Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

“Yes?”

“I need to find a guy, but I don’t know his number.”

“Do you know his last name?”

“Yes.”

“If he’s listed in the directory, I’ll be happy to help you find him.” I spell his name to her and in a minute Ken’s voice is on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ken! How are you?”

“Zack? How are you doing, my friend?”

“I’m OK,” I lie quickly — what are friends for? “I’m on my way to the East Coast.”

“When’s your flight?”

“Uh, I’m not flying. I’m driving.”

“Oh, even better! Driving through the great American wilderness. You’ll stop by, right?”

“That’s why I’m calling.”

“Is Stella with you?”

“Stella’s not here. . I’ll be by myself. Are you and Linda still together?”

“Yes.”

“Is she living with you?”

“Well, it’s complicated. I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I’ll be there in a couple of days, amigo.”

“Great. Drive safely.”

“OK.”

“Check in from time to time from the road!”

“Sure thing. See you later, Ken.”

“See you later.”

I hang up the phone. Yellowish light from the reading lamp, wallpaper with a floral pattern, a brownish table with a glass of water on top, a wet towel on the floor. I’m naked, on my back, alone, here and now. That’s it. Nothing but me. No Stella. No mother, sister, father, friends, tribe, pets. Naked. Foreign country, foreign motel, foreign bag with foreign marijuana. Alone, stripped to the skin, to the blood, to the marrow. . to pointlessness.

I almost reach for the remote control but stop. Why fill this room with foreign images? Why fuck up this perfectly lonesome moment on top of the covers of a cheap motel room?

Suddenly, for a split of a second, I separate from this male body and look at it from above, from the corner of the room. I also see my consciousness, my thoughts, my anger, my. . jealousy. My jealousy? Did I mean jealousy ? Instantly, I am back here and in myself. Jealousy? Impossible. I am not JEALOUS. I was not jealous. Jealous of whom? Another man? I’ve never been jealous. Jealousy is for. . jealous people. Insecure people. People who cling to someone else. To something that doesn’t belong to them in the first place. Jealousy is fear of losing love. Jealousy is fear.

Is this possible? Is it really possible that I am handcuffed to this motel bed by a feeling that has used me up and left me dry and helpless? Is it possible that I have been guilty of the biggest betrayal of any true love — sleeping with jealousy? Have I been sleeping with jealousy this whole time?

*

We closed on Valentine’s Day. It just happened. It was the second house we saw that morning. The realtor’s white BMW pulled in front of a two-story house painted in light-peach with a RE/MAX sign stuck in the dewy lawn. The realtor, a skinny woman in her late forties, opened a folder with printouts and spent some time informing us about the neighborhood — schools, daycare centers, shopping, demographics. . things we didn’t really care about. The lawn sprinkler squirted water onto a decade-younger version of our agent, who was smiling against a background of red, white, and blue balloons on the FOR SALE sign. The house was actually bigger than what we needed — two levels, three bedrooms, spacious garage — but I guess we let ourselves be convinced that this was the best deal at the moment. We were supposed to be getting more house for less money. While the agent cornered Stella and chattered on in that unbearable tone of voice adopted by supposedly successful, independent American women, I walked away, wandering through the empty rooms. I could lightproof one of them and turn it into a black and white lab where I could hide and pretend that digital photography didn’t exist.

There was a garage and a tool shed that could be turned into a studio for Stella. She would then have a place to work anytime she wanted. The owners of the house were Koreans who had relocated to Chicago. They were asking a very reasonable price. The unpleasant part was that the empty rooms had soaked in an unfamiliar, sweet and sour smell, and dark spots on the beige carpet gave away the damaging presence of small children and pets. The real estate agent was quick to reassure us that there was some odor removal spray — she would tell us where to buy it — that does miracles in getting rid of absolutely all sorts of smells. There was another one, too — for carpet stains — in case we should decide to keep the carpet instead of changing it. But if it were her, oh, she would “change it in a heart beat.” She showed us the back patio, which overlooked a canyon choked with greenery. There was a tangerine tree, a tall palm tree, and lots of bushes. She winked at us conspiringly, grinned, and with a flick of her wrist literally unveiled the house’s last bonus — ta-da-a-a-a! From under a vinyl burgundy cover, she uncovered a Jacuzzi in a corner of the yard near a rose bush. Its chlorine eye reflected a piece of the blue sky above. Neither Stella nor I would ever spend a minute in a hole in the ground filled with hot water, so we just smiled at each other and shrugged — we could still read most of each other’s thoughts. The realtor, if she detected our lack of interest, did not show it and continued, most professionally, talking us into buying the property. Then we went out to the street. All the houses were painted in subtle variations of peach. The sky — trivially blue and empty. It was strangely quiet — still and uninhabited, as in the aftermath of a hydrogen bomb. We did not look any further. Out of courtesy to the agent and fairness to ourselves, we saw several more properties, but all of them made the Korean residence seem more and more attractive. We made an offer that same afternoon. We were approved for a mortgage and, within a month, we moved in. It was easy.

*

I glimpse at the digital clock on the night stand. 11:09. It is 11:09 here. Stella, where are you? Are you just waking up? I loved being there when you woke up — with your bleary eyes, messy hair, and pillow-traced face. I love watching her wake up. You know that you are truly in love with someone when you want to wake up together more than you want to fall asleep together.

*

The den on the ground floor was supposed to be my darkroom. I hired a contractor to connect two large, stainless-steel darkroom sinks and print washers to water-supply and drainage lines with shut-off valves and PVC traps, in accordance with all the existing codes, the whole deal. I securely light-proofed the windows with black asphalt paper. I installed exhaust vent hoods (once I had passed out in a darkroom without one of those after breathing in photo chemicals for ten hours). I covered the floor with rubber mats and bought a nice-sized print drier. I bought a big Durst enlarger equipped with a Schneider lens from eBay. On Craigslist, I found functional darkroom casework from some defunct industrial photo lab. I spent weeks shopping for containers, shelves, and cabinets to furnish the lab that was supposed to take me back to photography. I was creating the lab of the future. I didn’t use it once.

*

I get up and stand by the window. The moonlight oozes through the blinds in long stripes. Banal. I look out at the empty parking lot. I look at the full moon. There is a strong wind. Banal. Everything is so banal. Then I see the headlights of an approaching car pulling up in front of the motel. A girl and boy get out of the car, hugging and staggering. He stops under the lamp and starts fumbling in his pockets for a long time. She bends over to pick something up off the ground. The wind blows her long hair in all directions. He also squats down. They start kissing right there, squatting, leaning against each other — wobbling and funny.