Intoxicated Butterflies
A Short Story
“Sergey, wake up,” I heard the driver’s voice say to me as I was coming out of my delirium. Trying to gather my thoughts together, I realized that I must have fallen asleep in the passenger seat.
He said something about waiting outside for him, and that I could not accompany him, and that he would be right back, and that he would only be a minute. I’ve noticed that his acquaintance was still sitting in the back seat. I was too tired and disoriented to ask any questions or protest. I just opened the car door, patted my jean’s right pocket, grabbed my backpack from underneath my feet and stepped out.
As I was yawning, I watched the vehicle that I was in earlier do a u-turn and drive off.
“Well, there goes my ride,” I thought to myself. “And that probably means…”
I pulled out my wallet, and sure enough, all of my money was gone. I unzipped my backpack, looked inside, and all of my electronic gadgets were also gone. By that, I mean my digital camera, my android tablet, my MP3 player, and my flash drive.
Still dizzy and disoriented I began to immerse in my own thoughts. “Damn, I’ve only been in this city a week and I already got myself into trouble. Am I even still alive? Maybe I’m just a ghost.”
In my half-dreaming state of mind, I listened to some stranger threaten to call the police on me if I did not leave the premises.
“All right, cool, I guess I’m still alive.”
I snapped out of it and headed towards the people walking on the sidewalk. Apparently, a thirty-three year old man standing in front of a gated community entrance and staring into space like an idiot aroused suspicion.
I reached into my right pocked and checked my wallet again. I was happy to find that my metro pass was still intact.
“That was nice of them. I guess thieves don’t need a public transportation pass. They make good money stealing and can afford a car. I wonder if they have the same taste of music as me, otherwise, they will have to reset the MP3 player to its original factory settings, and that would be inconvenient. I talk to myself too much. I need to stop that.”
The sun was not all the way up yet, and the summer morning breeze seemed pleasantly refreshing. With every new breath, I could feel the unwelcome sensation of wooziness gradually diminish. After asking one of the passing pedestrians for directions, I started for the metro.
Let’s rewind a little bit.
On the Saturday evening, I decided to take the metro to Partizanskaya station. I heard that sometimes rock bands perform there on the weekends.
I gave up trying to sit in the metro within the first few days that I was in Moscow because every time I attempted to sit down, some ninety-five-year old lady and her pregnant granddaughter would magically emerge in front of my face.
As I would stand there holding on to the handrail, I could not help but to inwardly laugh as I observed everyone around me. Anyone who was under forty years old was always mysteriously sleepy, but as soon as they heard their destination announced, they would energetically jump out of their seats, push the invalids out of their way and gaily skip towards the exit.
The band was not playing when I arrived at the Partizanskaya station. Their music equipment was set up, but the band members were sitting on the curb, smoking cigarettes, and talking among themselves. I wasn’t sure if they were taking a break, or if they were done for the day. I decided to go and buy a beer in hopes that by the time I returned they would play another set.
On my way back, a couple of teenagers approached me and asked me for some change. The poor orphans were trying to collect money for a train ticket. I gave them a couple of loose coins that I had in my pocket.
The band members were still busy doing things that had nothing to do with music. I opened my beer, lit up a cigarette, and leaned back against the wall. The bright yellow circle in the sky was trying to peak behind my sunglasses. “I hope no one accidentally mistakes me for one of the band members,” I thought to myself.
A man with a painful expression on his face walked over to me and asked me for a ruble. His Russian face did not conceal the fact that it did a lot of heavy drinking during its lifetime. His eyes looked tired and stupid, like a pair you might find on an old dog.
“I feel lousy right now. I’m trying to get enough for a drink,” he said.
I felt irritated because I was just solicited for money a few minutes ago, but I respected his honesty and gave him the ruble.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“America, but I was born here in Moscow.”
I was so used to that question, that I answered it mechanically. Like a robot with speech recognition software built into him.
Now that there was alcohol in my system, I was beginning to feel bored, and it was obvious that the band had no further plans to play any more music. Just then, a new idea presented itself to me in my head. I looked at the man’s wrinkly face and said, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll buy you whatever it is that you drink if you tell me things about Moscow.”
His eyes sparked with excitement. “I can do that.”
We started to slowly pace towards the store.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Whatever you think I might find interesting. Tell me about scams. For example, earlier today I had some kids tell me that they needed money for a train ticket.”
He laughed. ”Those kids are full of shit.”
“I know,” I put in.
“You’ll run into that everywhere,” he continued, “you’ll see women panhandling at the metro who have been pregnant for years.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Have you ever done anything of that sort?”
”Well, let’s see… I once ripped out all of the flowers from a public garden and then sold them to the people leaving the metro station.”
“And people were actually buying them?
“Oh yeah,” he answered enthusiastically.
At the store, Vitya picked out a whiskey flavored cola beverage that resembled an energy drink. He went with that because the aluminum can had a nice sophisticated logo design on it. I’m kidding, of course — the decision was purely based on the alcohol content of the cocktail. After leaving there, Vitya recommended a bus bench where we could drink and talk. The police patrol glanced in our direction, but did not bother us. Our conversation turned into Vitya asking me questions about America. This was not what we agreed to, I kept thinking in my head.
Many beers later and a couple of more visits to Vitya’s favorite store, a new face had joined our company. It belonged to one of Vita’s acquaintances. He was a medium-sized man with a small tattoo on his wrist. Vitya and I were sitting on the bench, while his friend remained standing.
“Why don’t you cover that up?” Vitya nodded at his companion’s tattoo. “He doesn’t need to see that.”
“Sergey probably didn’t even suspect that it’s a prison tattoo, not until you mentioned it,” his friend said amiably.
I laughed. “It’s true, I didn’t know, not until Vitya here brought it to my attention.”
I couldn’t care less about the tattoo, but I guess Vitya stressed that I would.
“Where can a man pee around here?” I said and turned my head over my shoulder.
“Just go behind the dumpster?” Vitya’s friend suggested.
“Dumpster?” I echoed.
“Yes, that would be the easiest. Public bathrooms close early around here.” Vitya’s friend commented with an earnest facial expression. “Even classy women go back there sometimes.”
“Did he just say classy women?” I skeptically thought, and then suddenly an image in my head of an elegantly dressed woman squatting behind a dumpster did not seem that improbable to me, especially after recalling a Halloween party event that I once attended back in America. Let’s just say that I reluctantly had to share the men’s bathroom with slutty female vampires, intoxicated butterflies, and nurses with questionable degrees.
Vitya suggested that we grab our stuff and move to another bench. I didn’t object to the idea, and our hobo tribe marched forty paces east. The change of scenery was intriguing. It was nice to see the buses from a different angle.
All sarcasm aside, I didn’t mind hanging out in that neighborhood. I was very much acquainted with the area that was surrounding me. I was only minutes away from an apartment building where I used to play with my toys. I was only minutes away from the street where I taught myself how to ride a bicycle. I was only minutes away from the school where I timidly walked into my first classroom. The sensation was strange, almost surreal, and of course, the alcohol only intensified that feeling.
It was getting late, and we decided to call it a night. Before we said our final farewells, I tried to give each one of them a little bit of money. Vitya clasped his share like a vulture, but his friend refused to take any. Eventually, Vitya succeeded at convincing his friend to accept it because he had his heart set on a bottle of vodka and wanted his comrade to cheap in.
After Vitya and his friend left, I found myself inside of a pierogi shop. The girl behind the counter had a nice face. I don’t remember the exact dialogue that took place between us, but somehow it led to me asking her out on a date.
“No, I will not go on a date with you,” she replied.
I purchased a couple of things that I didn’t need, trying to stall for time, so I could think of something to say that maybe would persuade her to change her mind. I decided to go with my childhood story. I told her that I was born in Moscow. I told her about how my parents took me away to America when I was a little kid without my consent. I told her about my passion for Russia. It must have been an impressive speech because the look of indifference had evaporated from her countenance and was now replaced by a warm gaze.
“All right, I’ll go on a date with you,” she said.
I didn’t have a working cell phone yet, so we agreed that I would meet her after work some time next week. I wrote all the information that I needed on a piece of paper, that way I wouldn’t forget any details, and despite all of my efforts, I later forgot where I put that piece of paper.
When I entered the metro station, the police guard that was on duty informed me that I was too late, and that the station has already closed. I didn’t know what to do, I panicked, and tried to think of something to say. I decided to go with my childhood story. I told him that I was born in Moscow. I told him about how my parents took me away to America when I was a little kid without my consent. I told him about my passion for Russia.
“All right, go on through,” he said.
I tried to use my transportation pass from force of habit, but he motioned me to go around the ticked machine. I got on the metro. Everything was fine. I was on my way home. So I thought.
When I had to switch trains at the transfer station, another police officer approached me and asked me to follow him.
Let me take a moment to describe what this man looked like. If I was a film director and I needed someone to play an asshole in my movie, this individual would not have to read any lines because his headshot would instantly guarantee him the part. Have you ever met a person that you impulsively just wanted to punch in a face? He is that guy.
I could tell that he was not too fond of me either and had a presentiment that this might end badly, so I tried to think of something compelling that I can say to him to change all that. I decided to go with my childhood story. I told him that I was born in Moscow. I told him about how my parents took me away to America when I was a little kid without my consent. I told him about my passion for Russia.
“That’s a touching story,” he commented, and then triumphantly kicked me out of the metro station.
The man was pure evil. I’m not even exaggerating. I could see tiny little demons in his eyes celebrating their victory by dancing naked around the fire.
Exhausted, intoxicated, and alone in the middle of nowhere, I had to try to figure something out. Somewhere nearby I heard the sound of techno music and decided to walk towards it. A complete opposite action of what I would usually do under any other circumstances.
I reached a nightclub that had a long line of people in front of it waiting impatiently to get inside. I walked over to a couple of nightlife enthusiasts that were standing at the end of the queue and asked them for some directions. One of them was a sharply dressed skinny guy with dark hair and the other was a large tall fellow with an attitude problem.
“Why don’t you leave us the fuck alone,” said Mr. Attitude.
“Chill, bro,” the skinny guy addressed his companion. ”The man is just trying to find his way home.” The skinny guy produced a cell phone from his pocket and typed the information that I gave him into his GPS app.
“Is your friend looking for a fight or something?” I said. “Because that can be arranged,” I added, instantly realizing how very drunk I was.
His immense friend was dumbfounded when he heard me say that, but ignored my comment, and luckily for me (since I looked like a midget in comparison to him) the situation did not escalate into violence.
“Don’t mind him,” the skinny guy murmured. “You see, you are here,” he pointed on the map. Then he lifted his head up and gestured towards the road that I needed to follow. “You need to go that way.”
I thanked him kindly and set off down the street.
Just to be safe, I double-checked the directions with some random strangers that I encountered in a parking lot, and they all reassured me that I was going the right way.
“You should come over to my house and have a drink,” a brown man with a thick accent said.
“No, thanks, I think I had enough alcohol for one night,” I replied to the creepy brown man and continued walking.
About ten or forty-five minutes went by (as I said, I was under the influence), when I spotted an Asian looking fellow marching in front of me.
“Hey, guy, wait up,” I called after him.
He turned around in perplexity and surprisingly waited for me to catch up.
“We should keep each other company. The city streets are dangerous at this time of the hour,” I said playfully.
I don’t think that he was too thrilled about my idea at first, but quickly warmed up to it after I made some jokes and introduced myself. I think he was probably in his late twenties. My new walking partner was one of a kind. I enjoyed talking to him. Unfortunately for me, his destination was closer than mine.
When we got to his neighborhood, he stood on a side of the road and attempted to hail me a ride. The goal was to make a random car stop. It’s almost like hitchhiking, except you pay the driver a negotiated price. It’s not an uncommon way of getting around Moscow. I told him that was not necessary. An elderly man with an Asian face walked up to him and led my new friend away by his sleeve. He was probably a relative of his. You might think that I ignorantly hastened to assume that, but if you would follow my intelligent train of thought, then you would see that I am right.
The young man looks Asian. The old man also looks Asian. Therefore, they must be related. What other logical explanation could there possibly be?
“We need to catch Sergey a cab,” he kept telling his kidnapper.
“I’ll be fine,” I uttered. “I don’t need a ride.”
I waved goodbye to him and proceeded with my journey.
Two amiable youngsters who were strolling towards the nightclub decided to stop and talk to me. We exchanged a few funny sentences, they high-fived me, and determinately continued to pursue their mission.
After a while, my legs started to get tired, the alcohol in my system was making me drowsy, my destination was a lot farther than I anticipated, and to top it all off, out of nowhere, the merciless rain clouds appeared like a swarm of Japanese planes during the Pearl Harbor attack and penetrated my clothes with its wet missiles. I was the Pearl Harbor in that analogy.
A car pulled up next to me, and the passenger side door opened. A man’s voice recommended that I should get out of the rain and take refuge in his car. After making sure that he didn’t mistake me for a drunken prostitute, I decided to abandon my misery and got inside of the vehicle. The driver of the car was not Russian. He was very energetic and seemed to be in good spirits.
“What are you doing walking in the middle of the rain?” he asked.
“I’m trying to get home. I was kicked out of the metro station.”
Where are you from?
The voice recognition software processed the question and the auto reply answer was given. Like a Good Samaritan, he volunteered to drive me around Moscow before taking me home.
It didn’t take long before the car halted in the middle of an empty street. He claimed that the car needed a push for it to start again. I got paranoid and imagined him driving off with my stuff.
“I’m going to take my bag with me,” I said, and reached for my backpack.
”Nothing personal. Don’t be offended.”
“No, I understand,” he commented.
I stepped out and shut the door. I walked around to the backside of the car and commenced to push it, while he remained in his seat and fiddled with the ignition. The automobile started right away and ran great for the rest of the night, and the fact that I did not want to leave my belongings unintended might have had something to do with that.
“Tell me, friend, how come some of the Russian Muscovites dislike immigrants?” he asked.
He was refereeing to immigrants from Caucasus. He himself belongs to that group of immigrants. Some relocate to Moscow to study. Some relocate to Moscow to work. And some relocate to Moscow to steal and deceive.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I don’t have that in me. To me people are just people.”
Disappointed by my lazy comment, I added, “I think that a man should be judged by his character and not by his ethnicity.”
We had many different conversations that night and most of them were futile, but this particular one left an impression in my mind due to its irony.
When we were at the gas station, I gave him some cash for gas and asked him to pick me up a drink. When he got back to the car, he handed me an opened beverage.
“I have to pick up an acquaintance of mine,” he said.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“He is just some person that pays me money to drive him around. I have to give him a ride. It won’t take long.”
“Okay.”
The man that we scooped up did not talk much. He just quietly sat in the back seat and stared fixedly at his cell phone. Meanwhile, my eyes were starting to get weary.
“Sergey, wake up…”
