18% Gray. Zachary Karabashliev
still not too late to call Scott the manager and come up with an excuse for my absence today. I can see his grimace. Ok, I’ll let it slide this time, things happen, but from now on . . . I can show up earlier than usual on Monday. I can stay late. I’ll work on my attitude. I’ll be more blasé in my inspections. I’ll forget about my Tijuana adventure and about the bag in my trunk. Everything will be fine. I’ll bandage my heart and get back into the traffic on my way to work.
*
—i don’t want you to be quiet like . . .
—like what?
—like . . . that
—i’m taking your picture
—OK, but I want to talk to you
—all right. you talk, i’ll listen
—well then, this session is over. i’m getting dressed
—wait, wait, wait, wait. just a few more shots and it’s over
—but we’ll talk
—we’ll talk
—and you won’t be quiet like that
—i won’t
—ever?
—never
*
Then came those several years I don’t remember clearly. The government changed overnight, the Berlin Wall came down, protesters were killed in the streets of Romania, and evil things were happening in Yugoslavia. I wished something profound would come about at home, too, something earth-shattering. Something that would make me put on my black leather jacket dramatically and leave Stella at our door crying, not knowing whether she’d see me again.
I remember the night was cold. I put on my black leather jacket, zipped it up, took a blanket and a pillow under my arm, a thermos full of hot tea, kissed her as we made plans about where to have coffee in the morning, since the college was going to wake up to an occupied campus and the cafeteria would be closed.
The occupation. In our Alma Mater that night, we watched TV, listened to the radio, cursed the communists, and waited for instructions to come from somewhere. I was elected to be part of the occupation committee. Now I can’t actually remember what we were protesting about. I think it was because of “. . . better get the tanks rolling.” I think we demanded changes to the Communist Constitution, and free and democratic elections. Really, I can’t remember why we were protesting.
The second night. Stella came to spend the night in the occupied building. Student activists had already turned the dean’s office into their headquarters and had put on new worried faces, which they wore as they paced up and down the corridors. They started using the copy machines, faxes, and telephones with such businesslike efficiency—as if they had practiced for this occupation their whole lives. The rest of us lay around on the floors, read books, watched American soldiers in Arabian deserts on CNN. The next day Stella decided that there was no point in her spending any more time there; nobody needed her, the floor was too hard, it was boring, and most of all she wanted to paint, but she couldn’t there. I walked her home and went back to the campus, cutting through an old graveyard so I could keep up the anti-communism. I remember that night there was a power outage, and with nothing else to do, some friends and I gathered around the piano in one of the auditoriums. We lit candles and lanterns, and a guitar appeared from somewhere, and a real party broke out. We sang The Beatles, The Crickets, and Pink Floyd, we took breaks with Gershwin, and then with renewed strength we screamed “Bohemian Rhapsody” in our broken English.
After midnight, the activists sent a freshman to tell us to stop the commotion—we were not making a good impression. What if somebody passed by the university campus? What would they think? We were taking part in a serious endeavor; the occupation was no joke; we had to be responsible and accountable for these events, which were oh-so-important for our future; after all, we had not come here to party and sing.
I slammed the piano shut and we all fell silent. I folded up my blanket, said goodbye and took off, walking down the candle-lit corridor toward the exit. On my way, I kicked the upholstered door of the dean’s office and walked back to our cozy apartment. Stella was my velvet revolution. I decided never again to miss a night next to her warm body. I swore that I’d never ever waste my time with made-up coups and fabricated riots. After all, the real changes are invisible and the rest simply are not worth the pain.
*
I find a pay phone and dial the familiar office number. Scott picks up. His voice starts buzzing in the receiver and I hang up in disgust. I pull my thoughts together and call Danny in New York.
“Hello?” He sounds as if I have just woken him up.
“Hello.”
“Hello-o-o?” Drowsy.
“Danny boy!”
“Zack, is that you?”
“It’s me. What’s happening in the Big Apple?”
“Nothing.”
“We’ll have to do something about that, then.”
“Well, let’s do something about that, then.”
“I’m coming to New York.”
“You’re coming.”
“I’m coming.”
“How about Stella?” Here we go again.
“I’m coming on business.”
“Are you being transferred, or what?”
“I’m transferring myself.”
“And what are you going to do here, if it’s not a secret?”
“No secrets from you, friendo. I’m going to sell marijuana.”
He laughs. “Marijuana?”
“Pot. Grass. Cannabis.”
“Nice! You’ll make it big!” Danny keeps laughing. Then he stops. “Come on, man, tell me!” I guess I didn’t sound serious enough.
“I told you. I’m gonna sell marijuana.”
“Well . . . no problem then. You’ll have tons of customers. Half of them undercover cops, too!”
“I know.”
“So what’s with the bullshit then?”
“No bullshit. Just fresh marijuana.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I might be. But I have a bag of weed in my trunk.” This paralyzes him for sure. For one long minute I listen to his breathing. I can hear a car honking in the background. The building next to his is a bar that closes at 2 a.m. It’s never too quiet around Danny. It’s never too dark, either. I remember how the orange light from the street lamp in front of the bar cast stripes through the broken blinds as Stella and I tried to make love silently on his hard mattress.
“Where did you get it?”
“What?”
“The bag.”
“I found it.”
“You found it?”
“Yeah!”
“No one finds bags of marijuana on the street!”
“I never said I found it on the street.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In a van.”
“And how about the van?”
“Two guys wanted to shove me inside it and do something awful to me, I’m sure, and I . . .”
“And you?”
“I somehow managed to . . . Come on, man. Something