Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

I step in front of the headlights and gather a few dry twigs from the prairie bushes. To the side of the road, in the dirt, I clear a little space, make a square out of the sticks, and perform the ritual I learned from my grandma. I close up the little devil . That’s it — I close up the devil. Whatever I have lost, will be found. I have to find Stella, I whisper, I have to find her. I lift my eyes up and look at Orion — our favorite constellation — for a long moment. I remember a poem Stella wrote:

Clear night.

Shivers with cold

The belt of Orion.

I think she wrote that looking at the stars from the ugly, glassed-in balcony of our apartment, that last freezing winter we spent in Bulgaria. I bend over the magic square and change the spell — let me find myself. God, let me find myself!

*

Stella sold her first painting. An architect from Los Angeles bought it. In a deeply sincere thank you letter, which she gave me to read, he clearly articulated his first impulse upon setting his eyes on the painting. He described the excitement of looking at it, and how he discovered new and different layers and images each time he looked at it, and how it touched him in a very special way. With the money from the painting, Stella moved to a larger studio. The architect bought three smaller pieces from the same series. Around that time, Stella started working on installations and video projects. She came home less and less often.

*

I keep driving until I reach the exit to the first town. I follow the sign towards a motel named The First Motel in Texas. In the parking lot, I see several trucks and a Harley Davidson whose shiny chrome reflects the yellow lights installed above the ground-floor rooms. The building is shaped like an upside-down L, the parking lot is gravel caked with dirt. In front of the motel, there is an installation made out of a pile of rocks and cactuses, covered with dry grass. A dozen wooden poles stick wickedly out of it, and old, crooked cowboy boots are fixed on each of them. Texas. The small bungalow that serves as reception lights up, and an old man in a large cowboy hat, white shirt, and suspenders slowly opens the door. I respect his silence. That is why, without saying a word, just like in a silent movie, I count off the dollar bills, hand them to him, wait for my change, take the key to my room from his bony hand, nod, and leave. I unload the bag of marijuana and drag it over to the bed. I take out the bourbon, step out of the room, sit on the doorstep, drink a few sips, and let the stars slowly find their places in the night sky. I close my eyes and lean my head back. A bed squeaks in the room next to mine. I take another sip, and then another. I need to stretch my legs after the long drive — plus, I need to check this place out.

The lamp sheds its light on only half of the parking lot. I cross the bright half and, the moment I step into the dark one, I can hear how the gravel under my boots starts crunching more loudly. I take a swig from the bottle, then set off down a small alley into the dark void. The void is actually a little street lined by several wooden hovels with screen doors; I can hear loud snoring coming from one of them. I lift the bottle and keep walking in the dark, trying to be quiet. Suddenly, somewhere ahead of me, a dog starts barking furiously; I jump, try to calm down, and, choking, turn and rush back towards the motel. I manage to down a third of the bottle before I reach my room. I want to drink myself to sleep. I find the door, go in, lean against the wall and, without switching on the lights, start taking off my pants. I grope in the dark until I find the bed and flop down in it:

“A-a-a-a-a-a-ah!” “A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!”

“He-e-e-e-l-p!” “What the fuck! Who are you!”

“H-e-e-e-e-elp!” “What the hell. .!”

“A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!” “A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!”

I jump, sober, and scared to death, death, death. The lights go on and I see a man in white boxers with a tattoo of a woman and a snake on his six-pound biceps. He’s got a gun in his hand, his hairy, blond chest is heaving up and down. His face — the expression of an ancient, angry ritual mask. I throw my hand in the air.

“No-o-o-o!”

“What the fuck you doing here, motherfucker?!” His eyelid twitches.

“I’m going to bed,” I mumble and almost piss my pants.

“Are you a homo?” I manage not to piss my pants.

“No.”

“The fuck you doing in my bed, then?”

“I thought. .” The man goes to the door, opens it, and peeks outside.

“You alone?”

“Yes.”

“Take your shit, and get the fuck outta here. . Wait, what is that?” He points at the bottle.

“Bourbon,” I mutter.

“You scared the living crap out of me, man!” His anger begins to mellow.

“So did you,” I say.

He rubs his eyes. “Let me see your key!” I show it to him. “You’re next door, buddy.”

“Could you please put that away?” I ask, eyeing the gun. The man suddenly bursts out laughing, grabs his belly, and just laughs. He laughs as only people on the wrong side of the law do — people with limited occasions for a laugh, so when they do laugh, they roar like Niagara Falls. I join in from time to time only to fuel new outbursts. From some of the other rooms somebody yells angrily: “Shut u-u-u-u-u-p!” My man lifts the gun to his mouth and yells back: “Fuck o-o-o-o-o-o-ff.”

I slip my pants back on, find two plastic cups by the sink, pour some bourbon, and make a toast.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.” We drink.

“I’m Doug.” The man leaves the gun on the nightstand and stretches out his large hand.

“Zack.” I say. “Pleased to meet you.”

“We almost fucked even before introducing ourselves.” Laughter again. We finish the bottle and part ways. I find my room, crawl over to the bed, sprawl over the blanket with all my clothes on, and die.

*

H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m. I wake up. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m. I’m not sure whether this is the blood in my ears or the noise of the arteries of America — the eternally busy highways. I sit up in bed and rub my eyes. The door is wide open. I jump to my feet to check if the bag is here. Relax — it’s here. Not only did I leave the door unlocked, I didn’t even close it. I step out. The Harley is gone. My midnight friend has ridden off south. Had I dreamt him up? I walk over to the reception bungalow. Just then I notice the large buffalo skull with huge horns hung over the door. I also see the sign LAST MOTEL IN TEXAS. What the heck is wrong with me? Last night, it was the first motel, now it’s the last? Clearly, I wasn’t quite OK. Maybe because I was coming from the enchanted land. I cross the parking lot. Through the screen door, I see the cowboy hat, white shirt, and suspenders — the man is sitting on a wooden chair, watching a small TV. I ask where the closest coffee shop is.

“Nowhere.” He answers.

“What’s the name of this. . town, whatever it is?” Behind me, a truck grunts loudly and comes to a halt in the dust.

“This is a border town,” the motel man says. His chair squeaks as he slowly gets up and approaches the screen door. His face is marked with scars from who knows what. “This is the border between Texas and New Mexico.”

I return the key and leave. I notice that the east side of the sign reads LAST MOTEL IN TEXAS and the west — FIRST MOTEL IN TEXAS. Welcome to Texas!

I drive slowly past the few houses I had walked by last night. In the daylight they seem even more ghostly and forsaken. Beat up pick-up trucks, backyards covered with weeds and dry grass, horse skulls on the fences, clothes lines, peeling mail boxes unopened for years, rusty nets used as fences with dry snake skins hanging on them. The only traces of life are the invisible barking dogs. Down the road, I stop to take a few pictures of an abandoned gas station with black holes instead of windows and doors. I walk up to the next dead building, which happens to be a post office. I take a close up shot of a rusty sign with an inscription reading: GLENRIO, TEXAS, 1938. A long time ago, letters arrived here, telegrams, sad and happy messages were sent and received, the telegraph had been clicking, phone numbers had been dialed, newspapers had arrived, brochures, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE.