*
“Rough night, huh?” A voice wakes me.
“Uh-huh.”
“Sir, are you in a condition to operate this vehicle?” Where is the voice coming from? Border patrol booth, US border, young officer, kind eyes.
“Yes, sir,” I say, trying to sound chipper. I hand him my driver’s license and passport. “Must have dozed off while waiting.” He looks at the passport, then the license, then back at me, clearly checking to make sure the pictures match up.
“It’s your birthday today, huh, Zachary?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By yourself?”
I don’t answer. I look straight ahead.
“Anything to declare?” He says, scanning the inside of the van.
“No, sir,” I say, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
“Why didn’t you take a cab, Zachary?”
“I ran out of money, sir.” I notice a smear of something on my right cheek.
“Where are you from, Zachary?”
“A small country far away.” An ugly dark smear.
“No, Zachary, I meant . . .”
“Sorry, officer! Rancho Penasquitos.” Could be blood.
“Where’s that?”
“Just north of San Berna . . .” It could be mud. But then again, it could be blood. It’s on my right cheek though. The officer is inches to my left.
“I know where Rancho Penasquitos is, Zachary,” he cuts me off. “Where is the small country far away?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. It’s . . . just north of Greece, sir.”
“I see. They don’t drink and drive just north of Greece, do they?” His voice seems louder.
“No, sir, they don’t.”
“Well, we don’t drink and drive just north of Mexico, either.”
“We certainly don’t, sir.” I wait for him to ask me to step out of the vehicle. There’s no point in trying to run. There’s no point trying to hide my smeared right cheek.
The radio on his shoulder buzzes. He picks it up, lowers his chin to listen to the distorted voice. His eyes are still on me.
“Ten-four, sir,” he barks at his shoulder. I slowly exhale my last moments of freedom.
“Happy birthday, Zachary,” he says and hands me my license. “Go straight home now, you hear?” He says as he waves the next car over. “Straight home.”
I press the gas and head back into civilization.
*
When I came back to meet her after work, she was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a tight, light-blue T-shirt. She had on high-heeled platform sandals and a bag slung across her shoulder. It’s easy to fall in love with a girl who wears everything with such ease.
I had my hands shoved deep in my pockets, most likely.
The regular summertime crowd must have been swarming around us. We walked, I remember, toward the Sea Garden. Somewhere around the Museum of Art, I lose the thread of this memory. I can’t remember what we did between six, when she finished work, and the time it got dark. Did we sit somewhere? Did we just walk? Later, we went into a bar on the corner of First and the street she lived on, a small, dark place called “Impulse.” We sat at one of those little round tables with a black tablecloth pressed under a circle of glass. We drank gin and tonics and munched on peanuts. And started talking. We talked over each other. We talked as if we had been talking forever and someone had just interrupted us. We talked as if we were only pretending we didn’t know each other. We finished each other’s sentences, completed each other’s thoughts, and reminded each other of where we stopped. We talked as if tomorrow we would have to go our separate ways forever.
*
California! I’m saved! There’s the parking lot where I left Stella’s car. I feel like stopping, jumping out, and kissing the pavement.
I stop, jump out, and kiss the pavement. Then I get back in and park the van. I jump into Stella’s car and gun the engine. Then it hits me—I might have killed somebody an hour ago in Mexico. I’ve stolen a van and left a ton of fingerprints. One must think about these things. I get out, open the trunk of Stella’s car and look for something—anything—to wipe down the inside of the van. Nothing. I walk back to the van and open the passenger door. Nothing on the front seats that I can use. I open the back door.
I stifle a yell when I see the prone body and slam the door shut. My heart bangs crazily. I open the door again slowly. I exhale. Not a body. I sigh with relief. A giant plastic bag, stuffed full, slightly bent in the middle. It does look like a corpse. It’s soft to the touch, yet dense, as if packed with straw. I glance around the parking lot, then open the bag up. The pungent smell hits me. I know what it is. I know what I should do. Instead, I pull the bag out of the van, drag it across the parking lot, and spend several risky moments shoving it into the trunk of Stella’s Mercedes.
I get behind the wheel, turn the ignition, buckle up, cross myself, and head north into the bluish daybreak with a trunk-load of marijuana.
*
“. . . what to do with your life . . .”
My exit is just a few miles away. What I want to do more than anything right now is sleep, sleep, sleep. I roll down the window for some fresh air, to keep myself awake these last few minutes. The morning chill laps at my face. Along with it comes the unbearable thought that I am headed toward an empty house.
Who am I kidding? What am I going to do at home without her? Sleep? I already tried that a few hours ago and ended up almost dead in Mexico. No more sleep. I need to decide what to do with my life . . .
In the bag behind me, there are at least seventy pounds of marijuana. I haven’t the slightest idea how many joints that makes and I suspect that if I start calculating right now, I’ll get sick and throw up inside the car. That shitty margarita did me in, I know it. One joint is about five bucks. Ten joints are about fifty. A hundred joints are five hundred. One pound makes . . . there, shit, I’m getting fucking sick to my stomach. Here we go-o-o-o. I’m already in the emergency lane, slowing down, throwing up out the open window. I vomit for some time, painfully, while still driving. I finally stop, get out of the car, and bend over, clutching my stomach. Just when I feel I’ve purged everything, I throw up at the thought of throwing up. Excruciating, bitter, sour convulsions clench my stomach.
Jesus, what a night! What a night.
Back in the car. There, I see the exit to our street. There’s the street sign I’m so sick of, beyond it, the traffic light I’m so sick of. What am I doing? What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing?
I pass the exit sign and press the gas pedal.
Farewell, street sign.
Farewell, traffic light.
Farewell, canyon.
Farewell to you, too, empty house.
*
I thought about her constantly my last few weeks in the military. We saw each other a couple more times before my discharge. When I got off the train with a green army surplus bag slung over my shoulder, instead of going straight home to see Mom and my little sister, I grabbed a cab and gave the driver her address. In the rickety elevator, I pressed number seven and rehearsed my opening lines. I rang the doorbell. She opened the door and smiled. I wondered whether I should hug her or shake hands. I forgot what I was planning to say. She kissed me on the cheek and invited me in. Her room was white, clean, minimalistic. Stereo on the floor, bookshelves with lots of books, some paintings on the walls, low bed, little glass table, a vase with freesias. We sat on the floor sipping gin and tonics. We listened to music all night long. We did it for the first time at dawn, on the carpet in her room. We did nothing, actually. I was so excited, tired, and crazy about her that I lasted only a few seconds. She understood. She understood everything. She passed me the T-shirt she had just taken off to wipe myself, and told me to lay down for a while. Then I saw her open the window and, like a cat, jump up on the windowsill. I leaned back on my elbows, amazed at this sight. She turned to me and calmly sat on the ledge as if there were something beautiful and sa
fe on the other side. It was chilly out. Late September. The last thing I saw before falling asleep was her silhouette against the light-bluish dawn. Hard nipples, the flash of a lighter, a cigarette. Why was this beautiful girl here with me? Wasn’t she afraid of heights?
*
I stop in a surfer town between San Clementino and Los Angeles. I find a shabby beach hotel, check in, and lie down.
The sound of a vacuum next door wakes me up. I look at my watch; I’ve slept for four whole hours. My head is throbbing. I take a shower. I wash off the Tijuana filth, but the hangover clings to me. I look at myself in the mirror. Indigo bruises have started darkening under my eyes. My scalp hurts. I’m missing some hair, but that’s all right—better bald than dead.
I decide to go out, get some fresh air, and do some thinking. I haven’t thought straight for ten days. I go down to the lobby and ask the girl at the front desk about the closest coffee shop. There’s a Starbucks three blocks away. I find it and get in line behind several other customers. Now it’s my turn. At the register, a redhead with a tongue piercing asks me what I’d like. What? I turn around and look toward the door. Why doesn’t Stella just appear right here, right now? Why doesn’t she just come to this little town and have coffee with me like we used to, and we’d talk until . . .
“You waiting for someone?” The redhead with the tongue piercing asks calmly.
“Pardon?”
“Would you like anything, sir?” I don’t respond. Behind my back, an orderly line of men and women has formed. I look at the girl with red-streaked hair but no words form in my throat.
“Sir?”
Stella, Stella, Stella, if you show up at the door right now, I promise:
I will take the garbage out without you reminding me, I will give you massages anytime you want, I will learn not to slam the doors, I will buy you flowers, fields of flowers, I will be quiet when I get up in the middle of the night, I will make the bed on Sundays, I will water the plants, I will vacuum, I will lift the toilet seat before I pee (and put it back down afterward), I will stop being a jerk to your mom, I will take you on a paddleboat ride, I will teach you three guitar cords, I will explain what the F-stops mean on my Nikon without yelling, I will give up drinking two beers at dinner, I will quit being a small fish, I will leave my terrible job and we’ll still have money, money, money, lots of fucking money, we will finally sell this house, we will go to . . . India?
Stella. I also promise:
I will not correct you when you’re telling jokes, I will not interrupt you when you’re excited about something, I will not sing over your favorite songs, I will not be a smartass when we watch sentimental movies, I will not share my opinion about every single thing, we will not have Josh and Katya over for dinner ever again, we will never ever go to Vegas again, ever, I will not rent Hitchcock films, I will not order Chinese, I will not leave the room when we fight (what am I saying? we won’t ever fight!), you will never see me picking my nose, I will not burp loudly (or strain to fart on purpose), I will never be silent with you for so long, never, I will never watch CNN, I will never promise you the moon—you are a star, Stella.
“Long night?” The redhead tries one last time to get an order from me before turning to the next person in line. I rub my temples, shrug, take a deep breath, and try smiling.
“Triple espresso, please. Actually,” I reconsider, “two triples.” I sit outside and gulp them down. The caffeine kicks me in the heart. Good. I sum things up—I am an hour and a half away from home. It’s still Thursday. It’s still before noon. If I get on the San Diego freeway immediately and drive south, I can show up at work just after lunch and make up some excuse. Because I’ve never done this before, Scott, the manager, will understand and won’t give me a hard time. I’ll wait until nighttime and get rid of the dangerous load in my trunk. Then I’ll go home. I’ll return all my phone calls, I’ll read a book until I fall asleep. The next day I’ll go to work earlier, then go home again, pull the blinds open at last, and try to go on without her.
I leave the coffee shop in a better mood, get in the car, and head north.
*
From the beginning of our relationship, we realized that we could either talk or be quiet for hours without ever getting bored. Our interests were absurdly similar, the same music, the same books, the same films. We were both fascinated to see how our paths gradually converged, overlapped, and eventually became one. The old magic of love was brand new for us. Our unconsummated high school crushes had nothing to do with what we were experiencing: a passionate, beautiful, intelligent, restless, dazzling sensation. During our first months together, I didn’t miss a single chance to make love to her, no matter where we were—at some of the many parties we went to, in dark, cold bedrooms while everyone else was screaming and dancing in the other rooms, at her parents’ house, in hotels, on trains, in a car, in the park, in the sea. I’m not sure she experienced any pleasure whatsoever then. I was so insistent and wild in my hunger for her. There must’ve been a way for her to tame me. Or maybe there wasn’t. Maybe she wasn’t looking for one.
I remember the first time she came—tight, tasty, firm. I remember the way she began pulsating, then her accelerated breathing, her confused look (what’s happening? is this it?), her moaning, the short scream, the silence afterwards. It was late afternoon. I remember the smell of roasted red peppers coming from somewhere in the neighborhood.
*
At the last second, I notice the Venice Beach sign and take the exit west. On a weekday in November, parking is not such a hassle. I buy orange swimming trunks and a towel from one of the boardwalk vendors. I step onto the warm sand. The strong wind makes long, tall waves, their crests are scattered with surfboards. OK, now I’ll rush in and thrust all my sorrows into the salty bosom of the Pacific, thrus-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-t! I run, water splashing around me. I wade in chest-high, but the waves push me back to the beach. I take a deep breath and dive in. I stay underwater for a long time. I hop out. From my low vantage point, I see the ocean swallowing and spitting up surfers. One of them manages to take off, catching a wave in my direction. He passes close by, young, long-haired, calm, with the inspired expression of someone who walks on water. Our eyes meet for a second and he disappears. I keep on battering the waves until exhaustion empties my head. At some point I stop, float on my back, close my eyes, try to free my body of fatigue for a while, but can’t. I turn around and start swimming toward the distant shore. Getting out of the ocean proves to be harder than I expected. The same waves that wanted to toss me onto dry land earlier now won’t let me reach the shore. I battle them for a long time before realizing that I am the only one out here acting like an idiot. I understand that resistance is pointless. I relax my muscles, watch the surfers, and try to understand how the ocean operates. A few futile attempts to take advantage of the breaking waves follow; the undertow thrusts me deep into the water and spins me around, leaving me without any sense of up and down, of bottom and surface. At last, almost breathless, I manage to come up and see my wave. I catch it, seconds before it breaks. I relax on its crest, stretch my arms forward, I become one with it as countless, small, invisible turbines beneath my body drive me joyfully toward land.
I dry off and head back to the tourist-scattered boardwalk. A group of Japanese sightseers come toward me. They politely ask if I can take a picture of them by the ocean. They hand me the first camera. Before I snap the shot, I arrange them so all of their smiling little heads are in focus. I lift my left hand up, one, two, three, cheese, click—there you go. At once, several more hands pass their cameras to me. I pose them a little more carefully this time—four squatting down, six standing behind them and again, one, two, three, cheese. In no time, I’m holding a Canon, two digital Sonys, a small Yashica, a Panasonic, and something else. While I am clicking the shutters, I wonder what would happen if I suddenly took off with all this loot. Would they chase me? What would happen if they caught me? Is there a kung fu master amon
g them? I hand back the gear and accept their compliments with a slight bow. The last camera someone hands over is a Nikon F3. Grasping the familiar body, I feel chills run down my spine. I love this model. After a few shots, I return it hesitantly. Its weight, its reliability, its grace . . .
Again, Stella storms my thoughts.
*
—don’t take pictures of my legs, please
—they’re part of your topography. now please lift up this knee
a little
—topography in blue. anytime i bump into something, bam—another bruise . . . see . . .
—you have delicate skin
—am i delicate?
—the most delicate thing ever . . .
—m-m-m-m-m . . .
—the most, most, most delicatest thing ever . . .
—hey, dog-eyes . . . stay focused
*
I was a freshman majoring in English literature. Stella was in her senior year at the High School of Fine Arts. Yet the idea of going to the Art Academy had somehow never crossed her mind. Her classmates took private lessons in painting. She took English instead. Next year she was accepted into my college and moved in with me. She never stopped painting. She just said that she was tired to death of painting what other people told her to. Because I was a year ahead of her, I told her which classes were important, which were a waste of time. I gave her my notes and pointed her to the “right” books. I introduced her to interesting people, to her future professors and instructors, some of whom I had become friends with. I filtered her education—I realize now—with the noble desire to make things easier for her. We spent countless dark mornings in our warm bed because I wouldn’t let her go to an early-morning lecture or a boring seminar. Half-awake, she would let herself be conquered, we would sleep in, roll in bed until late, then we would have coffee, listen to music, read novels, laze around, waste our time—we had time, God, we had so much time.
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