Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

“And how about the divorce?”

“The divorce was expensive. Especially if it’s your third.”

The flight attendant scratches his head. “I own Bob Dylan’s sink.”

“Excuse me?”

“I bought it from the antique store in town. With a certificate. Guaranteeing that it really is from his house. From. . uh. . the house he grew up in. . before he changed his name to Bob Dylan. His name is not Bob Dylan. I bought it and threw it in the back of my pick-up, tied it up with a rope, and drove it home. Now it’s in the basement. It must cost a fortune on eBay. But I’m never gonna sell it.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need money. And I’ll tell my wife, my future wife, the same thing: I don’t need money. I want to be happy!”

“That’s right.” The Wall Street Journal turns to another page.

“I want to be very happy.”

“Good.”

“In Vegas. In twenty-nine days. . seven hours. . forty se. .”

“Why Vegas?”

“Because that’s the only place where a priest can dress as Elvis Presley.”

“I see.”

“I have to buy her a wedding ring. How much was yours?”

The gentleman looks away from the paper and thinks for a second. “Well, my first wife’s wedding ring was ten thousand dollars, but the plaintiff left with an eighty-thousand-dollar one. The divorce was in the millions.”

“Wow, what do you do for living?”

“I’m an attorney.”

“Oh, a lawyer. I knew a lawyer in Alaska. But he, you know, used to paddle on both sides of the canoe.” A wink.

“Excuse me?” The lawyer doesn’t understand.

“He paddled on both sides of the canoe.” The flight attendant winks again, making the soft wrist gesture.

“Oh!” The lawyer starts roaring with laughter and finally sets his paper aside. “He was gay. Both sides of the canoe. . I’ll remember that.”

“If I need money, I’ll sell Bob Dylan’s sink.”

“Young man,” the lawyer prepares to get up. “I have to go. It was a pleasure talking with you.” Then to the bartender, “One more pinot noir and the bill, please. I’m going up to my room. Can I take it with me?”

“Yes, sure.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Twenty-seven dollars.” The attendant jumps from his seat and extends one hand toward the lawyer, and takes the check with the other one.

“Sir, it’s been my pleasure. I’ll take care of this.”

“OK,” the lawyer says without a trace of hesitation.

“My name is Steve Simon. Steve Simon and the Hour of Enlightenment !” says the flight attendant in his radio voice.

“Richard Brockman. Pleased to meet you, Steve. Thanks for the wine.”

“Don’t mention it.” The lawyer puts the paper under his arm, takes the glass, and sets off toward the elevator. We all look in his direction. The flight attendant scratches his head, puts his baseball cap back on, moves closer to the woman who has been sitting there, away from the conversation, and smiles at her with his widest smile.

“I bet you are very, very juicy.” She smiles bashfully, looking down, but I can see that she doesn’t take the compliment as an insult. “And very tasty.” My hero keeps going. “If I needed to, I’d sell Bob Dylan’s sink.” A long pause follows, in which he attempts to peel off the beer label with great determination. Suddenly, he puts an end to his silence and smacks his forehead. “What just happened now?! I paid for his three glasses of wine? And he said OK.” Pause. “Well, it is what it is.” Then he leans toward the woman. “If I need to, I’ll sell Bob Dylan’s sink. So what, the hell with it.” The woman asks for her bill. The flight attendant offers to pay it, she refuses, he insists, and she finally accepts, leaving the two of us alone. We stay silent for a moment. I ask where the restrooms are and leave the bar. I find the pay phone by the restrooms, in the lobby across from the reception desk. I dial the hotel’s number and hear it ringing. I see the receptionist set her magazine aside to pick it up.

“Thank you for calling. .”

“Hi. This is Richard Brockman. I’m trying to get into my room, but my key isn’t working.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Brockman. .”

“Can you send me a new key? I’m in 1608.”

“I’ll send a new one now, Mr. Brockman. Actually, wait a moment, sir?” I can see her looking in the monitor. “B-r-o. .”

“Brockman, first name Richard?”

“You are at the wrong room, Mr. Brockman. Yours is 2106.”

“Thank you!” I hang up and go to the restroom. On my way back to the bar I pass by the front desk and smile at the girl. I order one more martini and a beer for the flight attendant. It’s getting late. Maybe I have to eat something. No, I’m not going to eat, it’s better if I throw up.

On the TV, the game has ended and now they are broadcasting live from California. The sound is muted. A reporter in yellow overalls, a mask, and goggles waves her arms animatedly in front of a background of tall flames twisting up toward the dark sky. Strong winds bend the sequoias next to her. The fire has engulfed the entire southern part of the state. The Santa Ana winds carry them westward. California is in a state of emergency.

“Steve, I want to buy you a drink. What’s it gonna be?”

“Champagne! Working-class champagne. The champagne of the fucking flying working class. Champagne the color of piss. Beer. I need to piss. That’s the thing with beer. You never buy it, you just rent it, damn it.” Steve, staggering, gets up and sets off toward the restrooms unzipping his pants as he walks. I make a gesture to the bartender to come closer.

“Do you have Dom?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have Dom?”

“What dom? Listen, man, I’m not even a bartender,” The tall kid says. “The real bartender called in sick today and they asked me if I could cover his shift, since it was supposed to be real slow. I’m a bar back. I can open beer and pour wine, but you’ve been asking for all sorts of weird shit all night.”

“I’m sorry, dude,” I say. “Dom Perignon is a champagne from France. Do you have champagne here?”

“Yes, we do.” He sighs with relief.

“Dom Perignon is usually in a box.”

“Is it expensive?”

“Well. . yes.”

“They keep the expensive stuff in the liquor room in the back.”

“Do you have a key?”

“I’ll bring it right away.” He grabs a chain of keys from behind the counter and returns in a minute with a bottle of Dom. He takes out two champagne flutes. I tell him to pull one more out for himself. Steve Simon, the flight attendant, emerges from the restroom, unzipped, and climbs onto the bar stool just before the formal opening of champagne.

“What’s this?”

“Champagne.”

“I want beer.”

“You’ll drink champagne.”

“May as well.” I pour some in his glass, in the bartender’s and in mine. We drink up. I close my eyes and allow the elixir to tickle down my throat, sink into me, find its way into my body, drench my bloodstream, and reach my heart. Stella, Stella, Stella, why didn’t we drink Dom Perignon together? Ever? Why, Stella? Why didn’t we have time for champagne and strawberries covered in Cointreau, for baskets of baguettes and French cheese on the cliffs of La Jolla? Why didn’t we watch sunsets together while waves crashed on the rocks beneath our feet? Why didn’t we roll in tall grass or swim in white-water rivers? Why, Stella?

“Champagne from France,” says the bartender and smacks his lips. “Not bad.”

“The French are chickenshit motherfuckers,” Steve says.

“They are,” I say.