Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

And, of course, we didn’t get paid. Those were the times.

I didn’t give up. I kept at it, living in my own world, where things would always happen one way or the other. I somehow managed to conceal my technical impotency on the guitar. To the band, I elaborated theories on how I was looking for new musical structure and new ways of expression. I spoke of punk rock and heavy metal, but secretly listened to Bach, Beethoven, Paco De Lucia, Al Di Meola, Pat Metheny, Wes Montgomery, Miles Davis, The Beatles, Stravinsky, Pink Floyd, Tchaikovsky, Schoenberg. . Eventually, I started digging deeper into jazz. I was reading more and more. I began having less and less time for rock and roll with the boys. We weren’t rehearsing as often anymore. I wasn’t satisfied with the conversations we had anymore. Often, I felt like I was sitting at a dinner table with some distant relatives. We didn’t have much to say to each other. When all of us were hanging out together, Stella and I could not wait to ditch them, so we could switch back to our own frequency.

I read like a maniac then — Nietzsche, Kant, James Fraser, Berdyaev, Hegel, Levy-Strauss, Propp, Mircea Eliade, Freud, Jung, Barthes, Bachelard, and Schopenhauer, especially Schopenhauer’s The World As Will and Idea . . whatever I came across, whatever was translated. I would spend hours drifting away with Castaneda’s visions, listening to Mahavishnu Orchestra. How indelibly did I mess with my head then?

*

I check into a shoddy motel a block away from Grand Ave. This neighborhood has a long-standing reputation for its nightclubs, pubs, striptease joints, hookers, and dope dealers. In the parking lot, there are old, beat-up Jeeps hung with surf boards and drying wetsuits. A bumper sticker showing a dog licking his thing reads: “ Because they can.” This almost makes me smile.

I take a shower and shave. I register that the bruise on my face is even more noticeable. While deciding what to wear, I realize that I have forgotten to buy underwear, damn it. I put on my blue jeans, run down the stairs, cursing in my head, cross the dim lobby, pass the dark reception desk, and step outside.

The sun bursts in my eyes and, for the first few seconds, the police cars and the pointed guns don’t seem to have anything to do with me.

I freeze.

A very long moment passes until everything penetrates my mind and I understand that this is real.

Just then I reach down to zip up my still-open fly.

“Get down! Hands in the air! Let me see them! Get on the ground! Get down, get down, get down!” There are cops everywhere, leaning on the hoods of their vehicles, guns pointed at me.

I lift my hands in the air and fall face down on the hot asphalt. Here I am, you motherfuckers! Catch me! Cuff me and take me away from here. Shove me in the darkest prison, in its dankest cell. Rid the world of me. Take my health, my youth, my life, my time, take everything. I need nothing if she is not here.

And she’s not here.

Someone grabs my neck, pushes me down. Two strong hands search me for weapons. Handcuffs tighten around my wrists. All this hurts. My right cheek and the burning asphalt. The black shoes of the police officer pushing me to the ground. He pulls my wallet out of my back pocket. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him flipping it open with one free hand, looking at my driver’s license, and then dropping it on my back. He seems disappointed. They drag me behind the cars. I notice that none of the cops have changed positions. Then I realize that I might not be the only one with a problem in this motel. In the doorway I had just come out of a moment ago, a brown, muscular, tattooed body appears, throwing his hands in the air:

“OK, OK, OK, I’m here. Here I am, here I am.” The man looks calm.

He’s almost smiling, obviously resigned to his fate and the number of cops. Our eyes meet. The cops again start screaming for him to lie down. He breaks into a big grin as he’s kneeling down. He bends forward and, just before his body hits the ground, his face twists. His right hand disappears behind his lower back, and reemerges quick as a snake, holding a pistol.

“Die, bitch, die!” He yells, shooting at me. Gunshots from everywhere blend into a single, long, deafening bang.

Seconds later, it’s strangely quiet again and his body is lying in the parking lot. One of his legs is trembling. My ears are shrieking. Gravel chips are stuck in my cheek, the back of my head itches, my eyelid twitches. And I am handcuffed.

Blue uniforms swarm the body. I hear the wailing ambulance and police sirens. Onlookers appear out of nowhere. Somebody shoves me into the back seat of a squad car. As we take off, I see how trickles of blood begin creeping out from under the dead body.

The next hours pass in taking fingerprints, running a background check, and a long Q&A session. The detective interrogating me is more or less my age. He assures me that this is something he has to do, it’s nothing personal. He offers coffee and I turn it down. He tells me about the shoot-out. The suspect who was shot and killed was a gang member wanted in several states for the possession and dealing of narcotics, gun trafficking, racketeering, rape, and the murder of a police officer, etc. . He most likely thought that I had ratted him out or that I was an undercover cop helping with his arrest. He most likely wanted to take me with him wherever he was going. Who knows what actually passed through his head along with the bullets.

“Well, that’s about it, Zack.” It seems like the conversation with the detective is almost over. “I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.” The detective hands me his card. “If you remember something on your way home, I’d appreciate a call.”

“No problem.” I say. I’m still summing up the facts. While I was studying photography I’d spent hours adjusting the camera so that I could capture a bullet going through an apple. That was one of my exams. Now I can visualize the bullet entering my skull and what will happen when it exits. I can also imagine the less deadly scenario in which they throw my ass in jail. If you have a good imagination, you don’t need life experience. “If I remember something, I’ll call, sir.” We shake hands and I am almost out the door when I hear:

“I forgot to ask you, you’ve got a car here, right?” I stop with my hand on the doorknob. My heart is about to burst. Why don’t I just open the door and run? Why don’t I fly out of here like a fireball and burn to ashes anyone who dares touch me? I take a deep breath before I answer. I furrow my brow in what is supposed to look like an astonished wasn’t-it-enough expression and slowly turn to him.

“Which car is yours?” I hear his voice as if there is a thick, glass wall between us. I tell him the model. “Oh? Great,” he says. “License plate?” He is writing something down. Plate, plate, plate. . I can’t remember the license plate number. It’s my wife’s car, for Christ’s sake. It is Stella’s car. And I realize that I am in deep, thick, slimy shit. I realize something else, too. Not only have I gotten myself into this shit, but I’ve also dragged Stella into it as well. Why did you have to go anywhere, baby? Why did you have to go back to yourself ?

I hope my mom won’t think her son is a drug dealer. I hope my sister will still believe in me. I hope that everybody one day will understand that what happened during these last few days was only an accident. I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

But then again, every place is the wrong place, and every time is the wrong time, if you are not there, Stella.

“I can’t remember the license plate number. .” I stammer. The detective lifts his head from the paper he is writing on and puts the pen back in the jar. He gives a rather absent look and smiles. “OK, no problem. If the vehicle was damaged by bullets directly or by ricochets or whatever. . call this number. Your insurance might need more information. This is the number to call. OK? Do you need a ride back to the motel?”