two of us, smiling wide with our pale cobs of corn in hand, an advertisement for the state where we live-but-don’t-live. In the pixelated photo someone snapped of our faces looming on the screen, I’m wearing pigtails and a baseball cap and I wouldn’t recognize myself if I hadn’t been there. On the car ride home we made fun of the songs, but we liked them, too, the way you like any song that comes on a car radio in summer when the mood or light or company happens to be right.
A few weeks ago and a few blocks up, lightning hit a transformer in the middle of the afternoon and the street went blue-green, all sparks and light. When the post-storm glow sets in around sunset, your eyes have to adjust every minute. Look down at your phone to read a text and you’ll miss the pink slide down the color scale toward gray––I was going to say the change is imperceptible, but actually it is not, it just is so brisk, so constant instead that the effect is the same as that. I keep running into people talking on the phone through their headphone mic while they walk, like they need their hands free to take in these sherbert skies, or maybe just to take photos of them.
Lounging on the bench outside my house at dusk, waiting for friends to come get me, I noted the kind of stillness you see only in the opening shots of certain long, emotionally fraught, excessively symbolic movies––no movement but the faint rustle of trees in the wind, no cars or people in sight. This Midwestern humidity is invasive and stultifying, makes you sense that anything could happen, but also persuades you that ultimately nothing will. It is not a weather condition in which to cut your curly hair, but of course I do that anyway. It is not a temperamental condition in which to trust anything you feel, but when have I let that stop me?
"Take me to the corn," I said. Out in the country, I spotted a frog clinging to the window, hanging on at high speed. We pulled over and a local newspaper that I’ve never read was used to transport the tiny thing over to the safety of the grass. I ate my Dairy Mart ice cream in the passenger seat, AC on full blast but not at all conscious of my increasing coldness. I swear we entered an underpass in the sun and emerged from it into rain, hydroplaning but the highway ahead still a refuge from the otherwise inescapable Sundayness of it all. I write this now like each detail was perfectly crafted for reiteration, but the dumb songs of open roads were not playing in my ears then, nor were my eyes really on the corn, nor was I thinking at the time about what a line that was, "Take me to the corn," how it evoked a David Foster Wallace line from years ago that went: "Kiss me where it smells, she said, so I took her to Allston." I’ve actually been to Allston since I first heard that sentence, and I have to say I like Iowa a lot better.