Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

*

Taxi cab.

It’s getting dark.

It’s Halloween.

I didn’t know.

I knew that Halloween was coming but I didn’t know that today was Halloween.

Today is Halloween.

People in masks all over the streets.

We have to wear masks, too.

I tug on Danny’s sleeve.

“We have to wear masks, Danny.”

Danny gives me that look. The look I couldn’t stand in California when Stella. . after Stella, which was the reason I ran away and came here. Nobody is supposed to look at me like that.

I open the cab door. Not that I want to jump out while it’s moving, but I simply can’t stay in a car where people look at me with that look .

The taxi driver gets mad and kicks us out somewhere around 36th and Lexington. Why?

All around us there are people in costumes — nurses, vampires, witches, bitches, Neanderthals, cowboys, Darth Vaders, Gene Simonses, angels, devils, Grim Reapers, maids, Batmans. . It’s getting cold.

A traffic light with a red figure reads: DON’T WALK.

We walk, then stop.

On the other side, a guy dressed as a huge yellow telephone is handing out fliers.

In a puddle on the asphalt I see the star of Empire Sate Building trembling. I’ve never been in the Empire State Building. Stella used to call it Vampire State Building. Stella liked playing with names. I want to go into the Empire State Building. I have to go up the Empire State Building before they destroy it, too. I tell Danny that I just saw the Empire State Building in a puddle. He isn’t paying attention to what I’m saying.

“I want us to go up in the Empire State Building!”

“No.”

“OK then. Hey everybody-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y, this big bag here is full of marijuana-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!!!” I start yelling. Danny turns to me and gives me a look as if I’m insane. “Pe-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ople! Here.” I point to the bag over my friend’s shoulder. “This is gandja-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a.”

Danny puts his hand over my mouth. Not that anyone’s paying attention to us, but still, he shuts me up.

We get in line at the entrance to the Empire State Building.

*

There had been a fatal accident on the freeway and traffic had stopped. After that, they probably drove too fast to get to the airport on time. At Laurel Avenue and Cass Street, a floral-shop van made a left turn on red. The cab driver hit the brakes, honked his horn, managed to avoid a collision, spun ninety degrees, and came to a stop. Stella’s body, with no seat belt on, hit the divider behind the front seat from the momentum. The Yellow Cab had stopped sideways in the middle of the road. Passersby and people witnessing the accident sighed with relief — thank God, nothing had happened. The driver turned to see if Stella was all right. She gave him an OK sign, smiled, and put her seat belt on. She pulled out her cell phone. Then a black semi doing sixty miles an hour and carrying a platform with layers of totaled cars hit the side she was on. The intersection cameras captured the moment when the taxi driver flew out of the car as in a Chagall painting. He got away with two fractured ribs. They managed to pull out Stella’s severed body half an hour later, only after cutting the car.

*

Twenty minutes later, we are atop the Empire State Building. Tall, impassable nets have been installed to prevent suicides from doing their job. The wind is very strong, but there are still visitors. Boats are sailing on the Hudson River. The city, from this height, looks like a poster of a city. Suddenly, out of the dark, a black pigeon flutters and lands on the net next to me. I look into its eyes. I can’t be sure, but I think the pigeon looks me in the eye as well. A cell phone rings. Danny takes off his gloves and digs out his cell from the depths of his parka. He turns aside and talks, shouting over the wind. I understand that it is getting late. I realize that we are late already. Danny sneaks a peek at me, then turns his back, says something else into the phone, and hangs up. I help him put the bag over his shoulder and we leave. We needed to hurry. We would go to this place, we’d leave the bag, it would be over in a minute, and everything would be OK. I would stay in New York until I pulled myself together.

The numbers in the elevator melt down to one and the doors glide open. We are in the spacious lobby. We get out on Fifth Avenue.

People, people, people, people, masks, masks, masks, masks, costumes, costumes, costumes, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween. . Blue, green, red, yellow balloons float over Fifth Avenue. In the distance, amidst skyscrapers, a piece of building with the letters 666 on it pierces the light-polluted sky above Manhattan. In front of Rockefeller center, a fat vendor woman with green glasses is selling something. She has a live iguana on her head, actually there are two live iguanas balanced on her head, fucking. A toy store with horribly bright colors and countless Mickey Mouses, Bambies, Donald Ducks, Simbas, Tarzans, Sleeping Beauties, dwarfs, King Kongs, Pocahontases, penguins. . GOTHAM.

The end is near, my friends, the end is near.

Danny is holding my hand and we are threading our way through crowds of people in masks, masks, masks on this last Halloween night, which doesn’t matter to me in the slightest, which doesn’t matter to me at all. Broadway— Cats, Rent, Chicago, Mamma Mia, Les Miserables, Mary Poppins —musicals, musicals, musicals. .

The wail of ambulances; the rising underground steam; a Buddhist masseuse; a horrifying mime, painted in white; a guitarist wearing a bandana; a clown; a man-statue; a saxophone player; the lights of Manhattan in and out of focus.

We turn onto a side street. I stumble over the cardboard boxes of a homeless man, he curses, lights a flashlight, stares at me viciously, and spits at me. I understand, I’d spit if I were him, too.

We go down a few steps. We ring a doorbell. A six-foot-something black man, dressed as a Russian butler in a Gogol play, opens the door. We go down a narrow red corridor which turns into a narrower, dark-red corridor. We climb a few steps and enter something like a bar with normal-looking people who are drinking. No one is wearing costumes, of course. Costumes are for the idiots outside. This here is a hideout from the street masquerade.

We sit down. The black butler turns to leave, but I pull him by the sleeve. I want to drink. The man gives me a look. Then, with a hand like pliers, he frees his jacket from my grip and pushes me back into my seat. Through a smile, he hisses that someone will take our order while he is relieving us of our baggage. I hold tight to the bag. I don’t let it go. I’ve dragged it across the whole fucking continent; I can’t just give it to some black Russian butler, I just can’t. Not without a fight. The black man grins at my friend. Danny shakes his head apologetically and whispers in my ear not to worry. This man will take the stash to the Boss . I clutch the bag even more tightly. I press my cheek to it — we have a past together, you big old bag. We have a history, you and I.

Danny rests his arm on my shoulder — I don’t have to make a fool of myself. I sniffle, force a smile, and leave the bag in the black hands of the butler.

A waitress comes — a beautiful girl with short, platinum blond hair, bright red lips, perky breasts, and slender thighs — what would we like while we wait?

Danny wants a cappuccino.

I want a martini. A dirty martini with three olives. I actually want two dirty martinis.

The girl smiles and leaves. I want to embrace her and sleep with her. I want to kiss her, kiss her, and caress her, and fill her up with myself. I want to sink and dissolve in this beautiful girl with her short platinum hair, expressive red lips, perky breasts, and slender thighs. This girl who will kiss me, will kiss me, will kiss me with tobacco kisses and will fall asleep on my chest, listening to my mad, barbarian heart.