Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

Traveling in different directions makes me think differently.

When I drive west, I dream big dreams, an eastbound journey takes me back to my memories, the north makes me think of work, and the south about wild things.

It’s getting dark. In the distant purple sky, I see the city lights of Albuquerque, New Mexico. I take a look at the map spread out on the empty passenger’s seat and try to decide whether to spend the night here or keep on driving as long as I can today. I don’t really have to rush — I have three more days to reach New York. I keep staring at the map as I try to open the bag of chips. On the other hand, though, I can’t wait to cross this continent.

I remember back there in the basement, in the fireplace, which sat unlit for decades, I had discovered a carefully hidden old musket, wrapped in rags. Crazed by the excitement of my discovery, I ran outside to show it to my grandpa. He put down the pitchfork he was using to unload hay from the bed of his truck, glanced in the direction of our neighbors’ fence, drew me close toward the hay shed, and told me that this rifle was very old, from the time of the Ottomans, and that I shouldn’t say a word about it because it would get confiscated by the communists. It had been his grandfather’s; he had also left two pistols with mother-of-pearl handles, but my uncle Krastyu had stolen them, sold them and drunk them up . I had no idea how Krastyu could drink them up . I knew he drank a lot, but I couldn’t believe that he could even drink guns. I tried to imagine him like a circus artist — swallowing sabers, knives, and now guns with mother-of-pearl handles. On top of everything, I didn’t even know what a mother-of-pearl handle was, but I imagined it was something quite exquisite. Later, somebody showed me that mother-of-pearl was — that glossy finish next to the bass keys on a Weltmeister accordion.

*

Scott entered, carefully closed the door behind him. We shook hands, he frowned in that concerned way he had and sat behind his desk.

“Zack.”

“Scott.”

“I asked you to come here because. .” Scott paused and drummed his fingers. I got goose bumps.

“I’m listening.”

“Please don’t take it personally.”

“Shoot.” Scott took a deep breath, got up, went to the water dispenser, took a little plastic cup, and filled it up.

“Water?”

“Yes, please.” Scott poured one for himself and one for me, too. There was a knot in my stomach. I had the feeling that I’d been found out. I wondered if I would only get fired or. .

“You know how much I value the education some of our staff members receive overseas.” I lifted my cup so as to conceal my reactions. That could be my last cup here. . “So I’ll be direct. Zack, we are required to monitor the work of our employees.” Scott’s window offered a view toward a parking lot and other office buildings. If I had to spend every day in a room with a view like this one, I’d probably behave like he does, too. “We inquired about you and your work.” I drank the rest of the office water. The knot in my stomach hardened. “Zack, the amount of education you’ve received in. .”—Scott’s helpful memory obviously omitted where exactly I was from—“in, uh, your home country.” Scott sighed, relaxed his arms, changed his tone. “Before you came on board, we had a very good employee from Rio De Janeiro. He, unfortunately, went back to, uh, Argentina. . Anyway, with him, we also had,” Scott spread his arms apologetically, “so to speak, a problem. All I wanted to say is that the education you get overseas is very thorough and serious.” Scott paused again, finished his water, and dropped the cup into the trash can. “Maybe that’s why some complications occur.” Pause.

“Scott,” I wanted to spare him this beating around the bush, so I decided to attack. “What are you talking about? What about my education?”

“Zack, I really respect your attention to detail in your protocols. Maybe that’s how you’ve been trained over there. And that’s how it should be in health services. But. . there’s a but here. . we, Zack, are simultaneously a health organization and a for-profit company. So, it’s delicate. Here at ICONIQ, we care about our patients, it’s true. But we also care about our shareholders, the people who pay our salaries. We, Zack, are not simply doctors or businessmen. We are artists. And we have our competitors. Five years of development, six billon dollars in expenses, and we are on our way to winning second place in a race for two.”

“How can I help to accelerate the process?”

“There you go. You’ve understood me right away.” Scott smiled. “You and I can understand and listen to each other instead of having to repeat the same thing over and over again like we do with Mike from your team. When I have similar conversations with Mike, it always turns into an argument. You see, Zack, ICONIQ doesn’t pay a lot to,” Scott leans over his desk, making finger quotes, “the participating volunteers. The centers can hardly gather the minimum number of patients required to legitimize their research results before the Department of Health, whose administration has to approve the drug, which in turn has to be in drugstores before Christmas. Some centers operate with whomever they have or come across. Your job is to monitor this process carefully. But when some of your diligent examinations find a violation and disqualify a patient — which happens,” Scott sighed, “well, quite often — sometimes a whole clinical site falls through the cracks. Here, for example, last month, you’ve rejected,” Scott quickly consulted the folder on his desk, “three, four, five. . eight patients. Two of them will drag two centers down with them and these two clinics will have to drop out of the study. And what this actually boils down to,” Scott waves the folder in the air, “is a couple of mistakes on the part of the personnel collecting the participants’ data.”

“One of the girls jumped from the twenty-seventh floor a week after that. If I had left her in study and she had done what she did while taking our drugs, the media would have destroyed us!”

“That’s why we’re grateful, Zack! That’s why you are an invaluable associate.”

“Thanks.”

“Having said this, though, if we carry on this way — if everybody is as detail-oriented as you are — it’ll be hard for us.” Scott slams the report back on the desk and furrows his brow — that’s how he illustrates deep concern. “It’ll be hard.” He shakes his head. “It will be really hard for us.”

“So, I shouldn’t dig into the details so much?”

“No, no, I never even thought of saying something like that.” Scott throws his arms in the air. “Be as detailed as you want.”

“But not too much?”

“I haven’t said that.”

“So I should be detailed. Because my first responsibility is the well-being of our patients. But I should also make sure we have results.”

“Exactly!” Scott exclaims and claps his hands. “It’s all about results. And the well-being of the patients.”

*

At the last second, I see the brake lights of the truck ahead of me. I hear his loud horn and sharply swerve to the left to pass. But there, the shining lights of the oncoming vehicles blind me as I manage to hit the brakes and get back in my lane. I take a deep breath, rub my eyes and try to calm down. I realize that I was inches away from an accident and I offer one more thank you prayer to the one above. And just then I realize what I had seen in the split-second before avoiding the crash. I saw two glowing red spots in the bushes to the left of the highway — perhaps a vehicle’s brake lights? I pull over on the shoulder and shift into reverse. I drive backward for quite a while until I see the sharp tire marks on the asphalt and the tail-lights in the dark green shrubbery. In the twilight, the back of the pick-up truck would have been invisible if it weren’t for the red brake lights. Perhaps the truck driver in front of me had also seen them and had hit his brakes, nearly killing me. I jump out of my car and cross the highway. I stop in the middle for a second to let a car pass. The back of the pick-up is hanging in the air. The wheels are still turning.