“He paddled on both sides of the canoe.” The flight attendant winks again, making the soft wrist gesture.
“Oh!” The lawyer starts roaring with laughter and finally sets his paper aside. “He was gay. Both sides of the canoe . . . I’ll remember that.”
“If I need money, I’ll sell Bob Dylan’s sink.”
“Young man,” the lawyer prepares to get up. “I have to go. It was a pleasure talking with you.” Then to the bartender, “One more pinot noir and the bill, please. I’m going up to my room. Can I take it with me?”
“Yes, sure.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Twenty-seven dollars.” The attendant jumps from his seat and extends one hand toward the lawyer, and takes the check with the other one.
“Sir, it’s been my pleasure. I’ll take care of this.”
“OK,” the lawyer says without a trace of hesitation.
“My name is Steve Simon. Steve Simon and the Hour of Enlightenment!” says the flight attendant in his radio voice.
“Richard Brockman. Pleased to meet you, Steve. Thanks for the wine.”
“Don’t mention it.” The lawyer puts the paper under his arm, takes the glass, and sets off toward the elevator. We all look in his direction. The flight attendant scratches his head, puts his baseball cap back on, moves closer to the woman who has been sitting there, away from the conversation, and smiles at her with his widest smile.
“I bet you are very, very juicy.” She smiles bashfully, looking down, but I can see that she doesn’t take the compliment as an insult. “And very tasty.” My hero keeps going. “If I needed to, I’d sell Bob Dylan’s sink.” A long pause follows, in which he attempts to peel off the beer label with great determination. Suddenly, he puts an end to his silence and smacks his forehead. “What just happened now?! I paid for his three glasses of wine? And he said OK.” Pause. “Well, it is what it is.” Then he leans toward the woman. “If I need to, I’ll sell Bob Dylan’s sink. So what, the hell with it.” The woman asks for her bill. The flight attendant offers to pay it, she refuses, he insists, and she finally accepts, leaving the two of us alone. We stay silent for a moment. I ask where the restrooms are and leave the bar. I find the pay phone by the restrooms, in the lobby across from the reception desk. I dial the hotel’s number and hear it ringing. I see the receptionist set her magazine aside to pick it up.
“Thank you for calling . . .”
“Hi. This is Richard Brockman. I’m trying to get into my room, but my key isn’t working.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Brockman . . .”
“Can you send me a new key? I’m in 1608.”
“I’ll send a new one now, Mr. Brockman. Actually, wait a moment, sir?” I can see her looking in the monitor. “B-r-o . . .”
“Brockman, first name Richard?”
“You are at the wrong room, Mr. Brockman. Yours is 2106.”
“Thank you!” I hang up and go to the restroom. On my way back to the bar I pass by the front desk and smile at the girl. I order one more martini and a beer for the flight attendant. It’s getting late. Maybe I have to eat something. No, I’m not going to eat, it’s better if I throw up.
On the TV, the game has ended and now they are broadcasting live from California. The sound is muted. A reporter in yellow overalls, a mask, and goggles waves her arms animatedly in front of a background of tall flames twisting up toward the dark sky. Strong winds bend the sequoias next to her. The fire has engulfed the entire southern part of the state. The Santa Ana winds carry them westward. California is in a state of emergency.
“Steve, I want to buy you a drink. What’s it gonna be?”
“Champagne! Working-class champagne. The champagne of the fucking flying working class. Champagne the color of piss. Beer. I need to piss. That’s the thing with beer. You never buy it, you just rent it, damn it.” Steve, staggering, gets up and sets off toward the restrooms unzipping his pants as he walks. I make a gesture to the bartender to come closer.
“Do you have Dom?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you have Dom?”
“What dom? Listen, man, I’m not even a bartender,” The tall kid says. “The real bartender called in sick today and they asked me if I could cover his shift, since it was supposed to be real slow. I’m a bar back. I can open beer and pour wine, but you’ve been asking for all sorts of weird shit all night.”
“I’m sorry, dude,” I say. “Dom Perignon is a champagne from France. Do you have champagne here?”
“Yes, we do.” He sighs with relief.
“Dom Perignon is usually in a box.”
“Is it expensive?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“They keep the expensive stuff in the liquor room in the back.”
“Do you have a key?”
“I’ll bring it right away.” He grabs a chain of keys from behind the counter and returns in a minute with a bottle of Dom. He takes out two champagne flutes. I tell him to pull one more out for himself. Steve Simon, the flight attendant, emerges from the restroom, unzipped, and climbs onto the bar stool just before the formal opening of champagne.
“What’s this?”
“Champagne.”
“I want beer.”
“You’ll drink champagne.”
“May as well.” I pour some in his glass, in the bartender’s and in mine. We drink up. I close my eyes and allow the elixir to tickle down my throat, sink into me, find its way into my body, drench my bloodstream, and reach my heart. Stella, Stella, Stella, why didn’t we drink Dom Perignon together? Ever? Why, Stella? Why didn’t we have time for champagne and strawberries covered in Cointreau, for baskets of baguettes and French cheese on the cliffs of La Jolla? Why didn’t we watch sunsets together while waves crashed on the rocks beneath our feet? Why didn’t we roll in tall grass or swim in white-water rivers? Why, Stella?
“Champagne from France,” says the bartender and smacks his lips. “Not bad.”
“The French are chickenshit motherfuckers,” Steve says.
“They are,” I say.
“If you and I put on a couple of Nazi helmets and jump in a motorcycle with a sidecar . . .” Steve has a harder time enunciating his words now. “You and me, man. We’ll take over Paris in a heartbeat. The French are cowards. We’ll say: Halt! Hände hoch! And we’ll say, Frenchies, we’ll destroy your cultural heritage!”
“Hände hoch!”
“Surrender! Surrender quick! Hände hoch, motherfuckers. And they will surrender. The Frenchies are scared that if I fart,” Steve lifts his ass off the seat, strains, and issues a loud fart, “like this, I’ll destroy their cultural heritage. Cheers! You’re not French, are you?”
“No, I’m not.” We lift our glasses in a toast.
“You have a big nose.”
“Thank you.”
“And an accent.”
“I’m a man with an accent.”
“And bruises on your face.”
“Oh, it’s some face I got here . . .”
“Cheers. We are in motherfucking Phoenix, man,” yells Steve the flight attendant. “Phoenix, fuckin’ Arizona!” We kill the champagne. I announce that I’ll pay the whole bill. Steve resists. I manage to convince him that it’s a very special occasion for me. Then I ask the bartender to put the charge on my room since I’m staying here. He hands me the bill. I fill it out. Where it says room number I neatly write 2106. I print the name Richard Brockman underneath and then I sign the check. I leave the bartender a fat tip, say good-bye to the creator of The Hour of Enlightenment, and leave. I cross the parking lot and go back to my hotel. In my room, I turn the TV on, mute the sound, watch the wild fires in California, open a Toblerone, suck on a few triangles, and take a sip of scotch. Then I undress, get in bed, and toss and turn for a while until I find the right position in which I feel the least sick from the alcohol and myself. I close my eyes and count sheep.
*
—what are you thinking a
bout, zack?
—nothing
—tell me
—about time
—it’s summertime. it will be sunny tomorrow with sca . . .
—about the category of time
—ah. and how much time do you need to finish one roll of film?
—that depends
—let’s wrap it up, zack, OK?
*
I stand under the cold shower for a long time.
When did I actually begin to perceive Stella through my own thoughts about her and not through direct observation? I’ve watched her through layers of confusion and anger instead of seeing her as she was. Why have I viewed her through the monocle of my bitter ego?
I step out of the shower and dry myself off. I cut the film from last night into seven strips of five negatives each and carefully put them into the plastic sleeves. In the daylight I once again inspect the density of the exposure; I put away the film and leave the hotel. I buy coffee, grab a bite to eat, and drive off.
Phoenix, Scottsdale, New River, Black Canyon City, Camp Word, Rim Rock, Moons Park . . .
Then the road starts climbing up, up, up, the cacti yield to short bushes, the short bushes to short pine trees. On the northern side of the road, tall green firs appear. Then I have to turn off the air conditioner and turn on the heat because here, in the dense, chilly mountain, it is already winter.
Flagstaff, Arizona. I don’t even bother stopping in the little, snow-covered town, or, for that matter, anywhere else on this small mountain, dropped as if by mistake in the middle of the desert. A geographical paradox with white snow caps.
I drive westward on I-40, toward Winslow, Joseph City, Holbrook, Petrified Forest, Chambers. Somewhere there I hesitate for a moment, tempted to drive north and take a look at the Grand Canyon. But instead I step on the gas pedal—what is there to see? A hole in the ground.
And so, farewell Arizona. I cross the border into New Mexico. The fatigue from driving comes not from moving in space, but from not moving while it happens. Motionless, in a glass jar, you maintain your speed while the world around you flies in the opposite direction. The highway across New Mexico is gray and stretched like an army blanket. Dusty bushes, tall cacti, Joshua trees on both sides. From time to time along the road, I pass by little white crosses in the dirt with plastic bottles of water and withered flowers tied with rags—sanctuaries of loss.
In the distance—the Llano Estacado desert. Like in an old western, tall reddish formations rise high up in the sky out of nowhere. They are now sliced horizontally by thick power lines.
I drive by exits to Church Rock, Gallup, McCann, Wingate, Piraeus, the Top of the World (McGeehan County), and Wrangler Road. Somewhere around here is the Continental Divide, but at this moment, I don’t care about seeing a line where some of the water runs east toward the Atlantic Ocean and the rest—west toward the Pacific.
I notice an exit to a gas station off the freeway and take it. I drive further down the road, where I see a cluster of brownish adobe structures with satellite dishes sticking up off the roofs and pick-up trucks parked outside. In front of some of the houses, brown-skinned kids play soccer or chase scruffy dogs. The skies above hand heavy and dark gray. At the gas station, I pay a plump man in overalls. I inquire about the people living in those houses. Navajo, he explains. Oh? And how about the kids, where do they go to school? He silently points in the direction of a white trailer with a tall pole adorned with the waving American flag. I ask him if I could spend the night somewhere around here. Sure. Where? You take this road here to the right about ten miles; there’s a lake and a campsite. There’s also a pueblo near by. Oh, I cheer up a little. Good idea, I’ll step away from civilization for a while, I’ll see Indians. I buy a bag of chips, a bottle of Coke, and a half gallon of milk. I leave a tip of a dollar something, I don’t know why. Just before I close the door behind me, the guy says:
“Watch out for your hubcaps.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Navajo steal hubcaps and car batteries from tourists who spend the night around the lake. When you wake up in the morning you might find your car on wooden blocks.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“And what are you?” I ask him. He says he is half Pueblo, half Irish. I thank the mestizo and walk out.
No Navajos, no Pueblos! The Indians I grew up with, and who made me fall in love with America, were noble warriors and brave hunters—not small-time thieves.
I check the oil, then the tires, and turn on the ignition.
I began discovering America in my grandparents’ basement. Ever since I was a kid I have read everything I could get my hands on. In that basement, though, I discovered the old Wild West. Once, fumbling through the heaps of old junk stored in the damp, darkish place, I stumbled upon a wooden chest filled with all sorts of ancient periodicals, pamphlets, yellowed fashion and pulp fiction magazines. Amidst pages full of recipes, sewing and knitting patterns, and pre-World War II fashion, I encountered the novels of Karl May, published in consecutive issues. I had already read Mayne Reid’s Osceola, The White Chief, and other such books, so I had a decent enough idea about who the redskins and the palefaces were. Since the American Old West stories were serialized in pulp magazines and many of the issues had disappeared, a lot of the chapters were missing and important story elements had been lost. So I had to imagine what might have happened, connect the dots and co-write the story in my head. I would try to picture the missing parts, what the characters might have done or said. I would make up whole chapters of the pulp novel, rework the main characters, and would even create allies and foes that helped my story move forward. Huddled up on the hard, cool ottoman under the little basement window dimmed by thick cobwebs, I got lost in the American Wild West. I roamed its missing pages.
Traveling in different directions makes me think differently.
When I drive west, I dream big dreams, an eastbound journey takes me back to my memories, the north makes me think of work, and the south about wild things.
It’s getting dark. In the distant purple sky, I see the city lights of Albuquerque, New Mexico. I take a look at the map spread out on the empty passenger’s seat and try to decide whether to spend the night here or keep on driving as long as I can today. I don’t really have to rush—I have three more days to reach New York. I keep staring at the map as I try to open the bag of chips. On the other hand, though, I can’t wait to cross this continent.
I remember back there in the basement, in the fireplace, which sat unlit for decades, I had discovered a carefully hidden old musket, wrapped in rags. Crazed by the excitement of my discovery, I ran outside to show it to my grandpa. He put down the pitchfork he was using to unload hay from the bed of his truck, glanced in the direction of our neighbors’ fence, drew me close toward the hay shed, and told me that this rifle was very old, from the time of the Ottomans, and that I shouldn’t say a word about it because it would get confiscated by the communists. It had been his grandfather’s; he had also left two pistols with mother-of-pearl handles, but my uncle Krastyu had stolen them, sold them and drunk them up. I had no idea how Krastyu could drink them up. I knew he drank a lot, but I couldn’t believe that he could even drink guns. I tried to imagine him like a circus artist—swallowing sabers, knives, and now guns with mother-of-pearl handles. On top of everything, I didn’t even know what a mother-of-pearl handle was, but I imagined it was something quite exquisite. Later, somebody showed me that mother-of-pearl was—that glossy finish next to the bass keys on a Weltmeister accordion.
*
Scott entered, carefully closed the door behind him. We shook hands, he frowned in that concerned way he had and sat behind his desk.
“Zack.”
“Scott.”
“I asked you to come here because . . .” Scott paused and drummed his fingers. I got goose bumps.
“I’m listening.”
“Please don’t take it personally.”
; “Shoot.” Scott took a deep breath, got up, went to the water dispenser, took a little plastic cup, and filled it up.
“Water?”
“Yes, please.” Scott poured one for himself and one for me, too. There was a knot in my stomach. I had the feeling that I’d been found out. I wondered if I would only get fired or . . .
“You know how much I value the education some of our staff members receive overseas.” I lifted my cup so as to conceal my reactions. That could be my last cup here . . . “So I’ll be direct. Zack, we are required to monitor the work of our employees.” Scott’s window offered a view toward a parking lot and other office buildings. If I had to spend every day in a room with a view like this one, I’d probably behave like he does, too. “We inquired about you and your work.” I drank the rest of the office water. The knot in my stomach hardened. “Zack, the amount of education you’ve received in . . .”—Scott’s helpful memory obviously omitted where exactly I was from—“in, uh, your home country.” Scott sighed, relaxed his arms, changed his tone. “Before you came on board, we had a very good employee from Rio De Janeiro. He, unfortunately, went back to, uh, Argentina . . . Anyway, with him, we also had,” Scott spread his arms apologetically, “so to speak, a problem. All I wanted to say is that the education you get overseas is very thorough and serious.” Scott paused again, finished his water, and dropped the cup into the trash can. “Maybe that’s why some complications occur.” Pause.
“Scott,” I wanted to spare him this beating around the bush, so I decided to attack. “What are you talking about? What about my education?”
“Zack, I really respect your attention to detail in your protocols. Maybe that’s how you’ve been trained over there. And that’s how it should be in health services. But . . . there’s a but here . . . we, Zack, are simultaneously a health organization and a for-profit company. So, it’s delicate. Here at ICONIQ, we care about our patients, it’s true. But we also care about our shareholders, the people who pay our salaries. We, Zack, are not simply doctors or businessmen. We are artists. And we have our competitors. Five years of development, six billon dollars in expenses, and we are on our way to winning second place in a race for two.”
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