18% Gray

by Zachary Karabashliev

  I sold another Carl-Zeiss and one Nikon body. California swallowed up my equipment, plans, dreams, and ideas one by one. California cooled down my eagerness, sucked up my energy, and in just a few months stripped me down to despair.

  California—it became clear—had no use for me or my images. What California needed was the next drug.

  *

  I drive out of Pamona. Large stratus clouds, blue skies, dried-out trees, hills in yellow and brown, cacti, round rocks. San Pasqual Valley—the only battle the Mexicans won in the Mexican-American War—took place right here. Only about twenty people from both sides were killed in the battle. Man, they must have run up and down these stony hills like goats. Rifles must have fired, blood must have turned black on these very rocks, vultures must have circled up in the blue sky. I pass an ostrich farm and enter Ramona. I find the coffee shop. It’s called Packard’s and it turns out to be a trailer with an awning over the sidewalk. I go in. It is cramped and unbearably hot. There’s an old espresso machine. Behind the counter, a girl is filing her nails. I ask how much a double espresso is.

  “The espresso is a dollar fifty, so—three dollars for two.”

  “I don’t want two espressos, just one double.”

  “I still have to run two. Two times one-fifty is three dollars.”

  I take a deep breath and try again, calmly.

  “You got a manager here?”

  “No.”

  “I want to talk to a manager.” She leans in and without a word points with her nail file at a pay phone on the sidewalk across the street. I don’t move. I stare. Long pause. Why don’t I just pay for two espressos and leave as soon as possible? It is what it is. There’s no Starbucks around, there’s no Pete’s Coffee—one-fifty single, a dollar seventy-five double, a smiling, fast grad student with a pierced tongue behind the counter, helpful manager around somewhere, wireless internet, sepia photos on the walls, styled leather lounge furniture, air conditioning, intelligent music, and well-intentioned people. I left all that behind, in the big city.

  I turn around and slowly walk out. I go to my car. I reach through the open window and pull out the Nikon, a notebook, and a pen. I take a few wide shots of the trailer/coffee shop. Then I go back in and without asking for permission, I start taking pictures of the girl. At first, she’s stunned. Then she remembers that she won’t look good frowning, so few shots latter, she starts smiling as she thinks she is supposed to if she wants to be in a magazine. She even tries posing. The window to the right above her provides a diffused, almost Rembrandtesque lighting. I snap a dozen shots and order a double espresso. Almost disappointed I wrapped up so quickly, she asks: “For the paper?”

  “Which paper?”

  “Our paper.”

  “No.”

  “Three dollars.”

  “Three dollars.” I give her three dollars and fifty cents. Why am I doing this? Because I’m a good guy, that’s why.

  “That’s it? Fifty cents?” She exclaims, disappointedly handing me an unclean ceramic cup. “Fifty cents for the pictures? Can’t you be more generous, man! Go-ss-sh!”

  I give her an annihilating look, throw the camera over my shoulder, and, without a word, cup in hand, I leave. It has a faded lipstick mark on the rim, and the espresso looks thin and sour before I even try it! I pick one of the four plastic tables on the sidewalk and sit down. The table shakes and half of the liquid spills. Great. It’s going be awful anyway. I sip. I was wrong. It’s not awful. It’s disgusting.

  What did I expect from the only espresso machine between Pamona, Ramona, and who knows how many more towns around here? What did I expect from rural America? What did I expect from this life anyway?

  I look around. Three plastic flowerpots with artificial geraniums hang over the tables. They tremble with a breeze coming from who knows where. It’s hellishly hot outside and the air above the long, empty street stands still, but here in the shade, there’s a gentle breeze. Strange. Under the tent hang sun-bleached, fly-spattered, tiny national flags: Canadian, Danish, Italian, Japanese, Australian, French, one more Italian, and another one I don’t recognize—horizontal stripes with red on top, yellow in the middle, and red underneath it, with a coat of arms I can’t make out. On the other side of the street is a gas station under construction, temporarily enclosed in orange plastic nets. Across from it is a motel with a big illuminated turkey above the front door, The Turkey Motel. Under the turkey it says: Dances—every Friday and Saturday. So, people here do dance. A little further I see the sign, LA COCINA, MEXICAN FOOD. Next to it is a drug store which sells all sorts of things, and catty-corner from it, there’s a somewhat large restaurant named The Old Telephone.

  I bend over my hundred-page notebook and start writing whatever comes to mind.

  *

  Although I was sure no one would ask for my original diploma, I invested two hours in Adobe Photoshop creating a new, fake diploma out of my old Bulgarian one. It looked pretty decent. The black-and-white copies looked more than authentic. I chose to have graduated with a degree in neurobiology from Sofia University. The odds that any of my prospective interviewers would’ve studied that same field were very slim, and it would make me less vulnerable to questions about it. It turned out I was right. After I was done with my education, I searched the Internet, copied the biography of a Hungarian doctor and started putting together my own monitor resume.

  I made up a Bulgarian pharmaceutical company named ALPHA-PHARMA where I was supposed to have worked for several years. I created a website for this fantasy business using retouched pictures of buildings in New Jersey. I invented a Research and Development Department which dealt with clinical research. My imaginary boss was a picture of a moron I downloaded from Google images. I named him Dr. Ivan Draganov. As for my own photo, I went to a Party City store on Claremont Street, bought a white doctor’s coat for $19.99, and kept the receipt. I photographed myself smiling and then returned the merchandise. In the “References” section, I wrote a few Bulgarian phone numbers that I was sure no one would call. To ensure the American references, I bought three Motorola phones and opened three mobile telephone lines with different area codes in various parts of the country. So whoever called would have only these numbers from my job applications, and I was prepared to give references for myself.

  The first job interview was scheduled around Christmas. I spent the week before that in the library, reading whatever I could about the human body, studying medical terminology—I had graduated with a degree in neurobiology after all. At night, trying to cram as much as I could about a monitor’s job responsibilities, I fell asleep on my PC. The big day came and the interview lasted three hours. When it was over, I was sweating and trembling. I felt relieved the next day when they called to inform me they had chosen another candidate. The second and the third interviews were easier, shorter, yet still unsuccessful. The fourth one went well, but ended with a conference call in which I almost fell apart under a cross examination by a German working for Lindhau Research and an Indian-accented woman, her voice amplified by speakers and soaked with suspicion.

  Every interview after that was a breeze. And there were many.

  A month later I had offers for second interviews from several companies. After my excellent performance at two of them, both offered me positions. I asked for an absurdly high salary at the first one, ICONIQ (honestly hoping they would turn me down), and a modest one at the second (so I could turn them down). I wasn’t sure what I was doing. Both companies agreed to my conditions.

  I chose ICONIQ, a global, multinational corporation with headquarters in France and offices all over the world. The closest one to L.A. was in San Diego, so we had to relocate to the very border with Mexico, an hour and a half away from Los Angeles. Stella and I didn’t mind moving to San Diego; in a way it reminded us of our hometown, Varna.

  We rented a two-bedroom apartment in the north of the city and moved our stuff over the weekend. On Monday I was in the Human Resources office, filli
ng out paperwork. Two hours later, the thickset HR manager stood me in front of a digital camera, I said “cheese” and the machine spat out my ID card. On it, I saw my name underneath a black-and-white photo fit for an obituary.

  Then I realized why they hired me so fast—they desperately needed monitors for the development of a new generation of drugs for treating clinical depression. After billions of dollars and years of work had been invested in that study, they now had information that a rival pharmaceutical company was on its way to releasing a similar drug on the market. ICONIQ was racing against the clock.

  I was assigned to the team of a short, bald guy, with a pencil mustache and the face of Inspector Clouseau. His name was Scott. Scott the manager.

  *

  —c’mon, please, you make it better

  —i’m busy taking pictures

  —and i’m posing for you, so you make the coffee

  —OK then, when we finish I’ll make coffee and you’ll fix the bed

  —if you do the dishes first, ’cause the sink is full

  —right, we had company last night, i forgot

  —well, you got drunk

  —i didn’t get drunk!

  —yes, you did

  —i did not

  —who fell asleep on the floor?

  —i wasn’t sleeping. i was listening to your conversation

  —what did we talk about?

  —you talked about a-a-a- . . . art

  —you were snoring, zack

  —i was pretending

  —is that why you farted?

  —me?!

  —loudly

  —shit! what would . . . how am i gonna look those people in

  the eye?!

  —we had a lot of fun last night

  —yeah?

  —you were really funny

  —really?

  —they were dying of laughter

  —what were they laughing about so much?

  —your stories

  —well, i’m a clown

  —you were so funny . . . and when you jumped and started up dancing with the coat rack . . .

  —i honestly don’t remember that at all

  —funny!

  —tsk, tsk, tsk . . . how could you let me sleep on the floor

  —you’re funny even when you sleep

  —but of course! especially when i happen to fart . . . jesus, how humiliating!

  —well, it’s human

  —all too human

  —m-m-m-m-m . . . baby . . . i love you

  —farts and all?

  —i was kidding, zack, you didn’t fart

  —i didn’t? really?

  —really

  —phew, thank god!

  —now go make some coffee, will you?

  —you little fox, you . . . wait, hold it right there. just like this, half-turned

  —zack . . .

  —yes, stella . . .

  —if you ever stop making me laugh, i’ll leave you

  —you’ll go looking for another clown?

  —no. i’ll just leave you

  *

  I’ve no idea how long I was sitting there at the plastic table at Packard’s, but I am pulled out of my daydream by the loud noise of a backfiring exhaust pipe. The noisiest and shiniest cheap motorcycle I’ve ever seen parks a few feet away from me. A tall, skinny man dressed in black leather dismounts. He is wearing a military helmet with a swastika on it, a sparkly chain in place of a belt, and big leather riding boots. In his right boot, the handle of a knife. The eyes of this rider are hidden behind mirrored, deep-purple shades reflecting the emptiness of the whole street. When he takes them off at last, I realize that he can’t be more than nineteen years old. He has a goatee and a slow stride, with which he arrogantly walks past me and enters the trailer coffee shop.

  From the drugstore across the street two girls come out and head toward the coffee shop. They cross the street and sit at a table on the corner. The first one is blonde and pretty—pony tail, cut-off jeans, a little red tank top revealing her navel, blue flip-flops, oversized sunglasses, sucking a milkshake from a large plastic cup with a straw. The other one, chubby, also wearing sunglasses, starts reading something aloud from a fashion magazine. The biker in black reappears from the shop with a Coca-Cola in hand and slowly approaches his motorbike. I now notice that he has a knife stuck in his other boot as well. The chubby girl lifts her greenish-yellow mirrored glasses from the magazine and looks toward the biker. I can’t see his response because he is already in front of the bike with his back toward me. He just stands there sipping his Coke. Then, in the middle of the scorching intersection, another kid appears. He crosses the street unhurriedly and stops at an empty table. His hair is fair, parted in the middle, his face covered with red, agitated pimples. He is wearing an Iron Maiden T-shirt, camouflage pants, and white sneakers. He drags up a chair, sits down, and starts monitoring the intersection carefully, without ordering anything.

  For one much extended moment, all of these figures are still and silent. I have the feeling that I am in someone else’s bad dream. I choose to leave it and get into my car. From there, I manage to snap a few shots of the still-unmoving figures and head back toward the freeway which will take me away from here.

  *

  My training with Scott lasted a week. I knew most of the stuff in theory and wherever the theory came up short, I shrugged my shoulders and said that we had done things differently at ALPHA-PHARMA. I asked Scott how he wanted certain procedures done and he was glad to explain everything. Scott liked being asked. After the training, I was assigned to assist a senior monitor whose wife had died not long ago, and who had bad stomach problems. He was silent, sighing, swallowing pill after pill. I learned a lot from him. Three months later, I was given a laptop with several programs installed and was attached to a guy named Mike. Mike and I clicked instantly. Mike was easy to talk to, funny, and Scott-intolerant. Everything I needed to know to be ready for inspecting on my own, I learned from Mike.

  I was handed a list with the hospitals and health centers participating in the clinical research. I was given the contact information of the physicians who received fat paychecks to work with us. What was expected from me in those early days of my new career was to inspect the study documentation. The overly swamped doctors sent their assistants, who were even busier. So after a brief handshake, they slammed thick folders down on my desk, with forms signed by the volunteers participating in the clinical trial, and disappeared. I retired into some empty office and compared the data. Had the patients filled out the questionnaire properly? Did their symptoms match? Were they the right age? Were the drugs taken as prescribed? Were there any complications after they were taken? All I needed to do was compare data. Data, data, data . . . endless strings of data.

  *

  On one of the cross streets, just before the exit sign for Ramona, I see something picturesque. It’s a dirt road lined with more than fifty mailboxes; they’re attached to wooden posts and stuck in sand-filled paint, cat food, detergent, fertilizer, and other such tin or plastic containers. Some of these mailboxes are old and rusty, some brand new, others painted over, some crooked and with holes in them. Every one is different from the next one. And, where the dirt lane meets Main Street, there is a large empty space that recent rain has turned into a muddy puddle. The street sign reads HOPE. I take a few quick, wide shots of this crossroads. Then I go over to the mailboxes and shoot vertically and horizontally, getting the name of the street in the picture. Now I squat down and carefully compose the shot. I focus on one with a weathered American flag on it (Mr. and Mrs. Miller), which is next to the Hansens (orange hippie sign). I open the aperture, to get the shallow depth of field I need, and I click the shutter. Now, again, the same shot, but only this time, I close down three stops to include HOPE reflecting in the puddle. One, two, three, four clicks. Great. And then, just when I think I’m done, I hear the sound of an approaching vehicle behind me. A white pickup truck splat
tered with mud enters my frame, goes through the puddle, exits and stops abruptly in a cloud of dust by the mailboxes. A white cowboy hat emerges from the window and an arm wrapped in bandages like a wounded soldier’s head reaches out to open a mailbox. Now I realize how much was actually missing in my shot. This is it. The mud-splattered truck bed, the cloud of dust, the red stop lights, the cowboy hat, the American flag, the street named “Hope,” the mailboxes, the intersection, and the hand grabbing the fat pile of mail puts all of this together. I squat a little more, looking for a lower angle and just then the cowboy hat pokes out of the cab, turns my way, and shoots me a disapproving look. O-o-o-o-p-s. I get it. I’ve got no business here, holding a camera, crouching by a puddle. I bend over and pretend I’m tying my shoes. Brilliant. The cowboy hat slowly retracts; only the elbow remains sticking out. The pickup truck pulls away.

  And then, as I’m squatting, I feel the sudden sharp pain in my stomach. Ou-u-u-u-u-u-c-h, it hurts. What’s happening? Something pierces my lower abdomen. The pickup truck makes a turn around the first corner. O-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-c-h-h. Somewhere down there in my viscera, a ball of snakes starts wriggling. Pain, pain, pain. Then I remember. The cherries. Goddamn you, unwashed, dirty bastards! Goddamn you unwashed, dirty, and who-knows-how-chemically-enhanced motherfuckers! I knew something would go wrong. I knew it. I ate three pounds of filthy cherries and had that god-awful espresso—what good could come out of that? You don’t buy cherries, you stupid moron. Cherries are love. You either grow cherries or steal them. That’s what you do. If you are that desperate, you’ll spend a couple of bucks to recall the taste, but NOT STUFF YOUR FACE LIKE A GODDAMN PIG!