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Albino (part one)

I began writing Albino two million years ago. I had an editor then, who lived a few blocks away. We would meet for breakfast on Avenue A, quietly forking into home fries as we discussed the structure of the story - the economy of objects. A dollar bill was not just a dollar bill in this story, it was connected to thought and action, to music and transformation. This was the story that told me there was a whole book to dig into, mining for diamonds in the backwaters of America, turning over the ugliest rocks to better understand relationships between fathers and sons.

Last week, I stumbled across a call for submissions - not for a journal, but for a podcast where the work of new writers was read aloud. I thought back to a reading I had done of just the first few pages of Albino - a messy hero's journey,  a young man and a guitar, a man with loss and regret, a man that still had something to lose. That reading went well, enough that I felt a strange elation stepping off the stage i…

small change (exceptions)


There are two buildings that rise up in the distance, when I go towards the hardware store. I imagine a modern-day Rapunzel might live in one of them. The sky is packed with clouds, but a strange one hovers above one of the towers, a lonely mushroom, a cloud fedora, a sore thumb.

There is a store here, Pyaterochka. The name brings to mind a little bird, maybe a sparrow. I used to go to a Pyaterochka that had little birds that flew around inside it, but it actually means "5", taken from the Russian word "pyat". In "little five" people wander the aisles, counting out rubles, with bags of potatoes, maybe a box of wine. I find myself scouring the neighborhood from time to time, looking for a special type of milk for V. It comes in tiny purple boxes, and appears as randomly and sparingly as butterflies. Today, I am in Pyaterochka and there are a few boxes. I check the expiration dates on them. Stores here will sell expired milk and meat without batting an eye.

The line to the register is a clumsy, lurching mess of road workers with tiny bottles of vodka and fat bags of sausages, a pregnant woman chattering on her phone, and old people. I inch forwards, with those purple boxes balanced on my hands. The cashier is fascinating. She has bleached blond hair, pulled up high and tight into a ponytail. There is a brutal red slick of lipstick painted across her face that goes way beyond where her lips end. Her eyes are small, darting at faces, her words sharp and quick. She plunks change down, opens plastic bags with an angry flourish. On her hands, are white leather gloves with the fingers cut off. There is something oddly trash and vaudeville about her. I could see her on the street in the East Village as easily as this backwards corner of the universe. The line slogs along. I wonder if I have small bills with me. Somehow I want to be on her good side. Slapping a thousand ruble bill on the counter when you are buying 150 rubles worth of milk is a major insult to the culture of cashiers here. They hoard small bills like the world will soon unravel into chaos without them. Or, there is a massive shortage of small change. Anything is possible here. Anything.

I arrive, and she stares at me saying nothing. The red lips move, as she says something to herself. The ponytail bounces around, as wisps of broken hair dance behind it. The fingers poking from those white leather gloves have giant nails on them, carefully painted in glittery swirls. I pay with a pair of hundred ruble bills.

Out in the street, I look up at the odd little cloud, the exception. It is still there.

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