The Bubble Boy

Back in NYC for a few days to renew my visa, I am more than 8 hours behind Moscow. I am alone in an alternate reality where I do not work or worry much, able to sit in a bar and catch up with an old friend as the sun goes down outside, as various characters find this dark and cheery place on Avenue B. My glass is constantly refilled, and I’m not even hungry after 20 hours of flying and various airplane meals. My friend is also the bartender.

She leans across the bar at one point, her long blonde hair falling across her face.

“I know you’ve been missing this.” She says.

I nod quietly.

“But, you really aren’t missing anything.” She continues.

That night I sleep at another friend’s house where various cats (including a 3 legged one) walk across my head in the middle of the night. I sleep in a little boy’s bed, using his Star Wars sheets.

When I was seven, my parent’s told me I was half gypsy. It is entirely possible they were pulling my leg, but I believed this so strongly, that when 3^rd grade began and we all learned to sing Free to Be You and Me, I jumped onto the desks, spinning and howling as I was convinced all gypsies do. In truth, I have known gypsies in my life and I am nothing like them – but this fantastical 7 year old idea of a wanderer, of a person that calls anyplace his home – this stuck with me. Every time I return to NY, I wander the streets – staring up at windows where I lived lifetimes, leaning into doorways of bars I grew old in, looking for the phantoms of missing stores and restaurants that are gone now. I am looking into a time capsule when I am here, a 20 year bubble of rooftop adventures, of whiskey and 3 am performances for 2 people, of momentary fame, of romantic sandwiches, blind dates with crazy girls, stunning women, bartenders, chefs, neighbors, dogs, cats, parakeets, pumpkin pancakes, success, failure, my windows open in the middle of the night playing ukulele with the low rumble of the buses on Houston and kids playing handball filtering up from the street.

I spent a night in Connecticut with wine loving friends, as mosquitoes bit us in the dark. I could smell the ocean, and fresh cut grass late that night, after their children had gone to bed.

On Sunday I bought various Hello Kitty presents for my daughter in Chinatown, and walked north - eventually stopping at Eisenbergs on 5^th and 22^nd for a cherry lime rickey and a tuna on rye. The old guy behind the counter asked me for my order, coming back to me after a few minutes and asking me to repeat it, two extra times. The toast was burnt, the lime rickey thick and sour, the pickle limp and salty. In a word – perfect. More than fifteen years ago I shared my first office with a friend, a room so small that when you opened the door, it hit one of the tiny desks we used. At lunch we would pull fedoras on, and run down to Eisenbergs - scarfing down pastrami and steak fries, maybe the meatloaf on Tuesdays. There was another forgetful man then, a frail little fellow with no eyebrows. Even when he wrote your order down on the corner of a brown paper bag, he forgot it. He usually tried to talk us into the fruit cup. He wanted everyone to order just a fruit cup. I once asked him what made the tuna fish so good. He leaned across the counter, dead serious – and whispered.

“We only use the albacore of the tuna.” He said.

My friend and I could not contain our doubt.

“You know.” He said, still whispering. “Just the tuna from the center of the can.”

Today the tuna was spilling out of my sandwich, onto my jeans and the floor, and I didn't care. An old regular next to me noticed, and called out to my counter man.

“You gave him too much, Joe.” He boomed. “What’s a matter with you?”

Joe took a dramatic pause.

“I’m just a boy from Brooklyn.” He said, beaming.

“Me too.” I said. “Me too.”

leading the donkey into the metro

My child has a fever, and sleeps next to me wrapped in blankets. Her face twists in on itself, and she is kicking free of them. I carry her around the dark apartment in slow circles, coax snot from her tiny nose, and make soup that she does not eat. It’s almost 4AM, and the sky is growing bright at the edges.

She only sleeps when I carry her.

Now dreaming, she kicks against me – wrestling with things I cannot imagine.

More than a year ago, I took on the unknown. I did not fail, although I don’t think I succeeded either. I’d like to say I’m wiser now, but that’s a stretch. Now, I feel like it was a sort of waking dream- especially the last days.

There was a clock over the office door that did not work. It always said it was 11:30. I noticed this every time I entered, often thinking my watch had stopped. There was a dangerous metro station I used, that had a very long tunnel leading into it. The floor was dirt, and there were troughs along the walls that stank of urine and beer. I saw a man with a donkey, leading it into the station late one night – the 19^th century slamming headfirst into the 21^st century, as I bought a new ticket good for 10 rides.

There was a family of white mice in a small cage in the accountant’s office. No one fed them on the weekends, and I could her them scratching as I worked alone on Saturdays and Sundays. There was a lock on every door, and a drawer with the keys to all of them except the accountant’s office.

A man who rarely told me the truth had broken glasses that sat crooked on his face. He did not fix them. His wife had two outfits, and one of them was a lime-green pantsuit. They both drove very expensive cars. A very young translator only wore purple, and was constantly depressed. I found out that she had gone through a bad breakup six months earlier. She told me only chocolate and coffee made her feel better, along with the occasional cigarette. She also wrote a blog about these details.

I listened to the same album every day on my way to and from work, as a sort of constant in my life while everything came to pieces, while the walls began falling down. There was a first snow, and I packed everything in the boxes I never go rid of. We moved everything out on a Saturday in Georgi’s old sedan and our Mini. My hands were shaking.

The snow came down hard that night, and I stood in front of the balcony window watching it. The orange streetlight and the leafless trees were perfectly still – just the snow turning slow cartwheels and the bottle of wine I drank in silence. No job. No work. No idea what to do next. This was taking on the unknown, one painful step at a time.

It was the same time as tonight, and I see my daughter kicking into the darkness.

пертсовка (pertsovka) and the happy worker

It's been over a year since I've written here. (I deleted those old fluffy postcards.) It’s not that I haven’t thought about it. Time after time, I have found myself in moments that could not pass quickly enough. The idea of documenting brushes with bankruptcy, these truly nightmarish and ugly stretches…was beyond my courage. I want to forget them.

Today was a national holiday, but I was working in our studio. It was one those vague holidays, like Labor Day - - there is a general idea as to what the day is celebrating, but there aren’t any parades. The Russians have a deep respect for holidays, and the thought of working on one is nearly unthinkable. The streets are empty, and most of the stores are closed. You can hear the grass growing, where there was ice and snow two weeks ago.

Our Lilliputian studio is on Ostoshinka, a sort of “golden mile” of museums, an opera house, a massive, gleaming white cathedral. The tiny room is white, with red leather chairs and glass tables. A crazy all-red finger painting my daughter made hangs on the wall, and a Cassavetes poster leans on its side next to the printer. I still haven’t decided where to hang it.

I work with the lights off, and play some new music. The Russian sun is always fooling me – it looks like afternoon outside but it’s still morning. The sun is still out at 9pm and I think it’s just one long afternoon.

One of the security guards knocks on my door. His hair is bright white, and he always remarks about a television project I worked on that involved tigers. He always acts like a tiger, with appropriate childlike enthusiasm when he sees me. He has brought me a plate of marmalat – sugar covered jelly candies, and a warm glass of white wine in a plastic cup. He speaks quickly, not really worried that I can only understand about half of what he says. He is telling me that I am “a happy worker”, and that all of the guards agree that I work more, and harder than anyone else in the building. He thinks it’s terribly funny that an American is such a happy worker. (We have hired a number of young Russians as our assistants over the last year, and they all suffer from a terrible apathy.)

One of the problems with keeping an office in such a prime location, is that the landlord can enforce all sorts of ridiculous rules – like charging us 50 rubles an hour when we work past 8PM, or if we work on weekends, and yes, holidays. The guards like our little studio, and often forge the papers or destroy the papers we must sign and stamp every time I work late. Last week, the owner studied the security tapes, specifically looking to see if we had worked over the weekend. He wanted his 500 rubles (which is about $10). So, now any guard who lets us work unofficially is taking a risk instead of just being kind. I remember studying Foucault in college, and his suggestion that “power comes from below”. I wish this collection of old men shuffling around in the dark, taking catnaps on an old sofa – I wish they knew they were wielding some sort of power by helping us save $10. In truth, they may be too lazy to file the papers.

He shook my hand, his grip as firm as a boxer. I went back to work, and then stepped out to buy some bread and salami. He was sleeping on a sofa by the main entrance, his face buried in a cushion. I bought some vodka to give him, for 165 roubles as a sort of bribe so he wouldn’t make me file the papers. This is how Russia works - with various equivalents of bottles of vodka, some chocolates, some cash. As they say, “it’s very Democratic”.

I woke him when I returned, and showed him the bottle. He laughed at me, and told me I shouldn’t have. Suddenly wide-awake, he brought me to the guard’s tiny side room. Another guard, taller and thinner than him but with the same bright shock of white hair sat there. He is very quiet, and I like to imagine he was in the Navy. He has a very good personality for a submarine, is what I always think of him. The little guard with the strong hands is pushing me into a chair. Their table is littered with the shells of hardboiled eggs, with giant uncooked knockwursts, and a tube of mustard. The vodka is poured – Pertsovka, which just means it’s infused with a hot pepper, or occasionally with wild honey as well. The tall one cuts apples and oranges in half and arranges them on a napkin. He speaks slowly, hoping I can follow him. They are toasting to me, the happy worker, the only one in the building with them today. The drink is thick and warm, yet terribly smooth. I swallow the glass in one choreographed gulp, then reach for half of an apple in slow motion. The tall one smiles to himself, the little guy has spilled some on his nice clean shirt. I press the apple to my nose and breathe in the spring smell before eating it noisily. I relax into the chair.

Suddenly I am not worried about saving $10, or about the work I should be doing right now. The guards are asking me if I have any friends in Moscow. I say no. They are sad, and shy but are trying to ask if we are friends – but it’s not appropriate to ask me directly. I pretend I don’t really understand them then change the subject. We drink again, to summer and to money. That old guard Pertsovka is smooth. I study the label, hoping I will remember it.

We talk about my daughter. The guards are smitten with her. We drink once more, but the little guy has just half a glass. The tall one gives me another small, knowing smile when he sees my glass is full. He is trying to tell me that “my glass is full” in his own cryptic way, and I understand him. He is happy, and now we all toast in silence and say nothing, because saying nothing says everything now.

The front door buzzer goes off, and they quickly hide the bottles. It is E, driven in the car to come and visit me.  The guards wear these faces now – like puppies in a window, watching us go back down the hall.

Later, when we decide to go home they are both asleep on the sofa.