The Shadow Catcher

Greeks! you gotta love ’em! and I’m not saying this just because I’m half Hellenic (well, yes, I am saying this because of that), but because Baker is a place that is basically a crossroad to Death Valley, a service road beside a railroad lined with gas stations, Bun Boy and the Bun Boy Motel and a couple of Mexican joints, one of the last places you would expect to find a Greek restaurant serving reasonably authentic Greek food, bursting with rembetika, open all night long.

Just when you need it.

Just when, out along the road, in the desert, you were starting to believe that you are seeing eyes…The promise of feta and olives arises.

The place is all lit up and the Amtrak bus is pulled up in the packed back parking lot, and as soon as I open the door and step inside I may as well be in any taverna in the Plaka or Piraeus.

The walls are white, trimmed in St. George blue, the blue of the Greek flag — the booths are the same unadulterated blue, the whole place floats with light, like an oasis. Plastic grapes and rayon bougainvillea grace the windowsills, and frescos of Mykonos and Santorini fill the two front walls along with a movie poster of Zorba the Greek, a translation of the Greek alphabet and the English lyrics to the Greek national anthem.

(“From the graves of our slain shall our valour prevail,

As we greet thee again, Hail, Liberty, Hail”!)

Tourists on their way to Death Valley congregate here, though not at this time of night, so I reckon most of my fellow diners will be of two varieties — those on their way to Vegas, those on their way from—and you can spot the differences between these two by where their body language registers on the adrenal-ometer.

If you ever wonder about the health effects of a stay in Vegas you should run a random survey among departing gamblers, wannabes and tourists at the rest stops between Primm and Baker.

The ones standing very very still in line have most definitely just departed. Ditto, ones with the dead eyes. The ones in ruined clothes.

Talky ones in freshly pressed polo shirts with toothy wives are on their way in their vintage Continentals, most likely for slots, the house buffet, Wayne Newton.

I take my place at the end of the line in front of the counter and survey the menu suspended from the ceiling.

TIROPITA.SPANAKOPITA.CHICK PEA DIP.GYROS.THE ORIGINAL ZUCCHINI STICK.

A foursome of moody stoners in varying degrees of undress wait petulantly in front of me. Brentwood brats, I reckon: Crossroads grads. A wall-sized plaque of FAMOUS GREEKS and HONORARY GREEKS is next to us and one of the laconic ones stares at it and then, almost by mistake, starts to read aloud: “‘FAMOUS GREEKS,’” she monotones. “‘Telly Savalas.’” She flatlines on his name. “‘The Trojan Horse.’ Yah, I think I saw that. ‘HONORARY GREEKS,’” she reads without expression. “‘George Hamilton. Lord Byron. Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis.’ Like we’re supposed to know these people.”

“She was ‘Jackie O,’” another of her group registers real slow. “John-John’s mother.”

“‘John-John’?”

“John Kennedy.”

“Which one was he?”

“He’s dead.”

“I thought they all were dead.”

“‘Anthony Quinn. James Joyce. St. Paul. All Macka-Macka—’”

“Macedonians,” I offer.

“They need to get that Nia person up there. That Nia person. Last name starts with ‘V’ or something. Made ‘My Big Bad Thing.’ You know.”

“—big Fat.”

“‘My Big Greasy Wedding.’ Couple years ago. You saw it—”

“Like I’d go to that. I’m not Greek. Who is?”

“Jennifer Aniston is Greek. I’m pretty sure.”

“Well there you go.”

“—half Greek.”

“Chennifer — not even Grik name. I speet on her.”

This from a rasping voice behind me.

I turn in time to see her dry-spit into her open palms. A fierce tiny woman in a black dress, in her 70’s, I’d say, with dangerous eyes, no makeup and what I’ve come to recognize as female Balkan facial hair.

“Only thing Bra-Peet is ask is bebi. Adonis. I would sell my eyes to have his bebi. So I speet on this Chennifer.”(She dry spits, again.) “She ees eembarrassmant to all Grik wimmin.”