Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

And then, as I’m squatting, I feel the sudden sharp pain in my stomach. Ou-u-u-u-u-u-c-h, it hurts. What’s happening? Something pierces my lower abdomen. The pickup truck makes a turn around the first corner. O-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-c-h-h. Somewhere down there in my viscera, a ball of snakes starts wriggling. Pain, pain, pain. Then I remember. The cherries. Goddamn you, unwashed, dirty bastards! Goddamn you unwashed, dirty, and who-knows-how-chemically-enhanced motherfuckers! I knew something would go wrong. I knew it. I ate three pounds of filthy cherries and had that god-awful espresso — what good could come out of that? You don’t buy cherries, you stupid moron. Cherries are love. You either grow cherries or steal them. That’s what you do. If you are that desperate, you’ll spend a couple of bucks to recall the taste, but NOT STUFF YOUR FACE LIKE A GODDAMN PIG!

I’m already in the car when I feel the call from behind. I know what will follow. . I step on the gas pedal. Faster, I need to find shelter. Pamona is six, seven minutes away but given the critical condition I’m in, I’m not sure whether this is close enough. O-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-c-h! It’s far. To the left and right are only newly harvested fields, earth burned by the sun, barbed-wire fences, no shelter. There are no ditches along the road, nothing resembling a hill; as far as my eyes can see, there’s not a tree or a bush, nowhere to hide my ass. You, harvested, rural California, do you have the slightest idea of the storm in my stomach? Down there everything is moving, pulsating, and writhing in pain. Am I giving birth?

There’s the sign for Pamona — five miles. It’s impossible to hold on, just impossible. I start twisting in my seat like a ganglion. It’s unbearable. I speed up. Slow down, Zack. You don’t need to get pulled over. Not now. A little more, just a couple of miles. Ouch. . Pamona. Aw-w-w-w-w-w-wful. I’m so close. Here — Pamona. Is there any salvation? Here’s the empty main street, if only I hold it one, two, thre-e-e-e-e more seconds, h-o-o-o-o-o-nestly, I’ll be saved. No, I won’t, no-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o, it’s u-u-u-u-u-u-u-nbearable. I can’t stand it any longer. For a split second, I loosen the aperture back there to let go of at least part of the pressure but I realize that along with the released gas, a thin streak of liquid has leaked out. No! No. Stop. Thank god, I manage to tighten up before I’m up to my eyeballs in my own shit. I see a TEXACO sign. With screeching tires I make a sharp turn into the gas station and hit the brakes next to the pumps. I jump out of the car and run inside. Behind the counter is a tall young man in overalls.

“Key to the bathroom.” I manage to say.

He silently points toward a sign: RESTROOM FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY.

“I am a customer.” I raise my voice.

“How can I help you?”

“The bathroom key, and fast, please, before I make a mess here.”

“I can’t sir. It’s for customers only.”

“Here. .” I reach in my pocket for money, paining my stomach even more. “Here. . twenty dollars. . for gas.”

“Would you like anything else, sir?”

“No.”

“On which pump?”

“One.”

“Number one is out of order.”

“I don’t care, you. .” I snatch the greasy ring with the restroom key to paradise from his fingers.

I think the first geyser seriously soils my half-pulled-down jeans. The second one unloads everywhere on and around the toilet bowl, which I’m still trying to get to. The third wave splashes where the previous two were supposed to break.

My eyes closed, I experience the most intense moments of cleansing I’ve had in years. This palette of pain, relief, pleasure, and sudden healing makes me believe in rebirth.

Then I lose all sense of time. I sit there for a long time, listening to the sounds gurgling beneath me. At some point, I realize that it’s all over. After delaying as much as I can, I open my eyes and look around. When I finally do, I understand there was a reason why. Everything around me, except the ceiling, is sprayed. Floor, walls — in smaller or bigger splashes and drops in nuances of greenish brown, with reddish dots of peelings and even cherry pits. I close my eyes again. Under my lids — fire circles and golden stains. I open my eyes — shit all over.

*

In my job I conducted myself as a trustworthy and hardworking employee. One-third of our time I spent in the grey cubicles of ICONIQ, monitoring in-house, and the other two-thirds of the time I had to visit the sites. My workdays were the same as the workdays of every other person. If you had to watch them on TV, you would choose to kill yourself. I simply put up with them and then went home. Stella, for a long time, tried to make me tell her what I did for a living. I managed to avoid her questions with half-lies, promising her that all of this was just temporary. Once we get on our feet in California, I would return to my photography. She was used to accepting my entrepreneurial spirit when we were hard up. She was familiar with my adaptive gene. I think she believed me.

Then, the first hefty paycheck came. Then, beginner’s luck — to investigate irregularities in a small clinic that was working with clinically depressed patients. Several of the volunteers enrolled in the study did not match the criteria — it was clear they were doing it just for the money. One of them was a drug addict going from research study to research study, faking syndromes, getting treatments; there was also a case of a pregnant young woman who hid her condition and enrolled in the study without even properly signing her consent. Scott was very pleased with my watchfulness and praised me in front of my colleagues — this is what it means to work with an experienced professional.

ICONIQ, however, started pressuring us with the deadlines. We had to speed up before our rival company flooded the market with their version of the drug.

*

I wipe myself off somehow, leave the restroom, and slowly walk among the shelves of merchandise, pretending I’m looking for something. The tall kid in overalls is watching me carefully. Why is he doing that? He’s acting as if he knows something I don’t. What could you possibly know, dumb ass, that I don’t, huh? Huh? Every now and then he quickly looks at a small monitor in front of him. Is there a surveillance camera in the bathroom? Shit. Impossible. But, then again, who knows? Some of the scenes from a few minutes ago run through my head. I bet I would have heard him laughing had there been a camera. I keep pretending to be studying the junk on the shelves as I approach him. I am careful to walk in such a way that the insides of my pants touch my thighs as little as possible. There’s a reason for that.

“The water in the restroom doesn’t work.” I yell from a distance. I can hardly contain my anger.

“I was gonna tell you,” he says, without taking his eyes off the monitor. I’ve noticed that sometimes other people’s wickedness has a calming effect on me. Just a minute ago I was wiping shit-smeared bathroom linoleum with my own underwear because I’m a nice guy, and now — such a lack of appreciation. None. I’m already standing in front of the kid. I hand the bathroom key back and suddenly lean forward to see what’s on the monitor he keeps looking at. Split into four, the black and white screen shows different angles of the building. No camera in the bathroom. In the upper right corner I see a car exactly like the one I drive, only. . all of a sudden, tires screeching, it shoots out of the gas station, turns right on Main Street and. . Is this my car? Stella’s car? It can’t be. My car?

“I think that’s your car.” Overalls points an index finger. I run out the door. The white beauty gets smaller and smaller. I can’t believe my eyes. It gets smaller and smaller until it disappears into the middle of the afternoon on Main Street, Pamona, California. I look left and I look right. Dead air. I run back inside. I kick the door open and jump over the register with my fist in the air. The gangly kid pulls away as far as he can: “Don’t you touch me!” Falsetto. I reach out, trying to smack the loser in the muzzle. He quickly squats down with arms over his head. My hand whizzes above him and grabs the phone receiver. I won’t dirty my hands with this jerk off.