On the desolate, squalid town square I spot a Mexican cantina and pull up in front of it. Fans, hanging from the ceiling. turn in the air slowly, a boom-box plays corridos, and the smell of burned grease fills the room. A customer in a plaid shirt and suspenders, with a mustache and a white sombrero, sits under a faded, fly-specked Frida reproduction and eats a fat burrito. Two chubby kids with backpacks lean over quesadillas and drink from a Fanta bottle with two straws. Behind the counter, a dark Mexican smiles at me, his hair bluish-black like a crow’s feathers.
“A-a-a-a, señor, cómo estás?”
“Nada,” I reply and start reading the chalk-written menu above his head. I don’t feel like talking to Mexicans right now.
“No, no, no, no, no-o-o-o-o, amigo. Cómo estás mean How are joo. You don’ say nada. Nada mean nothing. OK? You gotta say, Muy bien, gracias! Y tú? Da means, a-a-a, I am well. How about joo? When joo say nada, joo say nothing. OK, now again: Amigo, cómo estás?”
“Nada. Nada means nada. I’m not well, amigo. I am nada!”
“Ay, ay, ay, senor. Why joo don’t eat sonthing, drink una cerveza and everything will be all right.”
“Give me one carne asada gordita. No onions, please.” The Mexican writes my order down with a pencil and hands it to the invisible cook behind him. I open the dirty fridge and pull out a green bottle of beer. I drink two of those while my food is cooking. Then, I attack my fat gordita hungrily. Pieces of meat, lettuce, diced tomatoes, and bell peppers fall from the edges, but I gather them with my fingers from the greasy table and shove them into my mouth. Tasty. I feel much better when I leave the joint.
I get into my car and open the windows. My belly is full. Right next to my spot, a rusty brown Datsun comes to a halt with a screech. Behind the wheel is a stringy, fortyish guy with a goatee in a black muscle shirt. Two scruffy bleached-blonde girls, high school age, grin in the back seat. The three of them stare at me.
“Dude,” says the Goatee. “Your car smells good. Very good.”
“Really?” I say as I turn on the ignition.
“You can smell it from outside.” One of the girls licks her upper lip and passes a joint to the other one. Both of them keep staring at me and grinning. Goatee’s hair is short in the front and parted down the middle, but long in the back, falling over his shoulders. It is definitely an odd attempt at a mullet. Some of his teeth are bad and some missing. “It smells like . . .” There is something overtly sexual and sickening about this trio. With my right hand, I feel the car seat for my sun-heated camera, pull it up in front of my face, and quickly take a few shots. All three of them burst into wild laughter. I shoot again. “You wanna take pictures, huh, dude?! You wanna take pictures?! Well, how about this!” The Goatee holds up the blondish head of a third girl whom I hadn’t noticed before because she had been bent down in his lap. Her lipstick is smeared. She has last night’s make up on and her look is as blank as the sky above this empty parking lot. I take one last shot while the two girls laugh hysterically and jump out of the car, running toward the cantina. The Goatee flips a tattooed finger at me and pushes the third girl’s head back down. I step on the gas pedal. The bunch of coconut air-freshener trees dangle beneath the rear view mirror—the smell I wanted to chase Stella away with.
*
Stella came home from France. On our way back from the airport, she opened the car window, took out a packet of menthols, and lit one. She had started smoking. I tried to say something about how unnecessary this bad habit was, but she interrupted me with a gesture. She felt like smoking and that was that. I could hardly swallow my exasperation. I felt offended.
I tried to convince myself that all this was temporary. She also made efforts to keep up a somewhat civilized coexistence; we were both learning to live pragmatically, like everybody else around us.
She started buying larger and larger canvases for her paintings—which I had less and less of a desire to see. When I actually had to, I found less and less meaning in them. In the beginning, everything she painted was close to me, and we talked about her art for hours. As time passed, though, her paintings became less interesting and more incomprehensible. Her last pieces were nine-foot squares in gray oil which told me nothing. Stella’s first exhibit in California was a group show with one other painter and two sculptors. It was in a small, new gallery in San Clemente. On the day of the opening, I was busy conducting a site visit in Earlstown, Iowa, where, while tracking files and the database, I found two somewhat significant violations of the protocol. From the hotel room that night, I had a view of vast corn fields. The sky over them was leaden. It was the beginning of fall in Iowa. I watched the tall corn, ready for harvest, and wondered whether we, too, had our seasons. Does love have seasons?
*
I arrive in the Valley of the Sun—I guess that’s what they call Phoenix—in the late afternoon. I park in front of a tourist information center and get out of the car to stretch my stiff body, pick up a map of the city, and use the telephone book. In it, I find one of the few surviving professional photography stores that carry chemicals for black and white photography and processing equipment. I call to make sure they’re still in business. They are. Just before closing time, I manage to find the store. The owner is an old-timer wearing a blue vest and thick prescription glasses, with a crooked mouth and dwarf’s beard, who scuffles amidst the shelves to the sound of his flip-flops. I buy Kodak film developer D-76, Ilford’s rapid fixing solution and stop bath, a canister, a few one-gallon bottles, and some film negative sleeves. For a moment, I hesitate as to whether I’ll need a thermometer like the one I used before (twenty-five dollars), but pass on the idea. I pay and leave with something vaguely resembling a smile on my face. I stop on the sidewalk and see off the last third of the sun setting behind the brick building on the west side of the street. Suddenly, the temperature drops. I cross the street and enter a supermarket. There, I buy a kitchen thermometer for five bucks, clothes pins (which I will use to dry negatives and pictures), several Toblerones, and a bottle of scotch.
I find a hotel close to the freeway. My room is on the third floor, overlooking the dense trail of red and white car lights. After the Mexican food, I’m still full. I start in with the chemicals. I dissolve the chemical powder in water and get ready to develop the rolls of film. I go into the bathroom. I lay out my improvised tools, memorize where everything is, and turn off the lights. In the darkness, I crack open the first roll of film with my car key—God, it’s been a while since I’ve done this—and I feel my hands trembling with excitement. I take a deep breath and try to relax a little. The lid of the first roll drops to the bathroom floor. I grope for the film, caress it, pull it, unwind it and let it hang down. I use my teeth to tear it from the spool. I love this delicate moment of violence. The instant when, with a short bite—I always use my teeth, never scissors—I free the film from the prison of the cassette roll. I fumble in the dark for the developing tank and start rolling the film onto the reel. My heart beats faster. I manage to load the reel, place it in the tank, and close it. I take another breath and make sure that everything is going well. I turn on the light. I pour some developer into the container and start the process. The first fifty-five seconds I shake the canister like a martini. I let the film rest for thirty seconds, and then shake it for five seconds each minute. For twelve minutes. I pour out the used developer, stop-bath it, turn on the faucet, and let the water run into the canister to wash it. I fix the film for another twelve minutes then let the water run over it for a long time. I continue with the hypo-bath, washing it again. I open the tank to check on the result and my heart starts pounding. Here they are—the negatives of everything I shot today. Here they are. I lift the film up to the bathroom light and stare at the little rectangles for a long moment. At a particular angle, and only for me, they come to life. I pin up the film to dry and jump in the shower.
My motel is too cheap to have a restaurant. Across from my room however, I can make out the big red “M” of
a Marriot shining in the inky sky, so I decide to check it out. My plans for the night include a few martinis. I go out and inhale the desert night. I cross the enormous parking lot and go into the hotel. I nod to the girl at the reception desk and find the lobby bar, lush with plastic greenery and despicably lit like a small-town bus station.
“Good evening,” I say, sitting down next to a gentleman in a plaid blazer who is reading the Wall Street Journal. He glances at me, nods, and keeps on reading while the bartender finds a second to take his eyes off the baseball game on the TV and nod in my direction with a how-can-I-help-you look.
“A dirty vodka martini,” I say. The bartender is a tall, clumsy guy in a badly ironed shirt with a haircut that needs attention. He doesn’t cool the martini glass, shakes the vodka in the shaker only a few times, doesn’t add any dry vermouth, and pushes the glass toward me. I can’t help but notice his dirty nails.
“Anything else?” I don’t answer and don’t reach toward his masterpiece. He shrugs his shoulders and is about to pull away.
“May I have a dirty martini, please?” I push away the glass. I don’t like making scenes. All I want is a dirty martini, not just chilled vodka in a martini glass.
“This is a martini, isn’t it?” the tall kid snaps.
“Can you make it dirty?”
“How?” He grunts.
“Well, first you make a martini, and then you stir it with your index finger.” He involuntarily looks at his hand, then at me, and gets red in the face. The gentleman with the paper bites his lips. Now I feel bad that I offended the kid—after all, he had the decency to ask me like a man.
“Sir . . .” He starts.
“I’m kidding.” I say. “I’m kidding. Just drop two or three drops of dry vermouth right here, pin three olives on this little sword, then pour a little bit of the brine right from the olive jar and it will look dirty. No big deal.” The tall kid does as I say. I down the glass and before he manages to disappear to the safety of his corner closer to the TV, I gesture to him to repeat the procedure. The second one is far better because I asked him to mix the ingredients before shaking the vodka in the shaker. The third martini is almost perfect. The outlines of the world begin to soften up somehow. Phoenix, Arizona . . . I look in the direction of the guy with the paper, but his nose is deeply buried in pages filled with columns of small numbers. I’m getting bored. Should I go up to my room and write something? What should I write? A diary? What do I need a diary for? So that one day (if I choose to live without her, that is) I can read my own drivel? But I’m trying so hard to forget it right now. What should I write? A novel? If what has happened to me hasn’t happened to you, there is no way you can imagine it. And if it has happened to you, there is no point in remembering it. Who needs another book about a separation? Who needs another sad book? Who needs another book at all?
“A beer.” A voice startles me. To my left, a guy in a baseball cap and an orange shirt has wobbled up to the bar. He looks around, narrowing his eyes to focus on the setting. “Phoenix, fuckin’ Arizona, man!”
“What kind of beer?” The bartender asks.
“Who cares?” The bartender shrugs and pours him a glass of Bud Light. “I am,” yells the man with the baseball cap “getting married next month.”
“Good for you,” I say.
“What happened to you?” He points at my face.
“I fell down the stairs.”
“Aha.” My new bar-stool neighbor grins. “I, on the other hand, am getting married”—he looks at his watch—“in twenty-nine days and . . . eight hours.” This time the guy with the Wall Street Journal murmurs, “Good for you,” without lifting his head from the paper.
At this moment, a woman of undeterminable age with a pretty, but somewhat tired face walks toward the bar, and having heard the last sentence, says, “Congratulations.”
“I,” bellows the soon-to-be married man to my left, “lived in a tent for five years.” Pause, during which he finishes his beer. “In Alaska!” he adds and bangs the bottom of the bottle on the bar. “I had hair this long and a beard down to here. And I lived in Alaska for five years.”
“Was it cold enough for you?” says the gentleman with the paper. The woman orders a Chardonnay.
“And I was a radio DJ. Do you know what my show was called?”
“What?” asks the paper.
“I had a heater.”
“I Had a Heater? That’s an interesting title.”
“No—I’m saying that I had a heater and I wasn’t cold. But my show was called The Hour of Enlightenment.” He confirms what he just said by banging his fist on the bar. “The Hour of Enlightenment!”
“Fascinating.” The gentleman shuffles his paper and keeps on reading.
“Fascinating, indeed!”
“Are you still a radio DJ?” asks the woman softly and sips her wine.
“No. I’m a flight attendant now, for United.”
“And what about the radio?”
“There is no radio anymore. There is no Hour of Enlightenment any more. Only darkness. Dark darkness. I am a flight attendant. Give me another beer. Please.”
“The same?”
“No.”
“What beer then?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m from Minnesota. From Bob Dylan’s hometown. Do you know Bob Dylan’s real name?” The flight attendant turns to me. I tell him what Bob Dylan’s real name is. “Great! You know. What are you drinking? Very few people know that Bob Dylan’s name is not Bob Dylan. But you know. There is no independent radio in Alaska anymore. It was bought by corporate bastards and now they play the same six songs they play everywhere else in the world . . . No Hour of Enlightenment. Cheers! But I’m getting married in a month. My fiancée is sweet. We’re gonna live in Jersey. She’s a flight attendant, too. In the beginning, we’ll see each other every other week. Then I’ll tell her: ‘Listen, you stay home and take care of the kid, and I’ll fly and take care of you.’ Two flight attendants make for an impossible couple. The marriage will . . .” Here a downward gesture of a falling airplane follows, accompanied by the appropriate sound effect. “B-h-s-h-s-h-s-h-s-h-s-h-s!”
“You have a child?” the woman asks.
“She’s got a kid. Thirteen years old. I studied history in college. I wanted to become a historian. But there was no one to tell me, to even mention, that in the whole state of Minnesota there were only three jobs for historians and they were already taken. Five years in college, five years in Alaska in a tent, hair and a beard this long, The Hour of Enlightenment, and my ratings were this high . . . Now I open Pepsi cans on an airplane.” He pauses. “Another beer, please.” He gets his beer. I order a martini.
“Sign a prenup,” says the Wall Street Journal man, completely out of nowhere.
“We’re getting married in Vegas.”
“Do you know her well?” asks the man to my right.
“I love Elvis Presley.”
“Good.”
“Angie is a good person. She said yes. A good person. I asked her half an hour ago. And she said yes.”
“How did you ask her?”
“On the phone.”
“On the phone?”
“On the god-damn phone.”
“Tomorrow you call her and tell her you were drunk and don’t remember anything.”
“I am drunk.”
“That’s right.”
“But I remember everything!”
“I used to call my ex-wife the plaintiff,” says the gentleman to my right. “Yeah, I called her the plaintiff. The plaintiff did this, the plaintiff said that . . .”
“You’re divorced?” Sincerely surprised, the flight attendant takes a sip from his beer.
“Just recently.”
“Wow!”
“For the third time.”
“Was it expensive?”
“What?”
“The wedding?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Well
, not compared to the divorce.”
“And how about the divorce?”
“The divorce was expensive. Especially if it’s your third.”
The flight attendant scratches his head. “I own Bob Dylan’s sink.”
“Excuse me?”
“I bought it from the antique store in town. With a certificate. Guaranteeing that it really is from his house. From . . . uh . . . the house he grew up in . . . before he changed his name to Bob Dylan. His name is not Bob Dylan. I bought it and threw it in the back of my pick-up, tied it up with a rope, and drove it home. Now it’s in the basement. It must cost a fortune on eBay. But I’m never gonna sell it.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t need money. And I’ll tell my wife, my future wife, the same thing: I don’t need money. I want to be happy!”
“That’s right.” The Wall Street Journal turns to another page.
“I want to be very happy.”
“Good.”
“In Vegas. In twenty-nine days . . . seven hours . . . forty se . . .”
“Why Vegas?”
“Because that’s the only place where a priest can dress as Elvis Presley.”
“I see.”
“I have to buy her a wedding ring. How much was yours?”
The gentleman looks away from the paper and thinks for a second. “Well, my first wife’s wedding ring was ten thousand dollars, but the plaintiff left with an eighty-thousand-dollar one. The divorce was in the millions.”
“Wow, what do you do for living?”
“I’m an attorney.”
“Oh, a lawyer. I knew a lawyer in Alaska. But he, you know, used to paddle on both sides of the canoe.” A wink.
“Excuse me?” The lawyer doesn’t understand.
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