Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

“Open the door, idiot!” I scream. He just sits and stares. The maiden from the T-shirt glowers, axe in her bonny hand. “Ran out of gas, huh, fuckhead?” Now I feel my anger engulfing me completely. This isn’t good. Not good at all. “Open the door, you stupid fuck! Open the door and get out.” I register the damage on the rear of the car. The bumper is a little messed up, the left tail-light is broken and the trunk might be hard to shut. I walk around in circles cursing, Melody walks around me, apologizing. She begs me not to get angry, she’ll help me fix my car, and she knows a guy who fixed her husband’s pickup, but. . “Get out!” I start boiling over, it’s more than I can hold in. Melody doesn’t stop clucking around me for a second. “Open the. .”

“I’ll clean the trunk a little bit,” I hear Melody saying behind me and see her head disappear in the trunk where clothes, plastic bottles of water, tools, miscellaneous Walmart stuff, and the lemons from Orchard lie scattered. There is also the bag.

“Don’t touch anything!” I shout, terrified. This startles her. She jerks back, hits her head on the hood of the open trunk, then gives me a guilty look. I pull her aside and slam the trunk. It doesn’t shut. I slam it a couple more times, harder. It won’t shut. I see that Iron Maiden has twisted his skinny neck back and is watching me. I gather all my strength and try one more time and manage to shut the trunk. Melody looks scared. So does the thief inside my car. A-ha, I’ll pull some emotion out of you, huh! He gawks with his little rat eyes. “OK. Here is how it’s gonna go down. First, I’ll break the windshield, then I’ll break your stupid head, because I’ll be very pissed off that I had to break the windshield.” This seems to make him think a little faster.

“I ain’t gettin’ out!” He can actually talk?

“Get out!”

“I ain’t gettin’ out!”

“It will hurt!”

“I ain’t. .”

“I’m getting exceptionally angry with you, boy!”

No reply.

“OK, listen,” I pause. “Let’s make a deal. I won’t hurt you!” He doesn’t believe me. If I were in his place, I wouldn’t either. I take a deep breath. I start slowing my breathing down. I have to get out of here as soon as possible before a police car or some friend of his passes by — I remember a certain idiot with a swastika helmet and knives in his boots. Something makes me believe that this Iron Maiden is not in it alone. Most likely, at this very moment, somebody is filling up a container with gas for the car and will show up any moment now. I’ve got to split. I have to be reasonable from now on. Not eat unwashed cherries, not leave my keys in the car, not think about Stella, not get drunk in Mexico, not pretend to be a good Samaritan, a playboy. . I’ve got to be reasonable if I want to survive in this chaotic world. I’ve got to. .”Listen, prick,” I say calmly. “Here is the deal.” He is all ears. Big ones, too. “Put the stereo back where it belongs. Then get out of my car and out of my sight. OK? Put the CD player back. And I won’t hurt you. Got it?” I see him wrinkle his forehead. Thinking, maybe. “Come on. Put it back. Just like it was. Exactly as you found it. OK? And I won’t touch you. I promise.” I have to get out of here. This little shit is buying time until the motorcycle Nazi shows up any second. Melody babbles on around me, this guy is from Ramona, not Pamona, she knows his sister, the older one, the one who married the dentist, they gave birth together, not Melody and the dentist, Melody and the dentist’s wife gave birth, but her baby was. . “Did you hear what I said, Iron Maiden?! I’ll count to three and if I don’t see you putting this stereo back, I’ll start looking for a big rock.” This obviously convinces him to get to work. I’ve noticed that with some people you’ve got to be more descriptive about your intentions, otherwise they don’t get it. Iron Maiden bends over and starts putting the stereo back surprisingly quickly. Pretty soon, while I circle around the car listening to Melody’s nonsense, he knocks on the window. I get closer to examine his job. Everything looks right. “Now, turn it on so I can hear it.” He slides a CD in and turns up the volume. “Good. Now — the radio?” I hear the radio, too. “Press button number one.” He does. Country music. “Now — press button number four.” Smooth Jazz 103.5. “Now — get out!” Still hesitant, he unlocks the door and slithers out. I meet him with a punch between the eyes that knocks him on his ass.

“But, you said. .” he cries.

“You messed up my preset buttons, you moron! I said exactly as you found it ! That does not include country or smooth jazz.” His hands are raised defensively. His eyes are foggy from my jab, his body shaking uncontrollably. He gets to his feet. “Get the fuck outta here! Run! Run!” I yell, stomp my foot, and observe him melting away toward Ramona. I look at Melody, who is finally silent. In her look I read a mixture of amazement, admiration, and some kind of disappointment. Apparently, I am not so different than the rest. Well, I’m not, I guess.

After I lock the car, Melody drives to the closest gas station. On the way there I learn that her husband is a truck driver who comes home for the weekend every other week. That her kids (by three different fathers) are very nice, and her sister helps her however she can. I buy a small gasoline container and fill it up. I grab a bunch of air fresheners — for her car, which I stunk up. I buy candy for her kids (three, eleven, and thirteen) and we head back to the Mercedes. While she’s talking, I’m looking at the desolate street. The sense that people have deserted this town in the heat still lingers in me. Before I take off, Melody politely offers to let me go to her place if I want, to take a shower and change clothes. The idea of water over my body is very tempting. I thank her, but I have to go. I don’t even want to think what might happen if out of the blue, a semi pulls up to her house while I’m there and her man jumps out of it, and I’m in the shower. One of those it’s-not-what-you-think situations that I really don’t want to deal with. I’m proud of my decision, damn it. I’m proud. There, I can be reasonable when I use my head. I give Melody a hug, thank her one more time, and we go our separate ways. She gets back into her car, waves good-bye, makes a U-turn, ferociously turning the steering wheel, brushes something off her eye, and drives off, tires screeching. She can probably see me in the rearview mirror. What is her bleached head thinking now? Melody.

*

Stella kept on working with kids who needed help. Sometimes she’d tell me about them, and I tried to listen. I hadn’t seen any of her paintings in a long, long time, but I knew she had been painting. When I came back from work, tired from staring at names and numbers, I didn’t feel like talking about anything, and on the weekends I just didn’t have the energy to drive downtown to her studio. I had given myself a break from art, photography, writing, philosophizing. I decided to spend at least one year of my life dedicated to work, financial stability, and TV. I avoided any kind of serious conversation with Stella. Over time, I invented mechanisms to do that. I didn’t feel like talking about my work (she still wasn’t sure exactly what my occupation was) and I certainly didn’t want to bring up art. The word future made me sick to my stomach. My attitude toward Stella did not change; I just freed it from a few unproductive aspects.

*

I get in the car. I’m again reminded of how good you feel after you lose something for a while and then find it. I get on the freeway with a full tank and a painfully empty stomach. I am hungry after the excruciating diarrhea. And, of course, I am aware that no matter what I put in my mouth, I’ll suffer. I’ll starve, I decide. I’ll starve until my head clears up a little, until I get my thoughts in order, until my emotions abate. I’ll starve my sorrow for Stella.