Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

“Good evening,” I say, sitting down next to a gentleman in a plaid blazer who is reading the Wall Street Journal . He glances at me, nods, and keeps on reading while the bartender finds a second to take his eyes off the baseball game on the TV and nod in my direction with a how-can-I-help-you look.

“A dirty vodka martini,” I say. The bartender is a tall, clumsy guy in a badly ironed shirt with a haircut that needs attention. He doesn’t cool the martini glass, shakes the vodka in the shaker only a few times, doesn’t add any dry vermouth, and pushes the glass toward me. I can’t help but notice his dirty nails.

“Anything else?” I don’t answer and don’t reach toward his masterpiece. He shrugs his shoulders and is about to pull away.

“May I have a dirty martini, please?” I push away the glass. I don’t like making scenes. All I want is a dirty martini, not just chilled vodka in a martini glass.

“This is a martini, isn’t it?” the tall kid snaps.

“Can you make it dirty?”

“How?” He grunts.

“Well, first you make a martini, and then you stir it with your index finger.” He involuntarily looks at his hand, then at me, and gets red in the face. The gentleman with the paper bites his lips. Now I feel bad that I offended the kid — after all, he had the decency to ask me like a man.

“Sir. .” He starts.

“I’m kidding.” I say. “I’m kidding. Just drop two or three drops of dry vermouth right here, pin three olives on this little sword, then pour a little bit of the brine right from the olive jar and it will look dirty. No big deal.” The tall kid does as I say. I down the glass and before he manages to disappear to the safety of his corner closer to the TV, I gesture to him to repeat the procedure. The second one is far better because I asked him to mix the ingredients before shaking the vodka in the shaker. The third martini is almost perfect. The outlines of the world begin to soften up somehow. Phoenix, Arizona. . I look in the direction of the guy with the paper, but his nose is deeply buried in pages filled with columns of small numbers. I’m getting bored. Should I go up to my room and write something? What should I write? A diary? What do I need a diary for? So that one day (if I choose to live without her, that is) I can read my own drivel? But I’m trying so hard to forget it right now. What should I write? A novel? If what has happened to me hasn’t happened to you, there is no way you can imagine it. And if it has happened to you, there is no point in remembering it. Who needs another book about a separation? Who needs another sad book? Who needs another book at all?

“A beer.” A voice startles me. To my left, a guy in a baseball cap and an orange shirt has wobbled up to the bar. He looks around, narrowing his eyes to focus on the setting. “Phoenix, fuckin’ Arizona, man!”

“What kind of beer?” The bartender asks.

“Who cares?” The bartender shrugs and pours him a glass of Bud Light. “I am,” yells the man with the baseball cap “getting married next month.”

“Good for you,” I say.

“What happened to you?” He points at my face.

“I fell down the stairs.”

“Aha.” My new bar-stool neighbor grins. “I, on the other hand, am getting married”—he looks at his watch—“in twenty-nine days and. . eight hours.” This time the guy with the Wall Street Journal murmurs, “Good for you,” without lifting his head from the paper.

At this moment, a woman of undeterminable age with a pretty, but somewhat tired face walks toward the bar, and having heard the last sentence, says, “Congratulations.”

“I,” bellows the soon-to-be married man to my left, “lived in a tent for five years.” Pause, during which he finishes his beer. “In Alaska!” he adds and bangs the bottom of the bottle on the bar. “I had hair this long and a beard down to here. And I lived in Alaska for five years.”

“Was it cold enough for you?” says the gentleman with the paper. The woman orders a Chardonnay.

“And I was a radio DJ. Do you know what my show was called?”

“What?” asks the paper.

“I had a heater.”

“ I Had a Heater? That’s an interesting title.”

“No — I’m saying that I had a heater and I wasn’t cold. But my show was called The Hour of Enlightenment .” He confirms what he just said by banging his fist on the bar. “ The Hour of Enlightenment !”

“Fascinating.” The gentleman shuffles his paper and keeps on reading.

“Fascinating, indeed!”

“Are you still a radio DJ?” asks the woman softly and sips her wine.

“No. I’m a flight attendant now, for United.”

“And what about the radio?”

“There is no radio anymore. There is no Hour of Enlightenment any more. Only darkness. Dark darkness. I am a flight attendant. Give me another beer. Please.”

“The same?”

“No.”

“What beer then?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m from Minnesota. From Bob Dylan’s hometown. Do you know Bob Dylan’s real name?” The flight attendant turns to me. I tell him what Bob Dylan’s real name is. “Great! You know. What are you drinking? Very few people know that Bob Dylan’s name is not Bob Dylan. But you know. There is no independent radio in Alaska anymore. It was bought by corporate bastards and now they play the same six songs they play everywhere else in the world. . No Hour of Enlightenment . Cheers! But I’m getting married in a month. My fiancée is sweet. We’re gonna live in Jersey. She’s a flight attendant, too. In the beginning, we’ll see each other every other week. Then I’ll tell her: ‘Listen, you stay home and take care of the kid, and I’ll fly and take care of you.’ Two flight attendants make for an impossible couple. The marriage will. .” Here a downward gesture of a falling airplane follows, accompanied by the appropriate sound effect. “ B-h-s-h-s-h-s-h-s-h-s-h-s! ”

“You have a child?” the woman asks.

“She’s got a kid. Thirteen years old. I studied history in college. I wanted to become a historian. But there was no one to tell me, to even mention, that in the whole state of Minnesota there were only three jobs for historians and they were already taken. Five years in college, five years in Alaska in a tent, hair and a beard this long, The Hour of Enlightenment , and my ratings were this high. . Now I open Pepsi cans on an airplane.” He pauses. “Another beer, please.” He gets his beer. I order a martini.

“Sign a prenup,” says the Wall Street Journal man, completely out of nowhere.

“We’re getting married in Vegas.”

“Do you know her well?” asks the man to my right.

“I love Elvis Presley.”

“Good.”

“Angie is a good person. She said yes . A good person. I asked her half an hour ago. And she said yes .”

“How did you ask her?”

“On the phone.”

“On the phone?”

“On the god-damn phone.”

“Tomorrow you call her and tell her you were drunk and don’t remember anything.”

“I am drunk.”

“That’s right.”

“But I remember everything!”

“I used to call my ex-wife the plaintiff ,” says the gentleman to my right. “Yeah, I called her the plaintiff. The plaintiff did this, the plaintiff said that. .”

“You’re divorced?” Sincerely surprised, the flight attendant takes a sip from his beer.

“Just recently.”

“Wow!”

“For the third time.”

“Was it expensive?”

“What?”

“The wedding?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Well, not compared to the divorce.”