Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

*

I wake up in the morning from car alarms. Danny’s not here. I take a quick shower. As I go to open the refrigerator, I notice the tiny magnet calendar on the dirty door — today is Halloween. Danny comes in, carrying donuts and a newspaper.

“Good morning. Big fires in that California of yours, brother. Are they anywhere near your house?”

“Yep.”

“That’s not good.”

“Nope.”

“One would expect tsunamis.”

“If you’re meant to hang yourself, you won’t get hit by a car.”

“True.” Danny takes out a gallon jug of orange juice and pours what’s left of it into two glasses. “Now tell me everything. Last night you fell asleep like a baby.”

“I haven’t slept like that in weeks.”

“That’s why I let you.”

“Thank you.”

“What’s with this grass now? Where did you get it?”

“It’s a long story. You go first. Are you still working with Hito-san?”

“From time to time.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Well, so, so. It’s not like before.” We munch on donuts.

“Why?”

“Those tricks he did by hand in a darkroom twenty years ago can now be done with Photoshop in a couple of hours. A whole bunch of his clients left.”

“Why?”

“Cheaper photographers.”

“But it’s Hito we’re talking about here, man. He’s a fucking legend. He’s world famous. .”

“Famous-shmamous. They don’t care. Should we have coffee here or do you want some fresh air?”

“Let’s go out.”

Starbucks. Danny is buying.

“How’s the job at Christie’s?” I ask him.

“Still wrapping.”

“It’s the Bulgarian trademark. Christo started it.”

“Somebody’s got to do it.” Danny shrugs and stirs his coffee.

“I guess. And what do you do exactly?”

“I handle things people have bought at the auction. The auctions are on Sundays, right? So we pack whatever’s been sold and transport it to the new owner. Every single day, I go to work knowing that today, maybe I’ll pack another Picasso or Clemente, a Rubens, a Michelangelo, or an Etruscan mask. . that kind of thing. I’ve wrapped. . well, everything you can imagine, man — paintings, sculptures, photographs. The installations are the hardest, of course.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Whatever.” Danny takes a sip of his coffee and stares at the rim of the table. “But sometimes I. . cry. Tears start falling from my eyes, just like that, I don’t even know why.”

“You’ve got to lay off the drugs, pal.”

“No drugs, bro. Forget the drugs. There’s no drug like art, man. No other high like that. If I’m lucky enough to come across something real my hands start trembling, my whole body shakes, tears roll down my cheeks, I don’t even think about smoking, shooting up, drinking, popping pills, fucking. . I’m telling you, man. Theres no high like that, nothing even comes close! Everything just stops. Seriously.”

“So do you always handle. . such artifacts?”

“Not that often, actually. There aren’t that many out there, man. They’re. . it’s like. . it’s pure energy, bro. Energy. Life.” Danny is getting worked up. “That’s what makes a painting different from an identical copy. The life in it. I mean— life . A piece of life is built into it. And it just recently dawned on me what it’s all about: life. That’s what every true collector wants — to buy a piece of someone else’s life . Do you really think somebody cares about what you paint, what style, or how good you are? No one spends millions of dollars on craftsmanship. They only write million-dollar checks for life !”

“Life, huh?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Life.”

“That’s what they buy, the vampires. I’m telling you. . pieces of life . If it’s there, the price doesn’t matter.”

“Danny boy. . I’m gonna get myself another coffee. Do you want one?” I leave him alone for a minute. I get back. His knee has not stopped bouncing up and down. He’s all nerves, shaking the table, spilling coffee. “You’re so passionate about art, man. You’re on fire.”

“I know, right? It comes with the territory, I guess, ha ha. I bubble-wrap masterpieces. How many people in the world have touched as much art as I have? And I mean touched .”

“No kidding.”

“I’ve been blessed.”

“Good for you. And how about money? You OK in that department?”

“I’m hurting, man. I’ll never be able to buy a car or a place to live. I won’t be able to get married if I keep going like this.”

“There must be a way.”

“Easy for you to say.” I stare at my coffee and decide not to go there.

“What are your plans?” I ask.

“I just want to save up some money and continue my education.”

“The one you have isn’t enough?”

“Christie’s offer these classes. They take about a year and a half. For art specialists, appraisers, consultants, and such. You can work in galleries, museums, etc. . But it’s a lot of money.”

“How much?”

“About fifty grand.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah, it is. If I’m good, though — and I’m good enough to know I’m good — I will end up making decent money. And I’ll be surrounded by art all the time, I’ll be a broker, a consultant, I’ll be in the process. . so to speak. I’ll start collecting on my own, too.” Danny downs his coffee and groans. “So that’s why I’m doing the Cartoon Network.”

“The Cartoon Network? I didn’t know you were into animation.” Danny laughs. “That’s what we call the network, dude. The enterprise I sell dope for — the Cartoon Network.”

I get up. “Let’s go check out the art galleries.”

“I have a couple of things to take care of, so how about we meet in Chelsea? Let’s say at. .” Danny looks at his watch. “How about. . well, I can see you in about three hours. Let’s meet at this Italian place on West 26th.” He writes down the name and the address on a napkin. “I’ll get the key to Hito’s studio and we’ll leave the bag there until my man calls.”

*

I went out in the yard with my yellow cup. I felt her approaching. She put her hand on my shoulder. The Santa Ana winds had desiccated the canyon beyond recognition. It was quiet. I remember the powerful impulse to caress her fingers, to turn around and bury my head in her breasts, still warm from the bed. But I swallowed it.

“Can I ask you something?” I say without turning to her.

“Since when are you asking permission to ask me anything?”

“It’s about. . Bernard that night?”

“What!?” Her hand jerks away. “What night?”

“In Paris. In front of. . the hotel.”

“Oh, that one!? The night you got drunk, acted like an idiot and ran up to our room, and we stayed a little longer downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“We talked.”

“About what?”

“About pigments.”

*

Downtown New York. It is ridiculous to wander around the wet sidewalk of Fifth Avenue with my hands in my pockets, amidst all these people. Most of them are just like me — ridiculous — but some are not.

Some have, I imagine, absurdly huge bank accounts.

Others, I see, are outrageously poor.

And there is another group — the clearly insane.

Yes, it’s ridiculous for me to think that I belong here. It’s ridiculous to assume that I could be as happy as that couple in Central Park, or as miserable as that loner in the subway, or as carefree as the dog over there in the fat lap of the lady getting into the cab.

What am I doing here?