I now realize that my American West was not a geographical place, but a sacred territory in my dreams. Perhaps everybody has their own Wild West. From a very young age, I knew with certainty that one day I would live in mine. I’d caress the yellow prairie grass and the wind would kiss my face. When did I lose all that? How did I manage to desecrate my West by replacing it with the plastic version of what I’ve been living in for the last few years of my life?
I press the gas pedal harder.
California, of course. The end came with California. That blonde bitch—silicon breasts, whitened teeth, fitness-firmed buttocks, pink tank top, frozen smile, and empty blue eyes—California. The bitch I couldn’t afford but still wanted, infatuated with the idea that I was with her, in her, that even for a little while I shared her with rock stars, movie stars, TV stars, porn stars, photo stars, kid stars, I shared her with millionaires, billionaires, multi-billionaires, and bums. I don’t want to think about California right now.
Suddenly, something underneath me rumbles, startling me. I must have dozed of for a second. The car has veered onto the gravel of the shoulder. I get a tighter grip on the steering wheel, shake my head energetically, and swerve back into my lane. Later, I stop to stretch my legs. I inhale the prairie. The cool air wakes me up. Far away from populated areas that fill the night sky with light pollution, the stars are much bigger and closer.
I step in front of the headlights and gather a few dry twigs from the prairie bushes. To the side of the road, in the dirt, I clear a little space, make a square out of the sticks, and perform the ritual I learned from my grandma. I close up the little devil. That’s it—I close up the devil. Whatever I have lost, will be found. I have to find Stella, I whisper, I have to find her. I lift my eyes up and look at Orion—our favorite constellation—for a long moment. I remember a poem Stella wrote:
Clear night.
Shivers with cold
The belt of Orion.
I think she wrote that looking at the stars from the ugly, glassed-in balcony of our apartment, that last freezing winter we spent in Bulgaria. I bend over the magic square and change the spell—let me find myself. God, let me find myself!
*
Stella sold her first painting. An architect from Los Angeles bought it. In a deeply sincere thank you letter, which she gave me to read, he clearly articulated his first impulse upon setting his eyes on the painting. He described the excitement of looking at it, and how he discovered new and different layers and images each time he looked at it, and how it touched him in a very special way. With the money from the painting, Stella moved to a larger studio. The architect bought three smaller pieces from the same series. Around that time, Stella started working on installations and video projects. She came home less and less often.
*
I keep driving until I reach the exit to the first town. I follow the sign towards a motel named The First Motel in Texas. In the parking lot, I see several trucks and a Harley Davidson whose shiny chrome reflects the yellow lights installed above the ground-floor rooms. The building is shaped like an upside-down L, the parking lot is gravel caked with dirt. In front of the motel, there is an installation made out of a pile of rocks and cactuses, covered with dry grass. A dozen wooden poles stick wickedly out of it, and old, crooked cowboy boots are fixed on each of them. Texas. The small bungalow that serves as reception lights up, and an old man in a large cowboy hat, white shirt, and suspenders slowly opens the door. I respect his silence. That is why, without saying a word, just like in a silent movie, I count off the dollar bills, hand them to him, wait for my change, take the key to my room from his bony hand, nod, and leave. I unload the bag of marijuana and drag it over to the bed. I take out the bourbon, step out of the room, sit on the doorstep, drink a few sips, and let the stars slowly find their places in the night sky. I close my eyes and lean my head back. A bed squeaks in the room next to mine. I take another sip, and then another. I need to stretch my legs after the long drive—plus, I need to check this place out.
The lamp sheds its light on only half of the parking lot. I cross the bright half and, the moment I step into the dark one, I can hear how the gravel under my boots starts crunching more loudly. I take a swig from the bottle, then set off down a small alley into the dark void. The void is actually a little street lined by several wooden hovels with screen doors; I can hear loud snoring coming from one of them. I lift the bottle and keep walking in the dark, trying to be quiet. Suddenly, somewhere ahead of me, a dog starts barking furiously; I jump, try to calm down, and, choking, turn and rush back towards the motel. I manage to down a third of the bottle before I reach my room. I want to drink myself to sleep. I find the door, go in, lean against the wall and, without switching on the lights, start taking off my pants. I grope in the dark until I find the bed and flop down in it:
“A-a-a-a-a-a-ah!” “A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!”
“He-e-e-e-l-p!” “What the fuck! Who are you!”
“H-e-e-e-e-elp!” “What the hell . . . !”
“A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!” “A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!”
I jump, sober, and scared to death, death, death. The lights go on and I see a man in white boxers with a tattoo of a woman and a snake on his six-pound biceps. He’s got a gun in his hand, his hairy, blond chest is heaving up and down. His face—the expression of an ancient, angry ritual mask. I throw my hand in the air.
“No-o-o-o!”
“What the fuck you doing here, motherfucker?!” His eyelid twitches.
“I’m going to bed,” I mumble and almost piss my pants.
“Are you a homo?” I manage not to piss my pants.
“No.”
“The fuck you doing in my bed, then?”
“I thought . . .” The man goes to the door, opens it, and peeks outside.
“You alone?”
“Yes.”
“Take your shit, and get the fuck outta here . . . Wait, what is that?” He points at the bottle.
“Bourbon,” I mutter.
“You scared the living crap out of me, man!” His anger begins to mellow.
“So did you,” I say.
He rubs his eyes. “Let me see your key!” I show it to him. “You’re next door, buddy.”
“Could you please put that away?” I ask, eyeing the gun. The man suddenly bursts out laughing, grabs his belly, and just laughs. He laughs as only people on the wrong side of the law do—people with limited occasions for a laugh, so when they do laugh, they roar like Niagara Falls. I join in from time to time only to fuel new outbursts. From some of the other rooms somebody yells angrily: “Shut u-u-u-u-u-p!” My man lifts the gun to his mouth and yells back: “Fuck o-o-o-o-o-o-ff.”
I slip my pants back on, find two plastic cups by the sink, pour some bourbon, and make a toast.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.” We drink.
“I’m Doug.” The man leaves the gun on the nightstand and stretches out his large hand.
“Zack.” I say. “Pleased to meet you.”
“We almost fucked even before introducing ourselves.” Laughter again. We finish the bottle and part ways. I find my room, crawl over to the bed, sprawl over the blanket with all my clothes on, and die.
*
H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m. I wake up. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m. I’m not sure whether this is the blood in my ears or the noise of the arteries of America—the eternally busy highways. I sit up in bed and rub my eyes. The door is wide open. I jump to my feet to check if the bag is here. Relax—it’s here. Not only did I leave the door unlocked, I didn’t even close it. I step out. The Harley is gone. My midnight friend has ridden off south. Had I dreamt him up? I walk over to the reception bungalow. Just then I notice the large buffalo skull with huge horns hung over the door. I also see the sign LAST MOTEL IN TEXAS. What the heck is wrong with me? Last night, it was the first motel, now it’s the last? Clearly, I wasn’t quite OK. Maybe because I was coming from the enchanted land. I cross the parking lot. Through the
screen door, I see the cowboy hat, white shirt, and suspenders—the man is sitting on a wooden chair, watching a small TV. I ask where the closest coffee shop is.
“Nowhere.” He answers.
“What’s the name of this . . . town, whatever it is?” Behind me, a truck grunts loudly and comes to a halt in the dust.
“This is a border town,” the motel man says. His chair squeaks as he slowly gets up and approaches the screen door. His face is marked with scars from who knows what. “This is the border between Texas and New Mexico.”
I return the key and leave. I notice that the east side of the sign reads LAST MOTEL IN TEXAS and the west—FIRST MOTEL IN TEXAS. Welcome to Texas!
I drive slowly past the few houses I had walked by last night. In the daylight they seem even more ghostly and forsaken. Beat up pick-up trucks, backyards covered with weeds and dry grass, horse skulls on the fences, clothes lines, peeling mail boxes unopened for years, rusty nets used as fences with dry snake skins hanging on them. The only traces of life are the invisible barking dogs. Down the road, I stop to take a few pictures of an abandoned gas station with black holes instead of windows and doors. I walk up to the next dead building, which happens to be a post office. I take a close up shot of a rusty sign with an inscription reading: GLENRIO, TEXAS, 1938. A long time ago, letters arrived here, telegrams, sad and happy messages were sent and received, the telegraph had been clicking, phone numbers had been dialed, newspapers had arrived, brochures, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE.
A little further down the dirt road, on the other side of the street, I find another small building, which happens to be another post office. This time, however, the sign on the door says: GLENRIO, NEW MEXICO, 1938. Aha. I think I’m beginning to picture the drama of this little Berlin. Situated on the border between two states, Glenrio was torn between the charm of New Mexico and the prosperity of Texas. And while the legendary Route 66—America’s Main Street—had passed through it, the little town had managed to juggle the passions and animosities. But later, after the freeway was built a little north of here, the town started dying away. Glenrio (Texas or New Mexico), little by little, lost its important geopolitical status and gave in to the mercy of the prairie, which slowly gathered it back into its dry bosom.
Further down, at a fork in the road, sits an abandoned white diner with a hitching post out front. On its door, a heavy lock and a CLOSED sign hang on a thick chain. On the window sill, salt and pepper shakers, oil and vinegar bottles, and porcelain vases with no flowers are lined up on top of old newspapers. In the corner is a rusty steam iron with a gaping mouth, squatted by spiders.
I walk about fifty yards further until I reach an old water tower, tilted to one side and tied with barbed wire. Around it, a few elm trees have thrust their thin bodies up into the air. I scare a little gray rabbit, who scurries away with ears pressed back and white tail bobbing up and down like a tennis ball. One black-and-white roll of film later, I get back into the car, find the exit to I-40, and merge with the fast caravan of vehicles heading east.
*
Stella sold a few more paintings at prices she’d thought up while I helped her pack and transport them. What is a painting worth? she used to joke. If you keep the receipts for the materials you’ve bought, you have your answer. How much does a painting cost, really?
Around Christmas the proposal arrived—an entrepreneur from Florida had seen her pieces in the architect’s home and thought they would be perfect for a small boutique hotel he was just finishing. He wanted to purchase seventy-eight medium-sized pieces in the same style. The money he offered was excellent. Stella politely declined.
After that, Stella spent time getting familiar with the Los Angeles art scene. She went to gallery openings, met artists, sculptors, and curators, and looked for galleries where she could exhibit her work. She participated in a few group shows before she found a gallery in Santa Monica that would represent her. The gallery owner, Jane Goldstein, was a fifty-year-old platinum blonde lesbian, with lead-gray eyes and dry Californian crow’s feet. She knew everyone who was anyone in that business. No one knew how exactly she picked her artists, but when a friend of ours learned that Stella was among Jane’s chosen ones, he rolled his eyes, flipped his pink scarf with his soft wrist, and winked at her: “If your work is in Jane’s gallery, girlfriend, be ready to say goodbye to anonymity.” He was right. A few months later, there was a opening in Jane’s calendar, so Stella had the dates for her first solo show.
*
—do you sometimes think that everything is meaningless, zack?
—i don’t think in paradoxes
—what’s a paradox?
—a statement that seems logical but contradicts itself
—where’s the paradox in everything is meaningless?
—you see . . . the statement everything is meaningless is part of everything. hence, it is also meaningless. which means that everything is not meaningless. a paradox
—this won’t be in the picture, right?
—no, baby
—then why are you pointing the camera at it?
—relax, it’s not in focus
*
I stop at a gas station, fill up, and check the tires. I look at the map and calculate that from here to Columbus, Ohio, is about twelve hundred miles. If I keep an average speed of sixty miles per hour, it will take me about twenty hours to get there. I am not sure that this stretch of road has more than twenty espresso machines total. And how many of them are in decent shape is a different story. That’s why I fill up my stomach with thin, gas station coffee, buy a dozen doughnuts, and take off. I’ll stop only for gas and for short breaks. I’ll try to drive the whole distance in one fell swoop.
*
Jane had managed to sell half of Stella’s paintings before opening night. I didn’t want to miss this occasion, which was extremely important for Stella. I organized my schedule so that the day of the opening, I’d be in L.A., inspecting a site. I made a hotel reservation (at ICONIQ’s expense, of course) so we could spend the night there.
The cab stopped in front of the gallery. I paid the driver, stepped out of the car, and while I was tucking my wallet in my blazer pocket, just a second before slamming the door, my glance slid over the yellow top of the car and landed on the woman behind the gallery window, whose face burst into inaudible laughter at that very moment. Her mouth—a perfect O. Her eyes—wide open. Her eyebrows—racing to meet her high forehead. She was wearing a black dress, fitted tightly over her beautiful breasts and revealing her bare shoulders. Her hair was pulled back neatly, and the curve of her graceful neck was sliced by a necklace I’d chosen for her. Behind her were the paintings I recognized. She was a copy of the woman I knew better than myself, she was the girl I had met in a café by the sea, she was my other half, whom I planned to grow old with.
There, on that boulevard, one hand in my inside pocket and another resting on the cab door, the world froze and went mute in a kind of reverse déjà vu, in which I saw Stella for the first time.
I slammed the door, the sidewalks came to life, the street filled with the sounds of car horns and music, and she was laughing at the punch line of a joke the moment I entered the gallery.
I have never seen an artist more beautiful than Stella. For god’s sake, she was not an artist who tried to look like an artist.
That night, I saw her paintings the way they should be seen—as she had always seen them. They were in the order she intended and lit with the appropriate lighting. I never suspected the impact.
*
There are a very limited number of things more boring than driving on I-40 in Texas. Two hundred miles later, I discover one of them—driving on I-40 in Oklahoma.
I’ve heard that the Aborigines have many words for sand. I know that the Eskimos have about twenty different terms for snow. I try to think of how many words the Americans have for road:
I decide to look for an analogue in my own language. The only thing I can think of are the words
pointing out who is who in the family tree:
I keep driving northeast on I-44. A little past Oklahoma City, the heaviest skies I have ever seen gather above the prairies. I stop. A sky like this will either drive you insane or leave you cold How did the first settlers endure it? I stretch my limbs and body and lean on the steel guard rail. I spend a long time there, listening to the wind. I start moving my head slightly—if it’s half-turned to the left, I hear the wind one way, if it’s turned to the right—another. I even try to compose a little melody. Strange, there are so many ways to have fun with the wind just by turning your head left and right like an idiot.
I keep driving east.
Around Tulsa, a few fat raindrops hit the windshield. It hadn’t rained in California for months, so now I feel excited. I open the window and breathe in the storm-charged air. All of a sudden, the truck I’m following disappears into a giant waterfall. I barely manage to close the window before I’m deluged. Tons of water splash over the car. It’s like being in a carwash tunnel times ten. I slow down abruptly and keep driving, even though I know the sensible thing to do is just stop and wait for the flood to pass. The wipers race full speed with no effect whatsoever. I’ve never been in such downpour before. I slow down even more. In about twenty minutes the rain subsides a bit and I step on the gas again.
A house appears before my eyes without warning. I hit the brakes and the house disappears. I rub my eyes, grip the steering wheel, and accelerate a little. I see little red flags, then a sign reading OVERSIZED LOAD as I catch up with the house again. It has windows, red curtains, a roof, and a chimney. It looks like a house that has been lived in, not some newly built pre-fab home. It is tied to the back of a truck that is driving extremely slowly. If you can balance a whole house on a truck, I wonder, how hard is it to balance a life in one house? If Stella and I couldn’t do it, such balance is probably impossible. Or it’s only temporary. How long will the house stay on this truck? It can’t stay there forever. Balance, if I have to be loyal to my employers at ICONIQ, is pharmaceutically reversible. They claim that balance is a question of chemistry, and so is imbalance. They say microscopic pheromones, hormones, and still undiscovered chemical compounds rule our behaviors. Being unhappy is an imbalance. Being happy is an imbalance. The balance is probably simply to be.
18% Gray Page 19