18% Gray. Zachary Karabashliev
correct you when you’re telling jokes, I will not interrupt you when you’re excited about something, I will not sing over your favorite songs, I will not be a smartass when we watch sentimental movies, I will not share my opinion about every single thing, we will not have Josh and Katya over for dinner ever again, we will never ever go to Vegas again, ever, I will not rent Hitchcock films, I will not order Chinese, I will not leave the room when we fight (what am I saying? we won’t ever fight!), you will never see me picking my nose, I will not burp loudly (or strain to fart on purpose), I will never be silent with you for so long, never, I will never watch CNN, I will never promise you the moon—you are a star, Stella.
“Long night?” The redhead tries one last time to get an order from me before turning to the next person in line. I rub my temples, shrug, take a deep breath, and try smiling.
“Triple espresso, please. Actually,” I reconsider, “two triples.” I sit outside and gulp them down. The caffeine kicks me in the heart. Good. I sum things up—I am an hour and a half away from home. It’s still Thursday. It’s still before noon. If I get on the San Diego freeway immediately and drive south, I can show up at work just after lunch and make up some excuse. Because I’ve never done this before, Scott, the manager, will understand and won’t give me a hard time. I’ll wait until nighttime and get rid of the dangerous load in my trunk. Then I’ll go home. I’ll return all my phone calls, I’ll read a book until I fall asleep. The next day I’ll go to work earlier, then go home again, pull the blinds open at last, and try to go on without her.
I leave the coffee shop in a better mood, get in the car, and head north.
*
From the beginning of our relationship, we realized that we could either talk or be quiet for hours without ever getting bored. Our interests were absurdly similar, the same music, the same books, the same films. We were both fascinated to see how our paths gradually converged, overlapped, and eventually became one. The old magic of love was brand new for us. Our unconsummated high school crushes had nothing to do with what we were experiencing: a passionate, beautiful, intelligent, restless, dazzling sensation. During our first months together, I didn’t miss a single chance to make love to her, no matter where we were—at some of the many parties we went to, in dark, cold bedrooms while everyone else was screaming and dancing in the other rooms, at her parents’ house, in hotels, on trains, in a car, in the park, in the sea. I’m not sure she experienced any pleasure whatsoever then. I was so insistent and wild in my hunger for her. There must’ve been a way for her to tame me. Or maybe there wasn’t. Maybe she wasn’t looking for one.
I remember the first time she came—tight, tasty, firm. I remember the way she began pulsating, then her accelerated breathing, her confused look (what’s happening? is this it?), her moaning, the short scream, the silence afterwards. It was late afternoon. I remember the smell of roasted red peppers coming from somewhere in the neighborhood.
*
At the last second, I notice the Venice Beach sign and take the exit west. On a weekday in November, parking is not such a hassle. I buy orange swimming trunks and a towel from one of the boardwalk vendors. I step onto the warm sand. The strong wind makes long, tall waves, their crests are scattered with surfboards. OK, now I’ll rush in and thrust all my sorrows into the salty bosom of the Pacific, thrus-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-t! I run, water splashing around me. I wade in chest-high, but the waves push me back to the beach. I take a deep breath and dive in. I stay underwater for a long time. I hop out. From my low vantage point, I see the ocean swallowing and spitting up surfers. One of them manages to take off, catching a wave in my direction. He passes close by, young, long-haired, calm, with the inspired expression of someone who walks on water. Our eyes meet for a second and he disappears. I keep on battering the waves until exhaustion empties my head. At some point I stop, float on my back, close my eyes, try to free my body of fatigue for a while, but can’t. I turn around and start swimming toward the distant shore. Getting out of the ocean proves to be harder than I expected. The same waves that wanted to toss me onto dry land earlier now won’t let me reach the shore. I battle them for a long time before realizing that I am the only one out here acting like an idiot. I understand that resistance is pointless. I relax my muscles, watch the surfers, and try to understand how the ocean operates. A few futile attempts to take advantage of the breaking waves follow; the undertow thrusts me deep into the water and spins me around, leaving me without any sense of up and down, of bottom and surface. At last, almost breathless, I manage to come up and see my wave. I catch it, seconds before it breaks. I relax on its crest, stretch my arms forward, I become one with it as countless, small, invisible turbines beneath my body drive me joyfully toward land.
I dry off and head back to the tourist-scattered boardwalk. A group of Japanese sightseers come toward me. They politely ask if I can take a picture of them by the ocean. They hand me the first camera. Before I snap the shot, I arrange them so all of their smiling little heads are in focus. I lift my left hand up, one, two, three, cheese, click—there you go. At once, several more hands pass their cameras to me. I pose them a little more carefully this time—four squatting down, six standing behind them and again, one, two, three, cheese. In no time, I’m holding a Canon, two digital Sonys, a small Yashica, a Panasonic, and something else. While I am clicking the shutters, I wonder what would happen if I suddenly took off with all this loot. Would they chase me? What would happen if they caught me? Is there a kung fu master among them? I hand back the gear and accept their compliments with a slight bow. The last camera someone hands over is a Nikon F3. Grasping the familiar body, I feel chills run down my spine. I love this model. After a few shots, I return it hesitantly. Its weight, its reliability, its grace . . .
Again, Stella storms my thoughts.
*
—don’t take pictures of my legs, please
—they’re part of your topography. now please lift up this knee
a little
—topography in blue. anytime i bump into something, bam—another bruise . . . see . . .
—you have delicate skin
—am i delicate?
—the most delicate thing ever . . .
—m-m-m-m-m . . .
—the most, most, most delicatest thing ever . . .
—hey, dog-eyes . . . stay focused
*
I was a freshman majoring in English literature. Stella was in her senior year at the High School of Fine Arts. Yet the idea of going to the Art Academy had somehow never crossed her mind. Her classmates took private lessons in painting. She took English instead. Next year she was accepted into my college and moved in with me. She never stopped painting. She just said that she was tired to death of painting what other people told her to. Because I was a year ahead of her, I told her which classes were important, which were a waste of time. I gave her my notes and pointed her to the “right” books. I introduced her to interesting people, to her future professors and instructors, some of whom I had become friends with. I filtered her education—I realize now—with the noble desire to make things easier for her. We spent countless dark mornings in our warm bed because I wouldn’t let her go to an early-morning lecture or a boring seminar. Half-awake, she would let herself be conquered, we would sleep in, roll in bed until late, then we would have coffee, listen to music, read novels, laze around, waste our time—we had time, God, we had so much time.
*
I park in front of a liquor store a few blocks from where Elijah lives. I know Elijah from a screenwriting class we took together a few years back. We got to be friends and kept in touch after the class was over. I go to a pay phone, pick up the greasy receiver, and dial his number. Elijah Ellison is large, redheaded, and freckled. He’s twenty-nine and rents a shed by the pool at Steve and Tara’s place. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, and doesn’t eat meat. The remarkable thing is, despite a complete lack of any success whatsoever, he continues to write screenplays 24/7. Elijah is obsessed by the idea of writing a romantic comedy—something along the lines of When Harry Met Sally, Pretty Woman, or Sleepless in Seattle . . . Whether he has talent or not