Monday, February 25, 2008

Glass Houses

5:30am, Saturday morning. Another toxin-laden night at the nightclub.

Dancing with a blonde with big breasts. Dipping her and spinning her, trying to impress. They always want to spin counter-clockwise, however, and I prefer clockwise, which causes some friction.

The music stops, the lights go up, the few desperate stragglers running for cover like cockroaches in the kitchen.

"Could I have your phone number?" I slur.

"You know, I've given you my number twice before over the past couple of years."

"Really? I . . ." I think of all the unidentified "Natasha"s and "Irina"s and "Svyeta"s that I eventually delete from my phone with no real memory of who they were or what they looked like.

"I'll just see you here tomorrow."

"I don't think I'll be here tomorrow."

She smiles. "Oh yes you will."

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

A Slightly Less Horrific Russian Girl Story

Okay, here's another one:

A few Fridays ago I went to a night club chasing after a busty, raven-tressed, only lightly-mustached Georgian girl that I've known for a while; she was drunk when I got there and we had a few dances and some kissy-face in the corner. Eventually she kind of wandered off and I went home alone.

The next day at about 3:00 or 4:00pm, I got a call from her, telling me to buy some vodka, some martini vermouth, and some apple juice and come over to her place, which was way the hell away from where I live.

Now as I mentioned there was an enormous snowstorm a few weeks ago; in this particular region, the streets were still far from clear. I found an aged Armenian taxi-driver in a white Lada (is there any other kind?) and he drove me around for nearly an hour trying to find her place; the backstreets were piled so high with snow that I had to get out and walk for the last fifteen minutes of so, taking directions on my cell phone.

Now it had struck me that the person giving me directions on my cell phone was not the same person I was trying to meet; when I heard a guy in the background, I got a sinking (though not yet completely hopeless) feeling.

I finally found the apartment; one of the worst Russian apartments I've ever seen, actually, with bare concrete walls and air-mattresses on the floor.

Inside were a teenage prostitute and a track-suited thug.

When I say she was a teenage prostitute, I mean mainly her appearance -- she looked like Jodie Foster in TAXI DRIVER. Skinny, looked about fourteen, loads of eye make-up, short-shorts, and a hoody.

When I say he was a thug, I probably mean his appearance as well as his character, but all things considered he was pretty nice to me.

The girl I had come there to visit was in the shower, so I sat with the thug and the prostitute drinking vodka for thirty minutes or so; I politely answered all the usual questions about why I was in Russia and what I thought of Russian winters, etc.

Finally the girl I had come to visit came out; she was clearly shitfaced, and the prostitute informed me that the girl had been drinking non-stop since she arrived at the apartment at around 5:00am. The girl admitted to a few hours of sleep around 9:00am to 1:00pm.

She jumped into my lap and began kissing me; her conversation quickly devolved to "Davaj vipim!" (Let's drink!) She finished off about five shots of vodka in twenty minutes and then almost immediately collapsed unconscious on one of the air mattresses.

This didn't upset me -- I feel fortunate we were spared any vomitting.

I finished off the last of the vodka with the thug and the prostitute (who seemed very much in love, incidentally) and took my leave, explaining I had an appointment to eat pizza with my colleagues.

"You could go lie down with her," suggested the teenage prostitute.

I declined to make any moves on the drooling crash-test dummy that she had become, luckily caught a bus going right to where my colleagues were having pizza, and sauntered in.

"And how was YOUR day?" I began.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

The Worst Russian Female Story I've Ever Heard

Every time I think I've seen the bottom, new depths of human (Russian?) depravity are revealed to me.

One of our teachers has been married to a Russian woman for over twenty years. They have several children, and after living abroad for many years, moved back here to Vodkaberg several years ago.

His wife is expecting another child.

The other day he's home from work because of the heavy snow and there's a knock on the door. It's a middle-aged male Russian, inquiring after his wife by her first name. (We'll call her Natasha.)

He politely invites the guy in. "And how do you know Natasha?" he asks.

"I'm her boyfriend, I guess. . . we're going to have a baby soon," says the guy, completely unaware that Natasha is married to the man standing in front of him.

Natasha, who was at the shop, arrived shortly after to find, unsurprisingly, her husband planning divorce proceedings. (I myself would probably have been planning on locating a shallow grave, but that's just me.)

I'm flabbergasted. I now understand what that word means.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

More Fun With Split Eyebrows

We'd just finished drinking a whole bottle of Gorilka pepper-honey vodka; it was already 1:30am, so English Teacher M and I were pretty much ready to go to bed.

"Let's go to the House of Pain, we haven't been there in a while," said S.

"I'll go if M goes," I allowed.

"I don't want to go there," said M. "The last time I was there I got punched in the face."

Generally speaking it doesn't take much power of persuasion to get somebody who has drunk a third of a bottle of vodka to do what you want them to do. We made it to the House of Pain before 2:00am.

I think we'd been there about twenty minutes when English Teacher M got punched in the face.

(By the way, this is the same guy that got mugged a few days ago.)

It was all my fault really; I was propelling him towards the dance floor and he knocked into a guy and spilled beer all over him. Then he was being shoved around and swung at in a circle of flatheads; I rushed forward and somehow immediately ended up on the floor. (I think I slipped in the spilled beer, actually.)

But it died out as soon as it started; the guys weren't especially looking for a fight. Nevertheless, M's eyebrow was already split open and was bleeding a bit. Surprisingly little, actually. He's got a nice black eye, too.

Other than that it was a pretty rocking night. Hell, because of that, it was a pretty rocking night.