18% Gray. Zachary Karabashliev
else I’ve ingested tonight. I make it out, wobbling. I’m dizzy and I need to lie down. I turn the corner and lean against a wall. Breathing heavily, I force myself to eject the poison.
Then I see them. I stagger toward them clinging to the wall.
The body is sprawled on the ground. The two men kick it silently, indifferently. As if in a dream, I hear the dry thumping sounds and see the head jerk back and forth with each blow.
“Hey!” I yell. I can’t stand violence. But this doesn’t even look like violence. No one is screaming, no one is angry. Just two men kicking a third, as if knocking the mud off their boots. I get closer, still leaning against the wall.
One of them turns my way and looks at me, motionless. The other one keeps kicking, but soon he stops as well. They are big; short leather jackets and short black hair. They wait for me to get closer. The body on the ground stirs, thank God. I smile and wave.
“Hola, amigos,” I say before the fist hits my forehead. The sidewalk meets my face. A kick to the ribs lifts me off the ground. I manage to half scramble up—only to receive another blow to the face. I spot a flight of stairs, a railing. I grab the railing, fly down, trip over, and keep going. They are a few feet behind me. I keep flying down more stairs. I try to catch the railing again, but no luck. I trip and start rolling down for a long time. I finally stop as my head collides with a metal door. The glass in my pocket shatters.
Their silhouettes thump down the stairs. Their shoes flash as they speed towards me. Then their kicks. They pull me up by the collar. One pulls out a lighter and studies my face. They drag me up the stairs. I’m on the sidewalk now. I stumble on a shoe. There was a body here a moment ago, nobody now. We reach a trailer with a few cars parked around it; barbed wire, gravel crunching underfoot, urine-colored light. They start pulling me toward a shabby van with California plates. One of them cracks the door open and it starts dinging. The other tries to push me inside. Hell no—they can beat the shit out of me, but I am not getting in their fucking van!
I spread my arms wide so they can’t ram me inside like livestock. One of them kicks me in the stomach, and I double over, clutching my midriff. A pair of hands grabs me by the hair and pushes my head down. The anticipation of another blow to my belly—a strong blow, a blow that will leave me as breathless as a sack of potatoes. I tighten my abdominal muscles as much as I can. The kick doesn’t come. The seconds stretch on endlessly. I gather my strength and, in a last, desperate effort, jerk my head away, and jab at the face of the guy holding me with the broken glass. He screams. The other one has been busy looking for the end of a thick roll of duct tape to tie me up with. I get his throat. Something dark spurts geyser-like several feet in the air. I turn to the first one, who keeps screaming while staring at his hands, now black with blood. I punch him in the forehead and hurt my wrist.
Somewhere in the dark a window slams shut.
The open van door is still dinging. I jump in and slam the door behind me, turn the key in the ignition, and stomp the gas pedal. In the rearview mirror, I see one of the men rolling in the dirt, the silhouette of the other one hovering over him.
I am in a narrow, unlit street. A dog starts barking.
I realize that I’m driving with no lights and slow down until I figure out how to turn them on.
Five or six turns later, I’m on Boulevar Constitución. I speed up. I reach a traffic light, turn right, and drive fast until I reach Avenida Revolución. Seeing the crowded well-lit place, somewhat familiar already, I relax a little and take a deep breath.
I start replaying the scenes from a few minutes earlier in my head. What have I gotten myself into?
Before I know it, I’ve reached the US border. I get in the line of cars. At this ungodly hour, there are only about ten other vehicles ahead of me, but the checks are somewhat slow. I take off my jacket and slip out of my bloodstained T-shirt, wipe my face with it as well as I can, then shove it under the seat. I put my jacket back on and try to fix my hair. I can hardly keep my head up. I’m still drunk and feel like throwing up and sleeping at the same time. I start dozing off behind the wheel.
*
I go back to the café. My heart is going to explode. But what does the heart know? I get in line in front of her register and wait. Just before my turn, I spin on my heel and leave. Why does my damn heart want to burst? Why does it give me away? I gather up my courage and go back in, but a few people are in line in front of me. I start doing some breathing exercises. I have to act normal, damn it! I can’t. If I only knew then that so many years later I would still feel the same way every time I thought of her!
“What can I get you?” Her voice. Her lips. Then she glances at me. The blue of her eyes glows and spills out as in a watercolor. And then, a miracle: I manage to stutter a few words. For the first time I speak to a girl without forcing myself to come up with the most clever line ever. She doesn’t answer. She keeps looking at me. I don’t sense that annoyance or boredom that I get from most of the girls I try to strike up a conversation with. It’s more like curiosity. While she’s probably wondering how to get rid of me, I ask what time her shift ends. She answers calmly, and I take off immediately, before she regrets talking to me.
*
“Rough night, huh?” A voice wakes me.
“Uh-huh.”
“Sir, are you in a condition to operate this vehicle?” Where is the voice coming from? Border patrol booth, US border, young officer, kind eyes.
“Yes, sir,” I say, trying to sound chipper. I hand him my driver’s license and passport. “Must have dozed off while waiting.” He looks at the passport, then the license, then back at me, clearly checking to make sure the pictures match up.
“It’s your birthday today, huh, Zachary?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By yourself?”
I don’t answer. I look straight ahead.
“Anything to declare?” He says, scanning the inside of the van.
“No, sir,” I say, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
“Why didn’t you take a cab, Zachary?”
“I ran out of money, sir.” I notice a smear of something on my right cheek.
“Where are you from, Zachary?”
“A small country far away.” An ugly dark smear.
“No, Zachary, I meant . . .”
“Sorry, officer! Rancho Penasquitos.” Could be blood.
“Where’s that?”
“Just north of San Berna . . .” It could be mud. But then again, it could be blood. It’s on my right cheek though. The officer is inches to my left.
“I know where Rancho Penasquitos is, Zachary,” he cuts me off. “Where is the small country far away?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. It’s . . . just north of Greece, sir.”
“I see. They don’t drink and drive just north of Greece, do they?” His voice seems louder.
“No, sir, they don’t.”
“Well, we don’t drink and drive just north of Mexico, either.”
“We certainly don’t, sir.” I wait for him to ask me to step out of the vehicle. There’s no point in trying to run. There’s no point trying to hide my smeared right cheek.
The radio on his shoulder buzzes. He picks it up, lowers his chin to listen to the distorted voice. His eyes are still on me.
“Ten-four, sir,” he barks at his shoulder. I slowly exhale my last moments of freedom.
“Happy birthday, Zachary,” he says and hands me my license. “Go straight home now, you hear?” He says as he waves the next car over. “Straight home.”
I