Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

“Very nice.” My voice rasps. The Boss lifts an eyebrow.

“Excuse me!?”

I point at the installation of beautiful female asses. “ Kalepa ta kala. ”

“Pardon?”

“Simple is beautiful. An ancient Greek saying. Or. . beautiful is simple. I don’t remember how it goes.”

“Oh, that?” the Boss grins. “Those are casts of some of the women whom. .” he shrugs, “whom I’ve had the privilege of knowing. . up close.”

“I see.” Now, I feel embarrassed to keep looking in that direction, which takes me back to the marijuana problem, to the problem with Danny’s money, to the problem with Stella, the problem with the burned-down house, with the forever-gone past, the problem with me, the problem with all these problems. A door opens, somebody brings the bag.

The Boss opens it, goes over to the fireplace, pulls out a fistful of marijuana, rubs it between his fingers, squints, and smells it. Then he throws it into the fire.

“Like I said, it’s no good.” He takes another fistful, and another, and another — they all end up in the flames. I have no idea how this night will continue, but I want it to end right here and now. I wonder if there’s a way for these windows to open. I look up at the night sky where the deus ex machina will not be arriving from. Where are the planes now, when I need them? “Cannabis, cannabis,” the Boss keeps throwing fistful after fistful in the fire. “why does mankind have problems with you of all things?” This is a trick; a desperate thought crosses my mind suddenly. It’s a dumb trick. A set up. They must have switched the bags. It’s impossible that I damaged the stuff — it’s not like Jack London’s one thousand dozen eggs. The smell of burning marijuana fills the loft. At this moment I turn my attention to the Invisible Man, or rather the Mummy Man in the wheelchair.

“Hey,” I say. “How you doing there, Mummy Man?” I grin. Sometimes I laugh at my own stupid jokes. No one else in the loft reacts to my joke, though. “For the first time,” I go on. “I’m seeing a mummy in a wheelchair. Clever.”

“This is Billy,” says the Boss. “I wanted to properly introduce you, but I got carried away. Anyhow. You’ve actually seen each other before.”

“No way, we’ve seen each other before!” I continue grinning even more stupidly, george-bush stupidly. “Isn’t that the Invisible Man?” I’m funny when I want to be funny. Damn it, I’m hilarious.

“Billy is my son. He saw you in Mexico.”

“In Mexico?” My mouth goes dry.

“Tijuana. When you showed up, two Mexicans were kicking him.” The Boss takes a remote, points it, and a few screens light up on one of the bookshelves. Danny, shaking the table with his nervous knee, can be seen, looking around. Then the Boss rewinds the tape to a moment in which I down a martini and grin at the waitress. I’m unshaven, I’ve got a black eye, a small-town policeman hairdo, and my nose is big and crooked. “About a month ago, I sent Billy and one of my associates to take care of some business down in Tijuana. The Mexicans, however, had a different plan — they decided to kidnap them and hold them for ransom. We’re talking about money, of course, a big chunk of money. One night, my boys managed to take care of the guards and snuck out with one of the vans, in which there was a bag of grass. The Mexicans, though, caught up with them before they reached the border. They shot my other guy dead. They crushed Billy’s legs and arms and beat him senseless. And then you showed up.” The Boss refills our glasses. “Billy’s alive now.” He shakes ashes from his cigar. “I flew to the West Coast, of course, and took care of things. While I was at the hospital with Billy, I asked around. One of my partners in Santa Monica, Chris, mentioned that someone. .” the Boss emphasizes the next few words with his intense eyes, “someone with a black eye and a thick accent was inquiring about selling a large bag of marijuana without getting caught.” Pause. “Then Danny asked me if I wanted to buy a bag of Mexican grass, and I put two and two together and said, yes, of course.” He gently kicks the bag. “I don’t actually need this. But come to think of it, it’s mine, in any case.” The Boss places his cigar in the ashtray, opens a small safe, takes out one, two, three, four, five stacks of money and extends his hand. I don’t reach out, he holds them for a while, then shrugs and piles them up next to the scotch decanter. “I wanted to see you, Zack. I just wanted to see your face and what were you made of. Here’s fifty thousand.” He takes a pen out and writes something on a yellow piece of paper. “Here’s the phone number of one of my associates. Call if you need anything. Anything.” I slowly walk to the coffee table, touch the money, pile the stacks on top of each other, pour some more whiskey into my glass, and drink up. I walk to Billy’s wheelchair, put my arm on his shoulder, look for his eyes through the bandages, and nod. I think he nods, too. Then I squat down and touch my forehead to his bandaged head. I close my eyes and, for a moment, we stay like this. I hear the cold wind outside, the crackling of the fire in the fireplace, and the labored breathing of the man next to me. I open my eyes, get up, go back to the table, put the stacks one by one in the pockets of my jacket, and finish up whatever is left in my glass. The city lights outside sway back and forth.

The Boss comes closer and extends his hand. I understand that our meeting has come to an end. I shake his hand. Hardly able to keep my balance, touching the edges of the furniture I pass by, I head toward the elevator. I reach for the door.

“Zack.” I stop. “To the left, Zack.” I hear the Boss’ low voice. “The elevator is to the left. That’s my bedroom. You have no business in there.”

*

Danny is staring at a squeezed out bag of green tea at the bottom of his empty cup. I pat him on the shoulder from behind, he’s startled, and gets up.

“What happened?” I take two stacks of money and hand it to him. He tucks them under his belt, grabs my elbow, starts pushing me toward the exit.

“Wait!” I yell. “Stop!” I look around for the waitress with the platinum hair. “Wait!” A few heads turn. I scan the place until I see her. Then I lose her again. Danny is holding me up. I find her again. I feel like my legs are challenged by the weight of my body, my physical body, I mean. The girl appears again. I smile and try to say good night . That’s all I wanted to say in the first place. I want to say good night to someone, what’s the big deal? I stutter a few words and drop to my knees. The black butler grabs me under the arms and drags me by some red walls and more red walls and hauls me up some stairs.

Before they shove me into the cab, I start to sing. I sit behind the driver. On the fiberglass divider between us is an ID card with a mustachioed photo and a name. I try pronouncing the name but stumble on some Ukrainian clump of consonants, then vomit endlessly and painfully before I pass out.

*

— what difference does it make which direction we live our lives, zack?

— you build your theories and talk about backwards time as if there is a straightforward one

— we live in some kind of time, don’t we?

— where is time in your photographs? what time are the negatives of the film you just finished in? and aren’t you the one who will arrange them the way you want to? you’re done shooting, right. i need to get dressed — could you pass me that T-shirt? thanks

— in real life. .

— and in real life you try to exchange one kind of linearity with another. you propose that we look at life from the end to the beginning instead of the other way around, from right to left instead of the way we are used to, you switch after and before around, you look for a direction in an infinite 18 % gray. when actually the one and only sure thing is the now , which is the beginning and the end, the before and after, 18 % gray and 100 % now , and nothing else