President (George Bush) is MIsunderstood

Last week I attended the anti-(George) Bush rally in front of the Sheraton Hotel in Guildford. Sandwiched between the stoic faces of the RCMP detachment and fiery slogans of the crowd in front of them, I suddenly felt a tinge of sympathy for Mr. Bush, the man who has to carry the burden of his decisions for the rest of his life – not an easy task.

No, he can’t just go for a simple walk in any public place without being ostracized and shouted at. He can’t cross many borders without certain legal risks. The French do not clamour to let him climb the Eiffel Tower and the Germans do not want to hear his advice. His meals require poison checks and his cars are preferably bullet proof.

And the worst bit is having to appear with William Jefferson Clinton on the same stage in order to earn a living. Here is the guy who, except for minor ideological differences, did and would have done the same under the circumstances handed to Mr. Bush. He too served two terms. He too bombed Baghdad unprovoked. He too presided over a bubble – tech crash in his case. He too completed his term with a recession. He too undermined the economy by abolishing the Glass Steagall Act among other deregulatory initiatives. He too employed former Goldman Sachs executives in his administration. He too took money from Wall Street.

And yet, Mr. Clinton is lionized and feted everywhere. He appears in public and people cheer. The French gladly lead him through the Louvre and the Pope hurries, tripping over his robe, to receive him. To top it all off, his speech fees at events like this Surrey Summit top the $500K mark while Mr. Bush can barely squeeze $150K. Mr. Clinton is ascending into the historic annals of presidential successes. Mr. Bush seems destined to scrape the bottom in the posterity rankings with the likes of Mr. Hoover and Mr. Nixon.

Putting myself in Mr. Bush’s shoes or rather in his uncomfortably oversized suit, I feel empty, sad and disoriented. “Why?” I can’t stop asking. “Why do I lead this secluded, limited, misunderstood, armour-vested half life while Mr. Clinton lives his to the fullest? This is simply not fair. Does any of this have to do with that White House intern episode?” I ponder.

Letter to the Editor - August 28, 2009

Once again Mr. Fletcher has failed to disappoint in his effort to play a lap dog for the current government. It is rather dispiriting, as the very premise of his column is to attack the BCUC (British Columbia Utilities Commission) while unquestionably favoring the governmental position. In other words, Mr. Fletcher is all woo willing to denigrate this consumer protection institution while lionizing the brave politicians that the BCUC is actually designed to protect us from. If this is the case, what is the point of the BCUC’s existence in the first place?

However, I do not believe that Mr. Fletcher is absolutely in favor of limiting democracy. It is only convenient to attack the BCUC when his Liberal pals require it - no wonder - nearly half of Mr. Fletcher’s column was spent quoting his impartial friends. Now, let’s consider the facts - a strange notion Mr. Fletcher does not seem to be well accustomed to.

The Burrard Thermal fulfills a vital role in system support operations considering that the bulk of BC Hydro generation is remote to most of the system load. In the absence of Burrard, many millions of dollars of new investment will be required to substitute in this role.

The energy back-up Burrard Thermal provides can in no way be adequately addressed by low value run-of-the river projects, as these deliver most of their power precisely at the wrong time of the year (freshet) when BC Hydro’s own dams are awash in frequently excessive inflows. When Burrard is fired during a December cold snap there is virtually no generation available from the run-of-the-river plants.

These days the decision to run Burrard Thermal in the summer is also of tremendous financial benefit to the rate-payers as this “low efficiency kettle” can crank out power at $35 per MWH (due to the currently low gas prices) while many of the run-of-the-river projects are contracted at nearly three times the amount.

To be fair, Burrard Thermal does pollute, however it is only a fraction of the overall local particulate emissions picture due to virtually brand new catalytic converters employed at the plant. As far as comparing Burrard to the failed Sumas II project, there are certain points that require clarification. Yes, Sumas II was going to be about 50% (not twice as suggested by Mr. Fletcher) more efficient than Burrard. However, the capital costs of that project were yet to be amortized, while Burrard has long been paid for. In addition, Sumas II required substantial transmission upgrades. Finally, Sumas was a third party project with lesser long-term benefits to the BC Hydro rate-payers.

The facts, Mr. Fletcher, are clearly required when arguing a position. In the absence of such, all I can say to you Mr. Fletcher is “Here boy, here’s a nice cookie”.

Partial Review of Guggenheim, New York

“Drip, crack, drip, crack” the sounds echo in strange catatonic sequence, sort of like a nuclear chain reaction on very, very slow replay. Otherwise, the purpose is the same – to melt our brains into something rather gooey – a necessary attribute to commence a mind-expanding touring of the great Guggenheim.

The dripping torture arrives courtesy of an intricate variety of microphones crowding a small disco stage right at the foyer. Their membranes crane, stretch and strain to relay the utterances of the star du-hour – an amorphously large and very wet glob of ice. That’s it, ice - just the kind that slides of glaciers in the Rockies. Stumped by the intricate display of creativity, we ponder the meaning while the unyielding mass of H2O emits few groans here and there. Otherwise, the world is water tight with silence. With our mental receptacles sufficiently provoked we move on leaving the poor custodians to mop up the drips.

The opposite end of the same stark white foyer betrays a larger stage in no want of Michael Jackson. It too has an occupant – a dumpful of torn-up old books. In Russia we had a specially designed term for literature in obsolescence – “mukulatura”. In America, an all expansive term “recycle” grabs it all including old rancid beer cans. Guggenheim charmers, undoubtedly well-versed in keeping the paying public non-affronted, dispensed with cans but pile up a small army of books, shivering and ripped to the smallest of morsels.

“Look, this whole thing moves” says Zhenya with her deep brown Ukrainian eyes travelling all the way to the seventh heaven, or seventh floor if you will, where a pair of white-gloved hands operates a set of intricate pullies, hoisting up and lowering down very mundane and utterly adulterated “mukulatura” with mathematical precision.

“I wonder what it looks like from there” intones Dorin, mesmerised by the hands of the invisible master. She bends her neck backwards for the best possible view of the attraction. I fear a whiplash.

Inside, Guggenheim is a deep well with the roof connected to the bottom by nothing except pure, unadulterated air. White-washed in the most sterile Greek isle tradition, the main staircase swirls up like a Dairy Queen drive-through creation. It is buttoned up with impenetrable banisters, making it forever attractive to keep going – if only merely to make sure not to miss anything. So round and round we go – Dante immediately comes to mind.

The first landing displays much Oriental writing on tiny strips. They nestle nest to a long paper strip unfolded with harmonica wrinkles as if it has spent the last hundred years in some very tiny crinkled suitcase. A group of thoughtful observers guard the approaches to the mysterious strip for a long haul – with chins firmly positioned on an L-bar of their hands. I know it is a pain in the ass to find your hands something to do when inspecting art.

We carefully nudge for closer inspection. Misha giggles attracting the ire of some regulars with their chins on the L-bar. I can barely maintain my composure either. The strip, the twenty years of it, betray nothing but a straight crayon line. Black and ordinary, I can’t wait for the next exhibit. It, too, comes from a crafty person who must have read at least few verses of Confucius. The ancient sage was big on patience and this particular student must have really tried as his work of art is nothing but insides of a large cube to swallow an average size Manhattan living room. It empty, echoing in hollowness of purpose. It has to be since the every living inch of the surface in covered in tiny strips of golden paper. It blinds.

Misha staggers away mesmerized by the patience and utility of the piece, we faithfully follow. Luckily, at this point the staircase deviates into a very useful nook. It has Kandinsky with all the Parisian parasols one can possibly fancy. We breathe with relief. I do so, with my seventy two dollars on the line, with a particularly happy gulp.

Another nook and it becomes positively jolly. Monet, Cezanne and Picasso enter the scene with much meaning and, above all, mastery. With Vince the life becomes positively bright. Somewhere amide his careless swooshes of yellow and lilac, “You know. He cut his own ear” Zhenya informs me.

“You don’t say” I nervously look for somebody with Blackberry to confirm the assertion via portable Google. Alas, Misha and Dorin have already found their wireless interlocutors. “Why?” I have to take Zhenya at her word.

“He had this interesting relationship with Goggen. They lived together and then one day hell broke loose and they parted. Goggen ended in Polynesia, many hula girls and one whole wife with breasts like melons. Vincent couldn’t manage, cut his ear off and send it slow post to his old friend, sort of like “now you have it”.

A super tale! Under the tale’s heavy spell we leave the nook for the main swirling staircase once again. Given the heightened exposure we expect the ever brighter pallets of artistic genius. Alas, none emerges. In fact, it gets progressively worse. It begins with a very thick book, a copy of the Koran, perhaps shot through by a bullet of a certain bloodthirsty tyrant from Pakistan. Interesting and poignant to be sure…Although artificially fashioned on some shooting range it still reminds the world of the profound conundrum that is Pakistan. It must be something with the rarefied mountain air that swoops down from time to time, disabling folks of the most banal postulates of reason.

The shot Koran is the high point. Afterwards we stumble upon a haphazard pile of construction supplies. Pilfered from a nearby site made dormant by dismal economics, various tools marred in chunks of concrete dust provide very little use for the already finished Guggenheim décor. Aha, this is an art exhibit! Predictably, I stumble upon few folks pondering with their L-bars straining the full weight of their chin structures.

After putting an avoiding manoeuvre we swerve in the next took – Meditation Room. It is half-way up to the top and it is dark save for dim purple reflections. A security guard, poised stoically, is contorted in a mute pointing sign. “It must be tiring” a thought leisurely trundles through my brain mush. The human pointer is unequivocal though and we have to leave our shoes by a cheap white IKEA rack. Misha fidgets uncomfortably. After all the dead crocodile cuddling his feet pulls an easy grand.

“Don’t worry, it would just be a minute” encourages Dorin.

“Good, at least I don’t have to leave my Patek Phillip at the door” smirks Misha.

A well-trodden soft pink carpet charts a path for our feet. At least I think it is pink, with my retina fighting off deep purple blotches all over, these are giving off by weak pocket lights shooting off the ceiling. It is semi-dark, save for few light shadows fixed upon the surrounding walls. There are exactly four of them are they are completely…blank. A perfect spot to meditate, but ominously low and armour-penetrating throbbing threatens to shatter my brains instead. Very, very large speakers produce the monstrosity that makes any idea of serene as far-fetched, as an impending lunch date on Mars. Perhaps the room should be renamed “Meditation by Knock-Out” – fast and efficient achievement of Nirvana. I bet Buda would be jealous.

Predictably, few L-bars lurk in the shadows. As pleasant a thought, the moaning all-penetrating noise assures high turnover at the exhibit. “Sorry” Misha stumbles upon something in a dark spot behind one of the two pillars. I strain to see the object of his apology. It is a human judging by a thick hippie beard, some tangled hair and a pair of bulging eyes. His features pale and all of them nervously wrapped up so tight and unmovable like a Hawaiian gecko in sheer terror of an impending road collision with a set of premium tires. He is not about to respond. Besides, he has a large writing pad in front of him. Exuding concentration and purpose – it is stark empty.

With crocodile collected intact by the human pointer (boy, he’d better get paid a lot) we transition back onto the mute sterility of the main tarmac. Suddenly, a screen – it is black and white, exhibiting something awkward in the area of nasal hair. Predictably stationary at first, the object moves just enough to make out a nose, a leg and even something resembling a limp penis. All four of us rush to the description plaque. You know we are human after all – throw in a pinch of pornography and we can camp out here all day. But that belongs, or used to, to the 42nd Street. Here it takes a way more gentile turn with some dude deciding to film himself sleeping for full six hours. It is surely avant-guard, especially since his simian body is stark naked, except for the courtesy of a thin hospital blanket, and he rigged few camera angles to keep things loosy-goosy, you know, interesting. Having outrun the tape every six hours, the process is repeated with screeching determination until the lights go out at night.

“Sometimes having a state-wide electrical black-out is a blessing” remarks Dorin, poignantly – walking away from the crackling black and white cinematography with not a single sign of remorse. This is the opposite to what happens to folks when they finally peel their eyes off Mona Lisa.

Trundling higher by the Dante circles of Guggenheim, we pass many more a creative exercise that include an absolutely blank canvass, a pair of work gloves affixed in the most solid state to a can of dried up paint and a plethora of wall scribbles that my one year old would be happy to improve upon. Any new nooks no longer contain anything remotely close to Kandinsky with the exception of a colour moving feature, depicting a delectable process of wasp nest formation. Just like the parading Parisian bourgeoisie of the Belle Epoch, the wasps are unyielding in their quest for things of scarcity and comfort. Alas, one busy wasp nest is not match for Champs Elysees.

The only remaining explanation for our continuing quest towards the roof at this stage remains the enchanting pair of white-gloved hands hoisting “mukulatura” up and down the deep art well that us Guggenheim. Finally, we are within a striking distance. Now only a large pile of mukulatura” separates us from the apparition in gloves. I hold my breath and squeeze few L-bar observers and the pile. Curious, I can’t help and pick up a couple of torn strips. To amazement the print reveals nothing of Scott or Dostoyevsky. Mercilessly ripped and meticulously pulverized, the pitiful human remainders are nothing but discarded accounting ledgers. My, disappointed anew, mind races to Arthur Andersen’s shredding prowess right before their sinking in the wake left by crooks at Enron – “That is where it all went!”

“Do not touch!!!” punches the air. I have hard time reconciling the shrill to the noble soft white gloves. The clandestine curtain has been lifted and there is nothing but a large employee badge and a pair of eyes caught in a moment of sheer authoritative rage.

I jump out of the way. Shocked, I muster a singularly quiet “I’m sorry”. The shiny employee badge retreats into its sharp-fangled cocoon of watchful placidity. Now, I know that once across the reverent doors of Guggenheim the difference between “mukulatura” and Los Meninas is written off to oblivion.

“Vot tebe i mukulatura!” summarizes Misha, which is roughly translated into “They have handily had us all and there is no refund!”

Caught between the descending circles of white and a fast elevator to the exit, our choice is predictably blunt. Alas, even the floor buttons inside betray an undue degree of artistic creativity. Confused, we inevitably overshoot in our zeal to stop wasting time. As such, we quickly find ourselves in a subterranean “The Sackler Centre for Arts education”. Our surroundings brim over with eager crowds of local school students and foreigners on pre-packaged tours. There is not one to ask and we stumble upon on service door after another like blind kittens in search of milk. The doors are, inevitably, well-secured and alarmed, prohibiting our advances. There is much white shiny paint and reflective linoleum all around. All cringe and bolt back. Unfortunately, the retreat to the escalator is equally impossible since the elevator queue of humanity is armour-thick. The Japanese must have booked few extra plane loads to swap their economic misery for ours.

Eventually, a well-lit “EXIT” sign points to the end of hell. We crash through expecting fresh gusts of street pollution in our faces. But air is suspiciously still. It wafts of dust and cheap plastic. Guggenheim is unrelenting! Its souvenir shop with its expansive trinket displays spreads to arrest our progress to freedom. Like a fighter contemplating a punch, I take a momentary pause. My sights magically clear and I spot a breech between the L-bar crowds. We charge, giving up our last and best, filling air in our sails at last.

“At least I now know what not to do” says Zhenya as we giggle back to the parking lot.

“You mean avoid all things Guggenheim” unisons Dorin.

“Precisely. One of our oligarchs, Pinchuk to be precise, floated an idea of opening Guggenheim in Kiev. He bought a whole collection of matching nonsense and even asked for a governmental grant. What an idiot.” Zhenya continues.

“And that’s one project I know how to vote on” says Misha touting his people’s deputy ID.

The parking lot charges $30 for a mere hour and half as we depart in the lightest of spirits. After all, I know that my savings of avoiding anything that has to do with Damien Hirst and his formaldehyded sharks will handily exceed this modest outlay.

Letter to the Editor - February 13, 2009

While in agreement with certain points made by Tom Fletcher in his assessment of the run-of-the-river debate, I can’t help but notice one major gap. This gap has to do with basic economics that seem to evade the proponents of private run-of-the-river projects. Undoubtedly, there is a reason.

So could it be the fact that the overwhelming majority of such projects is completely uneconomic, and exist solely due to the fiat issued by the Liberal government? Let’s recall that seven years ago the newly elected provincial government came out with its landmark Energy Plan that explicitly forbid BC Hydro (with few exceptions) from engaging in the development of new resources while mandating that any new energy and capacity had to be a work of the private sector.

Following the decree, the economics obliged and BC Hydro busily got down to the brass tasks of undertaking numerous calls for private power in the years to come. Alas, there was a flaw. Constrained by financial, logistical and public relations capacity, private proponents aren’t capable of producing anything much beyond the-run-of-the-river projects. This is contrast to BC Hydro’s ability to advance valuable Site C and other potential projects.

The main issue with run-of-the-river projects is that the bulk of their power is delivered during the freshet period between the months of April and June. During this period it is not only BC that is awash in water to the point of spilling at such facilities as GMS, it is also the entire Pacific Northwest with the large facilities on the Columbia River. As the result, the prices during this period typically plunge down to the $20 per MWH range. BC Hydro however, as dictated by the government, has been able to acquire such power at prices ranging from $70 to $90 per MWH from private developers. Even on the annual average basis this is still much too high compared with $50 that BC Hydro can routinely contract either in Alberta or south of the border. It is even higher than the current Site C estimate in the high $60s. And please don’t forget that Site C is immeasurably more valuable since it delivers power year around and provides additional reservoir capacity.

In conclusion, I agree that regional development in some parts of the province is welcome. However it is not necessary to undertake with such dismal economics that will cost many millions to the BC rate-payers in the years to come. Why don’t we learn how to grow our domestic bananas instead? It might be way more economical and…tasty.

Joseph, the Liberal

The latest Parliament Hill fireworks have crystallized a number of things. One of them is the complete incongruence of thinking that pertains to religious conservatives when it comes to basic economics. Deriving this conclusion from numerous conversations with my co-parishioners, I conclude that there is a profound and widely held disinterest in actually living to the most celebrated economic examples of the Bible we purport to hold as the highest standard. Let’s consider the glorious wisdom of Joseph, the ruler of Egypt. Yes, he sported an egregiously luxuries Technicolor coat but this is not his most prominent contribution.

His most valuable legacy is his response to the seven years of famine preceded by seven years of abundance and plenty. So what did Joseph do in the first happy years? He restrained consumption by taxation and ran surplus budgets of hoarded grain. And what did he do in the lean years? He spurred on consumption by running budget deficits by unloading the grain. The economy in the process was spared very high peaks and very low valleys.

What the Liberals did under Martin and propose today is exactly this pattern. The Conservatives on the other hand have done quite the opposite. They encouraged consumption during peaks by cutting corporate taxes and consequently gutting the surplus. Today, at the start of famine, they propose to balance the budget while the world, figuratively, starves for grain. Yes, they persist with reduced corporate taxes. But this is of little avail when there is not enough private demand (i.e. consumption) as people’s ability to spend diminishes with every newly laid-off worker.

So considering the above it is essential that religious conservatives re-evaluate the current economic policies of this government as unbiblical. After all, is this not the time to consider a very strong possibility that Joseph was in fact an economic liberal?

McCain's MIddle Name

Throughout the year, and amidst election fever in particular, I enormously enjoy listening to rightwing talk radio on my dial. The content is typically so comedic that I find it impossible to pass on the delight of listening to the likes of Hannity, Limbaugh and Levin (by the far the most entertaining). These characters spin the most outlandish of notions so fluently that listening to the scripted anecdotes by Jon Stewart feels utterly boring. Of course, these folks do not engage in their insanity to entertain me but to mislead millions of people, the kind of folks who take their info at its face value and run with it all the way to the slaughterhouse of rightwing politics.

The great meaty press never gives out, churning, among a myriad of others, the need to fixate on Hussein, Obama’s middle name. It is just a middle name of course. The name given to the infant Barack some forty seven years ago – what could be less consequential than that? Anything more can only be interpreted as sheer bigotry and nonsense. To conceal this fact, the Hannity and Co. resort to the oldest pandering trick in the book by calling their audience the most intelligent and informed.

This is not true, of course. So to test it, ask anybody who imbibes their on-air gibberish a simple question “What is John McCain’s middle name?” I bet nine out of ten will just blanch in response. And this is the joke I would not want to miss.

By the way, the name is Sidney, John Sidney McCain.

Surrey Now - Letter to the Editor

Once again, in Nina Grewal, we elected a quintessential politician. She unfailingly raises her hand of support for the party leader whenever asked, always keeps to her talking points and vastly prefers deafening silence when queried outside her comfort zone. Fantastic! This reminds of a country where I spent my youth in – the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

Incidental Happiness - Politics in Canada

The local nightline news headline screams: A Farmer in Ohio Wins the Power Ball Lottery Estimated at $250 Million! The ensuing images whirl about some terrifyingly happy faces and droves of anchors with long-pointed microphones and the most idiotic questions. The rest of us, on the other side of the screen, seethe with envy. And we do not stop at breaking just one of the Ten Commandments – Thou Shall Not Covet – and plunge full throttle into much perilous undertaking of asking the Almighty – “Why they, why they?!”

God usually does not heed such gibberish and does on his merry way. In utter despair some citizens speed up to the next watering hole to drown in self-pity, other rush to the next lottery terminal while the rest seize their questioning with a logical consideration of staggering statistical odds – “well, it could not have been me anyway…”

All this happens, of course, on the very individualistic and hence irrelevant level. On the societal plain thing look a bit different as they are just about thirty million people in North America who seem to share in one, very incidental, jackpot. They live in Canada. Trust me, it is incidental and yet we revel in it. And when your elections and ours happily coincide, many of us are starkly reminded of our blundering, lottery luck – the one that is called normal everyday life. And the most unfair about it all is one tiny little fact – we did not fight for it, it has happened just by accident.

We, a docile stock, did not fight in 1776, happily following the overseas masters. We just kept trading our furs for cotton with those from the South. They needed slaves and we did not. Few years later our British masters told us the slavery was off. We, a demurring flock, just agreed and kept on with the furs. You resisted and a murderous Civil War followed. Finally, we got some sort of independence with not a shot fired. They just sent us some Parliament Act instead.

You wanted to be morally pure and announced prohibition. We simply switched from furs to whisky. You got Al Capone, and we got the money. Few years later you drove into Vietnam. We did not. Au contraire, our passivity got us the Universal Health Care sold by some undoubtedly nutty radicals. You then decided that fossil-powered free markets were the answer but we just simply stumbled upon some oil. Since then you have had to fight wars to live up to your ideals while we just sold much of the dark slimy stuff to you.

Today you struggle with many urgent issues, foreign and domestic. But you have hard time revving up as the issue of experience appears so crucial to the current contenders. And this is even after considering the fact that you current morass has been presided by the most experienced civil servant/private enterprise team ever, on paper at least. By some blissful coincidence, in Canada we do not discuss the experience. This is not by design of course but by sheer luck. You see, in our British parliamentarian system, all of our leaders simply come from the same old and trusted perches in the Commons. In Canada no one bickers on this inconsequential score.

Apart from the “experience” discussion you also have to sling some serious mud around and it takes zillions of dollars and light-years of one’s life. By incident of course, we, north of the 49th, largely avoid this pitfall. This is because our mouthy parliamentarian screaming and debates take place daily as long as the parliament is in session. This is sort of like an illegal cockfight that nobody, except for some C-SPAN junkies, ever gets to see. So by the time we start our election campaign, our politicians are in a tired off-season mood and thus rarely put their gloves on. And even when they do, the electorate, suddenly shocked by uncouthness of it all, usually quickly steers the fighters back into the issues corner.

And here is my final point – we never know exactly when our elections will take place within the maximum mandated span of five years. They are usually snap-called and thus mercifully short. Our latest parallel, to yours, routine just opened last week and will be over by October 14th. Imagine all the time one can spend dilly-dallying about some policy issues that normal folks sort of care about. And not only that, we have a seriously taxing public election finance scheme hence our politicians do not have to sell their souls on the fundraising circuit just as much.

I know, bragging like this is akin to receiving a phone call from that darn lucky Ohioan Farmer just to learn that yes, he is your long-lost uncle and no, you will not be seeing any of that money. But instead of seething and raging, why not just relax and stop trying so hard? Why not quit feeding the extremes and begin dusting up the old pearl of public consensus, the shortest route to meaningful solutions.

Perhaps, one day you too will win the lottery….

Surrey Now - Letter to the Editor

I always get a chuckle considering the Fraser Institute’s opposition to any increases in the minimum wage. After all, this is the organization that is also perennially opposed to any controls on executive compensation. However, my personal comedic moment aside is this not the time to ask what the minimum wage is there for in the first place? Is it there to set a minimum price of labour so to avoid a slippage into the long-discredited economic conditions of the Dickensian age, which produced neither full employment nor wide-spread economic prosperity?

If your answer is “NO” then please continue indulging in the Fraser Institute press releases. Otherwise the next question to ask is: what should such minimal benchmark be set at? An official level of poverty income strikes me as a good place to start without destroying the original intent. However, it does not end there since the real value of poverty income fluctuates with cost living just like at any other wage level. Typically, the cost of living (i.e. inflation) goes up, necessitating upward adjustments from time to time.

Since the last minimum wage reset a number of years ago, the cost of living has increased immensely. This is an undeniable fact. On this basis, it appears completely reasonable to argue for minimum wage increases, whatever the actual number. Above all, is it not what would anybody expect from a civilized society?

In conclusion, during the last decade we have witnessed considerable increases in higher, professional, wage levels without any detriment to the overall level of corresponding employment, negating the main thrust of the Fraser Institute’s argument. If accountants, teachers and doctors have managed to maintain their working hours despite increasing wages why should not fast food workers?

New York Dreams – Part III

My heart just sank to the floor. Had it not been for hardwood, it could have just as easily ended up in the basement. I just lost my sweaty and yet the only one job. For many it was just a fact of life here in New York. The society at large treated the whole notion of employment like a number – 7%, 6% or 5% - yahoo; we all are doing so well! Aren’t statistics so much fun! But this was personal, very personal. Suddenly, the prospects of something assured evaporated and instead of a certain $300 a week, I had to go back on the street begging – never a heart –warming proposition, particularly considering the upcoming special contribution in the Kingdom. Blasted! Colin knew that I had some money saved and he would not let me off the hook even if I pleaded unemployment.

“Eh, Alex there is a phone call for you” rang out Jeff from his windowless paradise covered in self-produced art that bedecked large chunks of his otherwise uneventful white walls.

“Hi, this is Clare again” my pulse thudded through my ears like a midnight train. Jeff’s colourful images were suddenly running one flat line of confusion, as I could hardly wait for what she had to say.

“This about another restaurant of ours on the Upper West Side – they need a busboy tonight. They might also need someone more permanently. Do you want an address?” Do you want an address, what a supercilious question! Of course I want the address!

This was incredible. Within ten minutes of becoming a statistic I could just see that soul piercing ray of hope. I guess, Clare saw something worthwhile in my less than appealing busboy acrobatics at her location. Thank God, I had another crack at the fishes.

On the way to my much decisively less ornamented room, I walked into the bathroom to throw some much needed cold water on my face. I looked at the murky cabinet mirror with some fresh miniscule chunks of last night dinner on it – a sure sign of vigorous flossing. Well, at least the household kept up on dental hygiene. My face, struggling through this cloud of recent nutrition, was still relatively young and almost innocent save for the fact that it claimed nearly my entire head – a sure Slavic sign. Otherwise, clean cut and in no threat of deep wrinkles, it made a perfect busboy candidate, even for the most glamorous of the locations. With this in order I needed to gulp some extra O and sit down, so overwhelmed I was.

Oh boy, what a swerve! Now I had to be composed and sensible. First get ready. Pulling out my smelly white shirt and black pants with well-concealed grease marks, my fingers trembled in excitement to give them another deep press. Carefully unfolding the ironing board with a screeching racket of an object rarely used, I made sure that my lines and folds compensated well for any other structural deficiencies. Hot steamy air filled my room like a hot summer day in Florida. It exuded warmth of a new start. I paused and slowly inhaled – this, yet another, life miracle was true.

Today was going to be like on the D-day. I needed to impress. Extra ironing punch was one thing. But there had to be more. I closed my eyes and envisioned everything in slow motion. It was like getting ready to run an Olympic 100-metre final. All had to be perfect, every move strong, forceful and yet precise as a signature of a watchmaker. Only this time it all had to do with trays, plates and garbage. Nothing was beneath the simple survival in the financial capital of the world.


Docks – Plunging in the Tank
My new prospects also promised a slightly easier commute. Getting to the old location was a bit of a trick since I had to get across and then up uptown. Taking a train ate up nearly as much time as walking. So add $2.50 for a round-trip fare and walking I did - healthy for sure but not terribly fast. Thanks to the city planners who designed transportation on the famed isle of Manhattan as a strictly up-and-down puzzle as opposed to something decidedly more rotund like in Paris or Moscow, getting across town was frequently a bitch. Sure, it served the main purpose of life here by getting warm human fodder to the Wall Street and back, but it did very little in creating any kind of cohesiveness between the East and the West. Add a great wedge of the Central Park past the 58th street and two separate worlds were perfectly defined.

On the Eastside lived the Kennedy’s and their starchy types with authentic Haut Couture stitches for bathrobe collections; the Westside was occupied with a livelier, more freewheeling, kind who frequently hauled their gold from the liberalized Broadway scene. In the East it cost a true fortune to even think of parking your car for the night; in the West you could do it for free if crafty enough – just make sure that George Costanza was not your neighbourhood parking fairy. On the Eastside even the breakfast cereal routine required knife and fork; on the Westside you could practically slurp your filet mignon with virtually no utensils. No wonder I felt gusts of refreshing wind in my back when going West; at least I did not have to return East and this was a relief enough after trying fruitlessly to fit into the vain refinements of the fish-eating elite there.

It was 4:30PM when I arrived for my fateful shift. Would it be my first and the last time? Who knew? One thing was for sure though – I had to try. The dinner service was not to start for another half-hour and it was hopefully just enough to get some basic orientation. My first glance at the place betrayed a bit of surprise since I could hardly believe that this was the same restaurant as on the stylish 43rd. That one occupied a large well-lit first floor of an office building with men known for their zippy gaits and golden cufflinks. This one was barely noticeable among the myriad of mom and pops that occupied the Westside retail galleries. No glitz here, just plain old utility. No pomp but sheer need to push the merchandise on those perpetually hurried by life on either on fixed salary or indexed state pension. Grab you coffee – here is your Starbucks, want a newspaper and here the Joe’s stand, want to buy a barely legal knock-off of a jacket, welcome to the neighbourhood version of a factory rejects store.

Ducking under the restaurant awning squished between a pungently intriguing fish store on the right and a crunchy granola health-nut oasis on the left, I stepped into a small place with a large dead fish on the front-window display. Inside, instead of the bright lights of its cousin, I stepped into hush semi-tones of the approaching dusk. Covered in tiles, light under your feet and black against your back and elbows, place glinted with a busy bustle that threatened a real swell of expectations. It felt like the latest preparatory touches before guests arrive on the Christmas day. Whatever the snowy outside; inside, the kitchen stove was red hot with turkey juices, everyone’s face glistened with healthy holiday glare and the spirit of boundless enthusiasm reigned supreme.

“How can I help you?” a small stylish young woman with striking good looks of Heather Locklear was in my way. Her courteous smile was playing a happy tune of things to come – intriguing…

“Clare sent me, I am Alex” I smiled my widest. Who would not, with a Heather Locklear twin in the eyesight?

“Hi, I am Nancy. I am manager here” She stuck out her puny but business firm hand. Her happy smile said “I know I am beautiful and I do not need to tell me that. Flattered sure, but you’d better get your ass ready, it is going to be busy tonight”.

“Here is Abdul. He’ll be your partner tonight. Abdul, please help Alex get set up” Nancy’s lips moved in firm cadence of a five star general. “We’ll see if you can cut it, buddy” said her felicitous smile set right below the endless beauty of her smoky blue eyes.

Abdul tuned out to be a very polite and thorough character, who, having dragged me through the brief meaninglessness of blitz staff presentations, promptly skipped into a twisty stairway leading into the very underbelly of the establishment. Past the wood-panelling leading to the public can, the door swung open and I had to involuntarily wipe my eyes clean as if they were completely fogged up. Was it for the two figures locked in a playful kiss amidst the drab steel of employee lockers or was it for a huge slab of some unfortunate tuna pressing against the coldness of a coroner table doubling as a prep kitchen? I would never know, as there was no time to waste and much to learn before the start of the dinner service. Friendly Abdul in his thinly crafted and very intelligent glass-rims quickly performed another round of introductions and promptly whisked me back to the surface once again. Bundled in a new Dock’s apron I quickly surveyed the battle field.

By all accounts the place was tiny. It could not have had more than seventy to eighty seats that were tightly tucked into any available nook and cranny. Whatever was left did not allow much space to let large trays slip to their crashing demise from time to time. Here it wouldn’t be the parquet floor but rather some unfortunate customers or more precisely their craniums that would feel the sheer devastating impact. I felt a tinge of terror swelling up inside. “Do I need busboy liability insurance here? Or maybe some magic tray fairy? Otherwise how in the world am I supposed to drop a tray and not send anybody to the emergency room?”

“We do not use trays here, all is done by hand, the key is to carry at least four or five at a time”, Abdul remarked nonchalantly as if catching my thought in midair.

“Really?!” I could believe my luck.

“And do not worry about those kissing guys, they are all gay here” Abdul pronounced as giving the last shine-up to the cutlery at the front window table.

“Really…” I looked around to see my better paid peers congregating around the kitchen window. Behind, the chefs and his crew were sweating drips. I wondered how they all fit in. The space was so cramped that the distance between a pile of dirty dishes (the kitchen double-timed on dish washing duty) and the most delicious daily special could have been measured in millimetres.

The waiters, mostly good looking Waspy males with educated accents, were congregating in front of the kitchen window for the last pre-dinner special instructions. These were recited by a diminutive character in thin-rimmed glasses and curly locks. He, profusely glistening with kitchen sweat, was taking his job not only seriously but poetically.

“A generous loin cut of oh-so-tender sashimi grade yellow fin tuna is crusted with peppery sauce blend, is quick seared, preserving succulent raw centre” he tat-tatted, machine-gun like.

“The tuna is drizzled with soy and wasabi sauces, and slices are fanned on a bed steamed baby bok choi” I was getting dizzy, gravely. “You have to bring a Thesaurus just to get some food here”.

“Pasta is tossed in a rich tomato sauce and is resplendent with diced fresh lobster and topped with a spray of delicate enoki mushrooms…”

All, whatever the education or age, were taking Brian, this was his name, at his word seriously - scratching in their tattered order pads frantically. The energy was visibly cascading across space with pens shredding, brains revving up and eyes flaming with first sparks of insanity.

Fortunately for my waning self-confidence Brian had exhausted the list of his daily creations and proudly retreated behind the sparks and flames of his puny and yet formidable office. For a minute he stood at ready, like a rock drummer right before the first cord. A monetary silence was as brief as deafening – the doors flied open and welcomed first set of hungry customers. The music rolled, flawless and unstoppable.

Within minutes the place was a teeming beehive of activity as if the whole town had decided to kill its collective hunger by sacrificing one very unfortunate yellow fin tuna. For me on the other hand, the unending kaleidoscope of incredible battle scenes began since the sacrificial tuna was not the only victim wanting to hit the sacred altar first. This was truly a bizarro world that echoed back all the way to the blood thirsty Mayans and Aztecs where the desire to have your own head chopped off in priority was paramount and thus the battle for self-annihilation began. Red hot lobster tails spurned palpable contempt on freshly harvested oysters, these, not to be outdone, fought right back splattering their venomous juices with cultural sparkles of freshly squeezed lemon; full purple grapes of cabernet took their determinate stand against the brash delicacies of the chardonnay hordes aided by the unyielding muscle of the tuna alliance; and succulent apple pies attempted to squash any sparks of resistance wrought by the cheese cake elegance in cahoots with the German chocolate decadence. All were in tremendous panic to hasten their own death on the culinary guillotine.

For those expected to come out mostly alive, the pace was absolutely mind-boggling. Nancy was running her lanes, battling with ever-mounting fresh supplies of the discerning upscale eaters. We were besieged surely by locusts that worked tirelessly to squeeze the last pockets of oxygen that still existed between the chunks of freshly dead tuna and the ceiling. Abdul and I had to zigzag, dash and break like Formula One drivers on a squishy Monte Carlo track. Run, pick up, run, swing a light metal door, dump and run again – this was our routine. It kept repeating time and time again as if to never end. Somehow in the midst of the frenzy, while still running, piling and dumping, I felt a sense of serene calm and senseless happiness.

“I can do it!” I almost overheard myself whispering wistfully while ramming, for an umpteenth time, through the kitchen doors with yet another burden of dirty dishes. The bloody trays were my main nemesis. With these jettisoned off the cliff amidst the very tight Westside real estate, I was flying like Phoenix. It was fun and I was actually enjoying it. After few clumsy tries at speedy table change-over, I found myself competing with Abdul himself. He, a former Egyptian lawyer trained in the best Napoleonic codex traditions, took things philosophically. Being about twenty years me senior, he did not mind my youthful exuberances and splashy strokes, he had seen it all and we fit like two peas in a pod.

Finally, somewhere around midnight, the fish eating onslaught ceased and the last customers were filing out after a fiery night at the kitchen. Finding a couple of tables in the back, we all just heaved a happy sign of relief and counted the money. The haul, after at least three turnovers, was substantial with Abdul and I getting a hundred twenty each for our bussing heroics. This was better than waiting tables in the smelly El Torito even though that establishment hid in the basement of the famous Empire State Building; plus I got a better work-out to boot!

All, cooks, dishwashers and waiters, were happy to put yet another good working day’s worth behind them. Chewing on just about anything from the kitchen but lobster, I was happily surveying the scene of tranquility and satiation. Joe, the food runner with Arian looks and a fitting last name of Zimmerman, was counting the piles of cash. His hands, miraculously unscathed by kitchen heat, were soft and nimble, twirling each bill with a precision of a croupier until it landed properly into the pile. The green paper was just coming, one on a top of another. The matters that day were further bolstered by the enormous tip that Paul, a Yale acting graduate, got from a tipsy character on the expense account. His total bill was something like $500 or $600. So happy the dude must have been with his service and food that he left a $300 tip on the top of it all – Paul was probably cursing the day when the Dock’s waiters decided to share the pot. He did not show it though, blissfully chatting up Carlos, the only accented specimen in the elevated waiter class.

Somewhere between my clam chowder and mahi-mahi, my spoon stopped in mid-air by a perfectly rational thought of tomorrow. I was just filling in but what about my future.

“Good work today” said Nancy with her smiles smirking in unison “you are not as bad as I thought.”

“Thank you. Do you happen to have any other shifts for me” I was almost pleading.

“I do not have many nights but how about lunches and Sunday brunch. Come tomorrow for the brunch at twelve” she was sweet in her benevolence, and her smile stretched wider than usual “I think you’ll be better than that bum Parveen, I might just fire him…” Poor Parveen.


Managing Colin
To live another day employed was just great, telling Colin that I needed to leave right after the Sunday service was not.

“Can I show up right at twelve, I have a church service?” Nancy smile kept grinning affirmatively – what a relief.

Great, now I had only Colin to pacify since in the church of total commitment, aka Boston Church of Christ or the Kingdom, it was always a proposition tenuous to tread on the separation of work and church, especially when it came to the Sunday church services. The church was always the winner save for few lucky types who could claim high professional achievements feeding on the Broadway or Madison success. These guys and gals were great walking billboards for our hip church and were typically treated with kid gloves. The rest were just fodder to get more feed for ever hungry statistics of growth. Being a busboy put me right on the bottom rung of the billboard hierarchy.

“Colin, you would not believe what happened today” said I, ceasing a chance to enter a line or two in the Kingdom “book of the blessed” as I was describing my fortune upheavals of the day.

Colin, sipping on his nocturnal cup of tea, was all relaxation in his soft bathrobe and thick socks. With his feet up on his desk in the corner of the living room, he must have been away from any matters grave when his smile was dancing to the tune of my happy accounts.

“So what do you think about me leaving the church right after the service tomorrow” actually it was today already but I could not think straight when posing a fateful question - a glob of fear was already lurking somewhere between my second and third rib.

Colin smile paused pensively, slowly assuming a more standard pout position. His eyes, hereto ample with glowing paternalism, suddenly narrowed to an indignant slit. I recoiled, groping for the couch behind. My fingers dug deep in the soft fabric.

“Bro, you know that you cannot let you work interfere with the church. That’s not a true commitment. This is being lukewarm” Colin stated firmly with his jaw reasserting grimmer outlines.

Being lukewarm in the Kingdom was the pits. It came directly from Revelations 3 where disciples in Laodicea were threatened to be spat out of the Christ’s mouth. They had to get either baking hot to stay inside or remain in the cold of the outside. There was hardly a room for the middle option. But whatever the theological subtleties, these were studied in the apostate seminaries; here, in the Kingdom, it was all crystal clear.

“I would not miss the church, I would just leave right after at 11:30” I grovelled, figuring that half hour was just enough to skip-hop from the Times Square to the Upper Westside.

“OK, but make sure that you hang out with brothers afterwards. We all need fellowship, so make sure that you follow up” his front teeth flashed their upscale white once again. I worked like a good sleeping pill since I left this world of consciousness way quicker than usual that night.


Ali – the Master of the Universe
From that day on things were working out just splendidly. I proved my faithful service to both, Nancy and Colin, time and again. The church was attended religiously and the brunch served unfailingly with mimosa and lox consumed in truly gargantuan proportions. I did manage to unseat Parveen as the busboy du jour. Surely, I felt bad about the guy loosing most of his shifts but what were my options in the fish chomping New York world. Besides, as if to make him feel a wee bit cuddlier, my further progressions to the coveted night shift were stifled by a certain Ali. He, just like Abdul, was a permanent fixture with a family to feed. His work appetite was voracious and he toiled just about everyday leaving very little room for my career aspirations.

I really did not mind. If having a family was not a reason enough; a burden of one past bad business deal that must have sucked out something like forty five grand from the Ali’s pocket was plenty, even on the lower Queens rent. And yet despite the life troubles, Ali persisted. Being a naturally gregarious type, he was not going to be constrained even by the harsh realities of his strict Moslem upbringing that took place the glorious land of Pakistan. His dry, almost Russian, humour was incisive and calculating. His skills were meteoric and his work ethic impeccable. His timing was calm and his mind clear. Ali had this aura about him with his straight posture that perhaps even hinted at some noble Mogul roots. Most amazingly, Ali could carry on a measured deep conversation in the midst of the wildest eater onslaughts. It was sort of like there were two different wave-lengths one could plug into. The crazy one that was always available even for novices. This one was all work and was typically occupied by Brian the Chef, Abdul the busboy and Nicholas the waiter. In this lane everything swirled so quickly that any deviation from fish and salads was just impossible. Here, any foreign attempt to deepen a conversation was met with wild zigzagging swings that frequently threatened to confuse the intruder if not to throw him overboard altogether.

The calm, Ali’s lane, required much mastery and experience, and it was not for the weak of heart. The road here was hard and thorny but the rewards were unquestionably worth it. In this lane or rather universe, Ali’s universe, one could glide at glacial speed solving world’s hunger or promenade with deep philosophical thoughts piercing deep into the struggles the human soul without losing a bit or pissing off Nancy. This Universe was a spa; it was a beach; it was a discussion club. It was anything you wanted to be. It was impossible to get bored here since Ali always was happy to generously share his experiences with anyone prone to contemplation of any kind. Moreover, it did not have to be smart, stupid or beautiful. All one had to do was to participate. And participate I did. It was so much fun that I could simultaneously run, clean, pile and dish out on any topic with anyone, plugging into more than one outlet at a time. It was exuberant.

“Que pasa?” I loved to practise my Spanish on Tony the dishwasher.

“Nada. Pele estuve aqui ayer (Pele was here yesterday), sabes?” he voice rang a semitone higher than the rumbling dishwasher.

“Get out of here!” I could not believe my misfortune.

“Ya, he was friendly and all (mostly in Spanish), even came here and shook my hand. Can you believe it?”

Yes, I could actually. Dock’s was not a bad place for star sightings with many a Broadway bird showing up by to chirp a tune or two. Of course there were also TV personalities, large and pecuniary, and movie stars, bright and washed out alike. Luckily, my psyche did not have to be bruised all that often by my shift absences since my knowledge of the American cultural mores was very limited. The Kingdom and the immediate survival were my main preoccupations of the moment whereby missing Barbara Streisand or Rosie O’Donnell did not matter all that much.

One day I almost missed Mark Messier and that would have been embarrassing for any future accounts. Fortunately, Johnny the waiter with shifty eyes and an early bold spot came to my aid that day.

“Check this out, look who is here today!” he nodded towards the bar crowd waiting for the tables. The heads and shoulders were aplenty, obstructing my view. I had to concentrate and this was a no-no in the happy Ali’s Universe as I almost got bumped back into the frantic literal realm of Brian and Abdul. Pulling on my last strings I held on, finally locating the Moose with a beer and a trademark hooligan smile. He was all charm and ease, surrounded, contrary to some nefarious rumours, by a couple of very striking females swaddled in much make-up and few rags that some call clothing, designer style t be precise. Moose stood out, his bold nagen could withstand Mike Tyson and his forearms could squeeze way more than a simple hockey stick. I made a few near passes just to get a whiff of the Stanley Cup. Surprisingly, there was nothing but high prized French perfume and Czech beer, not even a drift of the noxious locker-room glories – “I might be luckier next time” was the only philosophical recourse.

However, the dinners sunk in the delicious lobster tails dripping with simmering butter were not the only time to brush up against the famous humanity. My usual lunch shifts also had something to say with an occasional glittering CNN anchor or a political pundit with a permanent suntan. Nothing too delicious, I know, but at least something for the hungry.

One quiet lazy lunch was proceeding at a usual pace until somewhat of an oddity walked through the doors. He, small and lightly hunched with oversized thick-rimmed glasses, looked no different than one of our Sunday clam-bake special frequenters. Crumpled and evidently on an indexed pension, his wild thinning hair could have had a decent stint in a Pierre Richard movie and not much more. Dressed in a non-descript jacket with no tie, his eye contact was non-existent as if nearly blind. And just to confirm the impression of near helplessness he was not alone. His steps were echoed by a surprisingly fresh personality. She could not have been his nurse as he did not look all that entirely senile and yet her looks failed to betray any kin semblance. He was a typical Caucasian specimen while she had a smooth Asian face rounded with pale cheeks and a touch of solemnity. To muck up any plausible clues still further she was easily thirty years his junior.

Having requested a table in the corner under the shade of a wall partition, they were ready to see my bread and butter. Promptly upon the scene yours truly was briefly upgraded to a waiter status, since the couple were ready to order after merely a glance at the menu.

“Grolsch” he barely uttered among a couple of other easily attainable wishes.

I hustled to relay the order to the bar.

“How’s Woody today?” asked Bruce the bartender, his smile dancing quite expertly.

“What are you talking about?” inquired I, piling up another bread basket for the next table that had just walked in.

“You do not who that guy in glasses is?” Bruce’s mouth displayed a surprised ajar displeasure at my apparent ignorance.

“No idea” I paused. “Who is this?”

“Woody Allen, you nitwit!” Bruce snickered condescendingly

“Oh, that guy!” all my knowledge gaps between the huge unknowns of the American culture and the daily headlines in the New York Post were neatly closed and cemented like a bothersome root canal. This was that old pervert!

Happy to be better informed, I was only elated to see Woody and Soon-Yi many a time on their subsequent visits. Her solemnity never lost an ounce of dignity and he never changed his beer order.


Hell or High Water
As my fortunes were on the rise in the employment realm they were not all sanguine in the matters of the Kingdom. Frequently tired and smelling of the rancid fish after my shifts, the only thing I wanted to do was to lounge around, watch some TV and be generally left alone. It should not have been a problem considering our ample living arrangements and yet simplicity was not a part of life here. Surely rent was low but it came with strings.

The time was coming for the spring special contribution and everybody was getting visibly rattled, especially in the economically lopsided Performance Arts ministry. “Where do I get the money?” became the question du jour. The church that eschewed owning any, expensive or not, real estate was always on the route to expansion, rapid expansion. Any stall in the growth was inevitably translated as a lack of commitment on the part of the flock. What was this commitment and what did it really mean “to be on fire”? I was not entirely sure other than to know that a serious theological could produce a myriad of plausible answers. The Church of Christ produced two – evangelism and money.

I, a recent convert into the Kingdom, exhibited considerable degree of exuberance to both components of the magic formula. This was not unlike the overwhelming majority of my new brothers and sisters. Once accepted into the Kingdom’s bosom, they joined the regular ranks, setting forth happily in the work of the vigorous spreading of the word and the generously sowing of the seed. Unfailingly these new members went into the world on fire for the gospel and in complete obedience to sacrifice anything for Jesus. It might have been especially evident in the Performance Arts ministry where too many, while fighting for the few well-paid spots in the entertainment industry, went literally penniless for months at a time. And yet most came up consistently with some cash to stuff into the large plastic bags passed around during the midweek service.

The process of collection was always jealously guarded and solemnly executed. Unlike any regular church, the Kingdom leadership typically devoted a separate sermonette on the virtues of giving. Frequently delivered by somebody else other than the main speaker, the message of tithing as a bare minimum was well drilled. Giving just ten percent was not cool. More like fifteen or more was persistently encouraged.

Colin and all other bible talk leaders were always vigilant pastors of the flock when it came to the matters of finance. Like a hen, having gathered her errant chickens under her wings, bible talk leaders always made sure that their subordinates sat together. Whatever the thinking behind the scheme, Colin could always gauge the spiritual climate by two easy indicators: how many visitors had been brought in and how much money was collected. The latter of course was less evident but given the plastic bag method there was always some silent enforcement of accountability. Kind of like a prisoner exchange between the warring parties – both pass the neutral, no men’s, land at exactly the same time to fend off any lack of mutual confidence. Just to make it harder to fall into any kind of mischief.

And yet, the collection science was still somewhat imprecise, as aside from a plethora of references to the spirituality of giving, Colin other leaders did not possess the exact stick to measure out his leashes when any lack was detected. Not to be underpaid, the Kingdom had devised yet another money gathering technique – the annual contribution. This separate, from any other collections, event caused much uncertainty and angst among the laity. And this was no wonder since each one was expected to come up with a donation equivalent to fifteen weeks of the regular giving. In my case I was starring at the bill of nearly five hundred bucks. For some it was a true fortune, an amount they had not seen at least since fleeing the parental coop on the south edge of Chicago if ever at all. The clouds of trouble were gathering and the fraternal church spirit began testing its annual lows. This was all in the undercurrent of course. On the surface everyone was happy and willing.

Now this was the time to act and the faithful scattered like a bunch of boy scouts, trying to find any source of additional income. Some, suddenly remembering their estranged families, called SOS; others looked for anybody with extra dough to borrow from; and rest just prayed. I prayed not to be bothered. The best antidote of course was not to let on my bank stash to anyone. Fat chance (!) as thanks to the Colin’s indiscreet tales of my tight fortunes, I was an easy prey. How I wished that everybody discovered a newly rekindled love for their shunned kin instead. Why was it shunned? Well, in the Kingdom, anyone not covered by the exclusive doctrine of baptism, discipleship and repentance, the “unrepentant” family members for many became only as valuable as their ability to provide of the material resources or to cough up a perspective convert or two. Unfortunately, in the modern America providers of the substantial material resources were rare and those willing to listen to their young brush children in the matters of radical religion even rarer. Consequently, being at odds with one’s family was a normal state of affairs, the extra kick in the ass by the way of the special contribution rarely turned out be a good boost to all things familial.

So as a matter of course, these wells were just too dry to ring anything out from, and the predictable paths led to a number of other places as skimping on the special contribution was one of the greatest sins one could ever conceive. Kevin, my original converter, was the first one to sweet-talk me into a $400 advance; after all I was his one and just about only spiritual fruit. His sweet southern smile was too friendly to resist besides he reminded me so much of my asthmatic grandmother that I would have given him more had he asked. Jeff was another character to get a top-up. Fortunately, these two injections were enough for a complete vaccination in the rejection department. After it I had no trouble turning down the potential suitors.


Little Island 101 or the Swimming of Miles
For the remaining some the prayer was the only option. And prayer they did. None was more fervent than that in the apartment 101 on East 18th street between 5th and 6th. Tucked behind a thick piece of the industrial block-glass, the place should not have been an apartment in the first place. It was probably born as a good old storage room, subservient to a large store next door. But since the Japanese assault on the world markets with their brutal efficiency, shady financing and just-in-time manufacturing, the need for any additional storage was handily swiped for an empty space with many rats in it. Regretfully, rats did not pay rent regularly enough with a conversion being the next best thing. In the city with vacancies hovering precariously close to zero, conversions were not always a predictable success however…

Originally being just one big space, the rat-infested arena had been cut in two plus a little kitchen with a single bathroom at the time of my appearance on the scene. Even the current term of christening of the space had received somewhat of an uplift – it was called a loft. Recently taken over by the less successful in the Performance Arts ministry, the lofty monthly rental of something like $2,000 was meticulously chopped into many tiny pieces of affordability. With rent reaching just $250 per head, just about anyone could afford a piece of this discipling paradise.

The only trouble was that the wide open front room was nearly unliveable as fumes from old spaghetti cans constantly mixed with many a fervent meeting on a couple of tattered couches here. It was like the famous canteen El Nivel in Mexico City where Fidel and Che used to meet for frequent and fervent revolutionary chat-ups. Consequently, sleeping in the fateful room proved simply unattainable. Even the likes of Chris of the Colin’s old apartment (Part II) fame found the mixture all too impossible to cohabitate with. As such, all eight roommates of various ripeness, hygienic inclinations and work schedules happily lived in the only bedroom in the back. Oversized, under the ceiling height competing with St. Peters in the race for useless space, the room, if divided into individual spaces, could have been enough for twenty. Instead, the eight shared four simple walls with bunk beds lined up along the edges. The middle of the barrack betrayed some individual property that consisted of rickety circa WWII chairs, old scuffed up side tables and a couple of grandma hutches. The rest was sheer communism and I, having witnessed the arrangement for the first time, thought to have returned back to the cold streets of Moscow (actually they hardly had it that bad).

Many in the Kingdom came and gone through this cauldron of brotherly love. The cheap rent attracted many and some loved it so much as to stay for months and even years. One condition was to remain perpetually cheerful and to submit. To ensure compliance the place usually had a captain of sorts. After all it was necessary for someone to collect rents, ensure regular bible readings and maintain general order. When I appeared, the place was led by certain Miles. Huge and lithe, this monstrously sized break dancer with an oversized head of dreadlocks ruled here with lax condescension. For a while, he did not have to worry about compliance since his fists were larger than an average nagen. Physically irreproachable and spiritually unassailable, his cheerful personality had always been above any institutional suspicion. And yet the special contribution was about to do him in, as Colin was only happy to share in one of those insane moments of friendly confidence. Sure, he prayed just as fervently with his seven roommates for the divine harvest. Alas, God had decided to let everyone but Miles off the hook. Simply put Miles, born and raised in the Bronx, was absolutely and utterly out of money. He was too big and menacing to beg, too proud to return home and too broke to even pay rent.

“Alex, we are going to have another roommate for a time” Colin’s eyes were wide with expectations. “Are you OK with that?”

“Absolutely! Who is it?” I timidly inquired.

“Miles from 101” Colin answered as a matter-of-factly

“Great!” it is not like I had an option. Honestly I kind of disliked Miles and his perpetually upbeat personality but what could I do anyway?

“What’s happened with 101?” curiosity was eating me inside out.

“They need a rent paying captain, besides he needs to find money for the special contribution”

“Oh, is he going to stay in the living room?” I inquired gingerly, hoping to avoid rooming with the loud Miles.

“Oh no, it is just too busy, he will stay in the closet” I struggled to remember that narrow that long closet by the door. Jeff and Colin were the only ones with possessions enough to even need a closet. So it was no wonder it took a second to recall to where that door by the entrance led. Well, at least it had way more privacy than fateful 101. Plus Miles now had enough old coats and scarves to bundle up since the closet did not have anything resembling a heater.

End of conversion, 101, with their prayers partially answered, went on to find a new captain while we got Miles and about three weeks remaining before the special contribution deadline.

And this was not all as few days later we were taking on yet another customer from 101. Ralph was a completely different character a complete opposite to Miles. He was short, handicapped with an extreme case of flat feet, had full employment and actually paid rent. Moreover, he did not bump Miles into the far reaches of the closet; instead he squeezed Colin right into the living room. The cards were up and Colin, a scion of a Goldman Sachs partner, needed the special contribution money himself. I figure that his film directing career was not taking off as fast as might have been expected. So he just traded his privacy for some hard cold cash from Ralph since even the Kingdom own film productions replete with Saturday night humour and post reformation theologies failed to bring enough respect to the budding director. Not enough to translate into a sufficient number of green bills to cover the hard date with reality.


Dating Games
Amidst all this financial turmoil in the Kingdom, I could not get away from the fact that I was just in my early twenties with still raging hormones and a lax dating scheme in my disposition. No, no amount of financial and spiritual upheavals was going to stand in the way of the perpetual and very basic desire for a soul mate. So after a hiatus on the special contribution front I decided to re-start where I left off – Denise.

It was not easy since the last time I tried I got a cold shoulder that Jody, my dear descipler, had to receive first hand from his counterpart on the Denise’s side. Sure, my intentions might have been honourable but there were also very mistimed. She was eight years me senior, hailed from an African American family in Philadelphia and was pursuing acting. In other words I was not her match made in heaven. And yet I attempted to persevere once more, at times throwing in a subtle hint or two. All was in vain as Denise’s delicate feature betrayed no lack of indifference. While she breathed arctic gusts I was not about to pull a white flag just yet.

“A wardrobe update would surely do the trick” childishly thought I.

Exchanging my latest pay cheque for few crisp bills I confidently walked into a neighbourhood Levi’s store. This was not the first time there, as by now I probably new every neat stack, price tag and rack pattern in this respectable establishment. Just a block or two from Dock’s this place had been a long source of internal excitement, the one that causes thick swirls of creepy crawlies right around the pericardial sack. For some such feelings arrive on the account of large diamonds or oversized yachts, for others these come at the expense of a large gambling win or a fortunate lottery ticket. For me it was a dream of a pair of real Levi’s. Wearing old “Conway on 34th” issues with bad colouring and even worse labels was tiresome and unpopular regardless how skilfully covered-up with oversized sweaters and cheap t-shirts with bad prints. Clearly, to tame a sophisticated beauty like Denise I needed a stamp of authenticity and the Levi’s with their firm seams, profound colours and proud labels were going to do the trick.

For many moths now, I had dreamt of it. But the extra twenty bucks over something cheap had so far been a deterrent enough, so wandering among the neat status piles was just another pipe dream. The dream that loved a bit of indulgence from time to time. I would just close my eyes and imagine how sublime it would be to see one of those nice jeans meaningfully cascade on sparkling clean sneakers or a pair of high end loafers. I resisted the splurge but lately Colin’s admonitions for a wardrobe change were becoming ever terser since he was expecting a more active participation on the dating scene from everyone of his subordinates. The formula was simple: more dating chutzpah - closer to God.

Finally, I could not resist any longer and the fateful day arrived with me marching to the cash register not with one but two pairs – one being ivory white. I simply could not resist the dreams of those placid wealthy perambulates on the French Riviera. Splendid in their venal assurance, the lucky possessors of white pants there were just brimming with all-encompassing confidence and aplomb. In envied them and, taking the notice, decided that white would be my ultimate transformation trump card. Greg, a happily-married Dock’s manager with a meaningful wedding band, gave a further boost of confidence. He was a gay epitome of the white pants pride. I just knew - I made a right decision.

My white pants initially wrought wonders on the dating Kingdom dating scene. I no longer had shyness about meeting a sister for coffee, tea or anything else that did not cost that much. And although Colin always advised and Jeff always practised romanticism, I just was not ready to further anywhere beyond local diners, not before I had another shot at Denise. Alas, my dinner entreaties and rose offerings did not soften her resolve in the least. Friendly but firm, her delicate features were no match for her tongue when she finally sent me packing with “You should date other sisters”.

Grieving momentarily I was. But this definitely was not the end of the world as finally could spread my wings in my spotless white pants. More elaborate dinners, cheap theatre and even outdoor Shakespeare productions were becoming a staple. My cultural existence was taking off and now, aside from the Metropolitan, included the lobbies of Trump Tower and the Plaza. These were great to meet your dates on a string budget. You can find a seat in the lobby and enjoy the surrounding opulence completely free of charge, provided your pants were clean. With my whites I was becoming a regular. Trump Tower even housed an upscale café in its gold-plated bowels. Here you could fully enjoy the benefits of Donald’s wealth without overpaying too much, as long as you just stayed with the coffee of course. On one of those meaningful dates I incidentally had a spillage misfortune by overturning a goodly amount of the addictive brew right on my white pants. Not wanting to break up a date on the trivial account of the mishap, I lingered too long. This turned out to be deadly since my white pants outright refused any efforts at the detox. Even the dry cleaning centre around the corner waved their hands helplessly at my handiwork condemning my white beauties to the unfortunate bin of history. I was heart broken.

“Forget about your white pants, they are already out of fashion. Try dark denim” was Jeff’s advice.

“But what about Greg?” my soul screamed in utter desperation, while my mouth persisted in more heterosexual terms – “Why?”

“The white is about the spindly legged people, and you are not one of them…” Jeff with his sharply outlined cheekbones did not suffer for the want of perspective dates and girlfriends.


Sasha the Evangelist and the Drowning of Miles
The menacing shades of the special contribution came and went with no harsh incidents of self-immolation save for few ardent sermons replete with much shouting, confessions and spit as one of the evangelists (pastors) from the East Side Ministry came to be especially known for. One would have expected to see an up-tick in the general mood. After all, the numbers were growing and nobody yet demanded an inspection of any financial reports. I might have wondered but like many did not know any better. Besides with no real estate where else could the money have gone if not to the betterment of the Kingdom?

The serene post-contribution calmness did not last all that long though. First there was this saliva-spreading dude with the bombshell. It turned out that apart from his passion for the Kingdom, he also exhibited other, decidedly less healthy, inclinations. One of them was street drugs. And he was not alone. So one day, together with a couple of his charges, he was summarily removed from the leadership and heavily rebuked to boot. Storm and lightening came all the way from LA, from where our apostle and leader Kip issued few choice indictments. The reaction was so swift and sweeping that there was no time left for contemplation. And if the culprits managed to hang on to the Kingdom that was only thanks to their thorough and unreserved repentance. Indeed, the post-contribution times were hard. The Kingdom was like a post-combat stress zone.

However, it was not all that dreadful, especially for those who watched from the side. When the news about the spitting dude was spreading, I personally felt a general tinge of excitement – “Cat Fight!” For one, these were the news one could feast on without any prolonged fights with consciousness; the feeling of not being the only sinner among the perfect saints was another good reason to rejoice.

Let me tickle you with a bit of elaboration, as one can rest assured that the assumption of the one true Kingdom finally nailing the cover of the rumour casket hermetically shut was much overblown. Quite to the contrary, the Kingdom thrived on rumour, rumours of any shape and kind. They were never qualified that way of course. The word “struggle” was infinitely more appropriate. And struggles there were many since everyone’s confessions were an open book up to the chain of command. The word confidentiality meant only one thing – you were not supposed to be privy to the confessions of those above, the confessions of those below in the discipling pyramid were always good prayer material. Being stuck with the less enthusiastic crowd on the bottom was not that much fun. Here the juicy news only came through the unofficial grapevine of bible talks and the dating circle - much less certain agents of truth. All the more there was to celebrate when the low life finally got a glimpse of the fallen angles and their sordid details.

Once the excitement started rolling and it would not stop. Barely a week went by when Colin burst into my room with an extra glint of happiness dancing all over his visage.

“We need to have a house meeting, pronto!” exclaimed he.

“I hope this is not about my neglect of the dirty bathroom” I thought sheepishly, following Colin through the maze of the perpetually rearranged furniture that always seem to rotate around his highly prized Persian carpet. The carpet stayed but everything else twirled like the tireless Blue Planet around the lazy sun disk. I always regarded these changes with suspicion.

“OK, guys this is to let you know that Miles was dis-fellowship-ed today. Chris and Arthur made the decision” Jeff, Ralph and I just sat there, awestruck. Just hours ago we shared a late night movie with the lithe giant from the closet. He was habitually cheerful and did not betray any lack of unbridled enthusiasm. Now, hours later, he was an outcast.

“What happened?” I could not help the excitement. After all, I did distrust his ADD personality – he had just too much unnatural zest for life. Something had to be wrong with him.

“Apparently he propositioned to a sister and then to a neighbour when she asked him to move a couch” Colin’s eyes were slowly regaining their narrow contemptible slit.

“I knew it! The guy with so much talent and energy could not stay that underemployed for that long. Something had to give” I triumphed silently.

“Did anybody try to talk to him?” asked Jeff circumspectly. Always very sensitive and compassionate, he was well trained in common sensibilities while growing up in the hopeless Ohioan rustbelt. He preferred not to disturb the leadership.

“Did he repent?” boomed in Ralph with his deep voice of a CNN anchor.

“I do not know but Arthur was not going to tolerate his conduct a minute longer” Colin’s pupils disappeared nearly completely behind his eye lashes.

“What about the closet?” I kept to the practical as anything even remotely smelling of sex in the Kingdom was stomped out faster than the artistic freedom under Savonarola. It was uncomfortable.

“I told him to leave immediately” never a too compassionate fellow, Colin loved to be a gadfly on the castigating whip of authority.

“What about his stuff? It is still there” I hoped for some humanity, carefully so.

“I told him to call ahead to tell me when he wants to pick it up. I do not want any of you to deal with him” the question was closed and Mile’s besmirched flesh was not to corrupt our less mature souls. He was gone, not to be ever seen again.

I felt sad. Even not particularly fond of the guy, I could not help but wonder what was it really that held us together? Was it the unconditional love of Christ or just strict cold boundaries of acceptable conduct? Maybe I was just building a sand castle too close to the waves. One strong wind gust in the wrong direction and my creation did not stand a chance when facing the obliterating waters of an intransigent dogma.

Somehow Miles was not the last one disappearing fast. There were others and once the clouds of the special contributions were dispelled, morale hit a temporary low. To the exact, the Kingdom was feeling queasy and really needed a boost. The majority of its members might have been longing for something warm and cuddly; the leaders thought otherwise and preferred treating the aftermath with more shocks. A renewed membership drive was promptly proclaimed, two weeks on the heels of the special contribution.

Thinking of the “drive” notion, many may be given to the visions of solemn speeches, bright banners and shocking metaphors. But these were no strangers to any of the Kingdom activities already, so what was next? We never gave generously enough. We drastically lacked the fire. Our songs were insipid and even the Depeche Mode with their “Faith and Devotion” (1994 Album) edged closer to the real Christ than any of our amateur attempts at Amazing Grace. In short, the Kingdom, or more precisely its subservient multitudes, was never hundred percent on target, not ever, regardless of the rhetoric.

The usual goading was just going to cut it this time; the leaders needed the numbers and numbers they gave us. Each had to commit to talking to so many unsuspecting individuals on a daily basis till the cows came home. On the subway, at work and in the park – anywhere where humans still converted perfectly fine oxygen into CO2. More spiritual members such as evangelists and other full-time workers set daily targets at dozens. Colin, as a respectable bible talk leader, was hovering somewhere around ten. I, one of the struggling majority, was entrusted with five.

Easy at the first glance, finding a solitary soul willing to talk to you in the ice-cold New York City was not always the most welcome eventuality. For those super enthusiastic among us, the task seemed easier. For more introverted with strangers it was a real chore. For those shy even with the closest of friends it was nearly impossible. Of course, such gradations of temper were merely my home-made Freudian equivalents. The Kingdom did not like gradations, it had disciples and that was it. Less thinking and more enthusiasm just worked better for the numbers. The rest was a pure pyramidal math, the more you meet, the frequenter you talk and wider you smile, the higher is the ever-burgeoning pool of the saved. The only possible limit was, give or take, six billion, anything short of that was a work in progress.


Soul Searching in Manhattan
First few days into our renewed search for souls were a piece of cake. After all I had more potential converts than I could handle right there in Docks. The exposure was rife with opportunity as my professional prowess was recently rewarded with a new position – a coffee guy. You see, this was the time when the seemingly boundless appetite for much more than a bland cup of strangulated, or rather filtered, coffee had finally met a formidable enemy – Starbucks. Suddenly, the calm waters of hegemony were stirred, muddied and trashed with this hurricane from Seattle. The unending battles ensued. Now, it was not like the world was completely impervious to the charms of an espresso or a cappuccino. These had been known players for decades, if not centuries. But now, the new funky packaging, strangely sounding sizes and the sterility of stainless steel had combined into a true coup-de-force as this obscure company from the Pacific Northwest discovered the ultimate truth – one could brand coffee just like pants, condoms and automobiles. This was no longer about taste, this was about trend and New York could not simply just stand by and watch the inevitable. Nobody seemed to care that the trend came from Seattle, probably the most geographically remote American town (save for Alaska) from any naturally grown coffee. It simply had to be possessed.

The coffee wars unfurled almost instantly, engulfing the immediate Dock’s neighbourhood into just about every possible legal intoxicant smothered in varying degrees of milk, sugar and cinnamon. “Bam!” the very first New York Starbucks just opened a block away. Moms, pops and Afghani street vendors cringed. The losses were inevitable. How could be otherwise as the new phoneme was assaulted every minute of every hour of every day by endless crowds of wide-eyed New Yorkers. Nobody seemed to mind the wait times. Even when these rivalled those of the Lenin’s Mausoleum in the 1980s, when half of the Kremlin was routinely encircled to see the long-dead guy in a striped suit and halo of pinkish hews rivalling those of any newborn. Skin tones aside, an instant shock of caffeine was surely better than long-releasing poisons of ideology. But one hour for a cup of latte! I was certainly puzzled. And that was not even considering the mark-up. Four bucks for a cup of coffee? This was sheer madness.

“Slam!” a new Barnes and Noble opened just three-minute walk away, right next to the famed Zabar’s. The crowds multiplied. They did not crave books as New York had those in plenty, they wanted caffeine. Now mom and pops were really in trouble. So I thought. But surprisingly everybody managed to survive and even thrive. This must have been one of those planetary events the economists usually refer to as a “multiplier” effect whereby we collectively ate, smoked and rode less of anything that did not come steamy in a quality paper cup. Docks could not escape the reality either. No amount of fish, lobster tails or Woody Allen sightings could slake our appetite for calories in the cup. In short, our agile staff was loosing it. Bruce the bartender was already overwhelmed with beer and liquor, Joseph the runner struggled to grow a couple of more hands and Ali started loosing his firm amazing grip on his parallel universe. Nancy had to do something. Creating a position of a coffee guy was the only solution – thank you Starbucks!

Tucked into a nook beset by our trademark breads and the heat of the kitchen, I was utterly blissful at manning my steam coffee machine. Feeling warm and comfortable, it was like shovelling locomotive coal in the Victorian age minus long-working hours, poisonous fumes and deplorable wages. At first taciturn, my skills improved hourly as within days I could make a much dreamier head of cappuccino that tolerated no match from the ranks of those whipped out in the industrial confines of Starbucks. I was becoming a pro harvesting my minimum wage plus a guaranteed $20 dollar tip for just four hours of work – wow!

The best part of the job was my firm establishment in the Ali’s universe. No longer I risked breaking a plate or bumping into a customer at full speed. My position in the Ali’s mental nirvana was assured. I kept up on the news, watched sports and spread the gospel - all the same time while churning out my coffees faster than my patients could order them. With the Kingdom “meet five a day” drive my new assignment fit right in.

It was not like it was the first time that my gay co-workers heard the call. But now with Colin and Jody, who was still my discipler, on my back I needed to reinvigorate my efforts. Otherwise I could not count any of it towards my daily five. Fortunately, finding your common sinners was not something I struggled with in my immediate environs. And as “being gay” was the most deadly sin under the Kingdom radar, I could wring my craft without even leaving the coffee machine. Alas, it was not so easy. My attempt was at Paul, a dude with an acting degree from Yale. He was a very friendly and mild-mannered person who was so hard to find any fault with other with his sexual preferences.

“Paul, what do you think of Jesus?” I asked nonchalantly, as if I did not really care about his response.

“What about it?” Paul almost knew where I was going to.

“Well, you know, this is about my church. Would you like to come?” tick one for Colin

“This does not sound like a bad idea but your Christian friends do not like gays very much, do they?” he dropped before departing for yet another drink order.

“Well, the Bible does talk a lot about homosexuality but there is nothing to fear as it is just like any other sin” I philosophized when Paul was back sliding a customer credit card through at the terminal nearby.

“Yea, I understand but I believe that whatever the Bible says God made me this way. I too believe in God but I had never done anything to disobey him in this matter” he replied.

“What do you mean?” it was my turn to be curious.

“Since the childhood, I always liked boys. I assure you it was not my choice. What can I say? Am I happy about this? Not utterly and yet what am I supposed to do? Go out with a girl even I do not like it? Maybe I should just stay celibate…” he trailed off almost poignantly.

What could I say to that? Inviting somebody to a place so black and white like the Kingdom all of a sudden appeared just a little too harsh for somebody so disarmingly grey in their life wonderings. Maybe Jesus had another answer? Maybe, just maybe but it was not to be found amidst the brotherly love of the Kingdom. I knew that for sure. Invite him I surely did, but boy (!) it would have been so much easier to roll out my artillery against those persistently dug-in on the other side, where Paul, caught in the no-man’s land, was not.

My hits at the heterosexual crowd, most aptly represented by Julianne, were fairing no better. She, an amazing confluence of endowments, natural and academic alike, was impregnable. Even if I managed, on occasion, to slip through her multiple charms that culminated in a lush swath of beautiful blond hair and sparkling eyes of hush blue, her intelligence inevitably came to her defence. Armed with at least two fully accredited degrees in the ancient art and archaeology, which were further fortified with months-long digging trips to Italy and Greece, she found my entreaties just too juvenile and naïve. And if this was not enough, her moderately famous actor- boyfriend behaved much more like a true husband than any of the Shakespearean flimsies who he was so adroit at depicting. In real life these folks were just too normal and easy going with their mortgage, dreams of family and weekly groceries hunts. It just was not enough of a contrast.

“Pumpkin, you are so young” she was only a few years senior but decades ahead on the daily wisdom or,

“Pumpkin, you are so cute” she was utterly disarming in ravenousness.

To be honest, my evangelism just hit the wall. No amount of self-excoriating sermons and front row spit was working. I frankly did not know what to do. Fitting Jesus into the Kingdom framework was becoming ever more awkward. I had to re-tool but how? Colin’s hot breath was upon me.


Jody the Benevolent
My recruiting drive at the work place and anywhere else for that matter was failing miserably. And short of a completely open heart before Jody and Colin, I had to lie. Sure, I would have loved to tell how I really felt about things to Jody, to him alone. After all, he was just that sort of fellow one needed when going got tough. Prone to listen, sincere and genuine, he was never a cause for alarm. Frequently cooped up in his studio at the art school, I loved visiting him in the midst of his creative pains, as he was struggling to produce yet another piece of timeless art in the soulless city. I felt for him, it was not easy to survive when trying to be a marketer and a creator, all at the same time. Imagine how Michelangelo and Van Dyke felt? Always a conflict, always a compromise…

Now, the guy in the art school was an ideal, sort of virtual, Jody. The real Jody was my discipling partner, who was in turn discipled by Colin and so on. And here where my admiration had to become practical and give way to some fibbing. Jody, a perfectly upstanding soul who was the gold of the Kingdom, would never lie. And since the Kingdom thrived on the insider information otherwise known as rumours, there was no way of keeping Colin at bay. I trembled just thinking of his gaze, let alone his implacably lashing tongue and the direct line to Arthur, the man who made heavy decisions. No, I could not chance it. After all this was nearly all I knew in this place. Hardly anything came from outside the Kingdom. My friends, my “dates”, my spirituality and ultimately my salvation all were part and parcel of the inside comforts. I just could not put it at risk.


Theodore – the pervert
Running out of options in my tight waiter/bartender circle, targeting customers was next best thing if undertaken with care of course. No, I did not really expect to convert Woody and the Bride, but some regulars were actually human enough that on occasion it was not all that awkward to broach a general conversation about God, Creation and other very sensitive topics on the liberal Upper Westside. Among the regular visitors two were particularly prominent – Larry and Theodore.

Larry faithfully occupied the spot right next to my coffee machine nearly every night on his quest to consume as many stiff ones as it was humanly possible. He hardly ate, but smile and laugh he did a lot of. If I managed to squeeze a few words early on in the shift, we even managed to have a decent conversation from time to time. The later hours were off bounds though, as Larry, sorry to say, exhibited all classic signs of advanced alcoholism. Then, he typically was in no humour to persist in theological arguments and had to be abandoned to all things light-hearted like women and sports.

Theodore was his alter ego. He did not drink a drop. He ate instead, and the difference between the two could not by any shallower than a good hundred pounds or more, and this is despite Theodore barely reaching Larry’s shoulder blades. Both were lost in the midst of non-descript fifties, and while Larry’s nicotine stained fingers never betrayed none of the fragile delicacies of good care, Theodore’s nails were always well-manicured and his hair dyed deep brown. But whatever the contrast, both struck me as very lonely men in the huge city that really did not care a wit. So inevitably when I was finished with Larry, I switched to Theodore who showed nearly ever day to consume enough shell fish to poison himself and entire city blocks that surrounded his abundant personality.

Little by little, my cleaning of Theodore’s tables had turned into some lengthy exchanges that revealed a very delicate soul that lived in an elevated artistic world of piano forte. Yes, Theodore was a reasonably well-to-do pianist who, whenever out of town, was frequently found cheering the folks on luxurious cruise ships. Aside from these gigs, he also taught and even wrote his own music. There was surely more there than just shrimp or oysters. His fat double chin and thick sausage fingers provided proof aplenty. And whatever it was, it was very gay.

“What did he say” Paul struggled not to giggle after yet another of my lengthy pit stops by the Theodore’s table.

“Nothing, just about his concerts, cruises. That kind of stuff. Why?” I wondered

“He is not your kind of fellow” he whispered conspiringly.

“What do you mean?” curiosity was a not stranger.

“He is gay. He is trying to pick you up” he replied with a friendly smirk.

“Aah, you do not say” Paul of course knew of all those things and probably had already been hit on by Theodore. I had a different plan in mind. What if I share about the Kingdom with him? Well, we did not have many fat fifty year old ex-homosexuals in our midst but it was worth a try. He was undoubtedly a performer and would serve a perfectly legitimate check-mark in “five a day” ledger.

In the next few weeks our conversations became personal enough for Theodore to launch his own trial balloon – “How about a dinner in China town, do you like Chinese?” Under any other circumstances I would have refrained. However, the Kingdom wanted numbers and I had to deliver, hell or high water.

Two days later I was comfortably seated in the middle of a very Chinese establishment, right on the Canal Street. I was dressed in my Sunday casual and Theodore was treating me to some authenticity in good supply. The stark white-tiled walls reflected more light than polar ice in July and cheap folding chairs competed for space with a plethora of exotics that beset our folding (almost) picnic table.

“This is the best” mumbled Theodore with delight right before plunging right in the midst of his steamy Wonton. I guess theology would have to wait and I followed his dive, slurping and chomping to the best of my animalistic instincts. After the Wonton, I tried to put in a word for the Kingdom and again I was quickly drowned in something cloyingly sweet that resembled a meat product – scrumptious! Before I could open my mouth just for a gulp of fresh air, a bony piece of fish slithered in obstreperously, sliding swimmingly right down my oesophagus. Soon when done with the scales, there were some buns, soups and dumplings. Nearly despairing, nearly drowning in my own Szechuan sweat, I finally spotted a beacon of sanity – we were served some green tea to round off the adventure. With the trade tools put away and carcasses of our victims stacked a foot high, stark white walls was not the only sun deflecting object around. Our two glistening visages riding on the high wave of sheer gluttony had our minute in the spotlight. .

Forget about the Kingdom. I could not even think straight. Rolling into the taxi, Theodore suggested his humble abode for a cup of coffee. I prudentially demurred citing the local geography that was well-poised to thwart such a questionable plan. Stuck, as two large exercise balls after a sweaty work-out, in the back of a taxi, I felt a little uncomfortable as Theodore’s fat fingers were casually playing some piano-forte tune on my knee. Not wanting to be confrontational, I endured stoically as long as he did not advance any further. Fortunately, the late night traffic cooperated and I was home. “See you later, thanks” said my mouth as my butt felt a nice boyish tap, courtesy of Theodore’s pesky piano fingers. OK, this was a bit uncomfortable but at least I could telephone in yet another stat and go on to bed happy, well assured of my staunch heterosexuality stroked with soothing waves of Wonton.


Jody the Benevolent - Continued
I believe, I was not the only one struggling with the numbers. There were surely those who behind the generous backslappings and shouts of “bro” were just as desperate. But if you wanted to stay you had to break yourself working or lie. Jody was a real “sold-out”. He was genuine and worked himself to the bone. I, on the contrary, was growing tired and sceptical. So padding my stats was now becoming a daily routine. I had to be creative though. Jody and ultimately Colin were always interested in particulars – where, when and who were my musts. While “five a day” did not sound all that onerous for a day or two, after a week I had to rely heavier and heavier on my beloved Thesaurus just to find better descriptives for my new imaginary friends.

“Alex, how are you bro?” this was about 11:30 at night and I was ready to go to bed.

“Great! What’s up with you, Jody” I gave my friend an electronic backslap.

“How was your witnessing today?” he sounded tired – keeping daily score was not easy, talking tall on my dear friend.

“Good! I met this guy at work. He came in to fill out an application and was all friendly. I think he said he was an actor between jobs. His name was Brian and he even gave me his phone number. I invited him to the Wednesday service” I cracked open my imaginary rolodex.

“What else?”

“Well, on the subway ride home I saw that dude, Julio, I met the other day”

“OK, how many new people did you meet today?” Jody sounded determined.

“Three…” a long silence threatened to explode the line, I just could not say the magic “five”. After all I was not the most prolific of liars.

“Alex, bro you know this is not acceptable. You are supposed to meet five new people a day! How would Jesus feel?!” Jody’s voice climbed the gamut a couple of tones higher, I felt really uncomfortable, breaking in this nervous midnight sweat – a bed omen for the night to come.

“I am sorry…” I replied sheepishly, hoping to get off the hook with the promise of better work tomorrow.

“You should not be sorry. You should go out and meet to more people. Call me back when done, does not matter what hour” Jody dictated in cold Colin’s voice.

“OK” I hang up, jolted and pissed off.

With Jeff still lurking in his studio aka bedroom and Colin just about to arrive from God knows where, I did not dare to provide an unadulterated tale of some nocturnal exploits. I clearly needed a bit of an outside inspiration. Luckily we lived in large building with many restless tenants and heavy security. Dropping to the bottom I glanced into the laundry room. And there it was, some poor soul waiting for his pants to dry – perfect!

“How are you?” I beamed across the inanimate tiled space.

“OK” mumbled the weary character

“Just checking if it is still open, you know, laundry at midnight, ha”

“OK” his pants were still churning

“See you in the jiff” I did not wait for his response. This could surely qualify as a contact given the late hour.

I pressed the elevator button and waited, thinking up stuff. The doors were about to open as I was joined by another type in pants, this time the pair was actually on him.

“Hi, going up!” I cheered

“Yap” retorted the type in pants

“Beautiful night, eh?”

“Yap”

“See you later” he did not need a response. Great! Another contact!

Gathering my blitzy “love thy neighbour” breath, I posed, took another gulp of oxygen and opened the door. As long as Jeff was not able to time my short sortie I was OK on my account of the preceding events. Great, his door was closed as he was deep in a soul-searching conversation with one of the sisters. Her name was Amy, she had the most perfect face God had ever created and she wanted to be Jeff’s girlfriend. I knew that whenever on the phone with her Jeff, already mostly oblivious by nature, was in on an entirely different planet. Unnoticed I tip-toed into my room and waited for another respectable fifteen minutes. Finally, Jeff got off the phone and I dialled Jody. .

“Jody, I just met two terrific guys. Yea, right here in the building. Sharp looking and interested, I could not believe it! Isn’t great?” I squealed in sheer delight.

“Wow, good work. Where did you meet them?” I felt his note pen scratching yet another entry in his daily “meet the prospect” log.

“In the laundry room. Well, I did not find out their exact coordinates but I have seen both before and I am sure that following up would not be an issue” I replied

“Great, bro. Have a great day tomorrow!” Jody voice was thinning amidst hanging up action. “Ouh” I heard a dreamful yawn – my discipler was ready to call it a day – good…

This was a good lesson to keep up on my stories in the days to come. Whatever excuses the rest of my erstwhile co-religionists came up with in those ever warmer summer days, the effects of the latest drive were evident. Some must have been more conscientious. The church was filling up with new visitors and converts. Sure, some like Miles, had to leave for various reasons, but our ranks were never to be on decline. This made guys and gals like me especially vulnerable since our production of “fruit” was nowhere to be seen. We could have been helpful and kind, but no amount of generous charity could outrank even the least meagre production delivered by the more cheerful and “fruitful” crowd.

There was hardly a spot to hide except get on the visible prayer/Kingdom bible study bandwagon. This was truly an only and yet great refuge from the bosses. I bet that’s how Colin actually managed to grow in the Kingdom stature. Always desperately fighting in search of a friendly spark, he must have found it particularly difficult to find enough requisite and pliable material for future conversions. I personally can hardly recall anyone ever showing up to check us out on his personal account. There had always been plenty of Jeff’s and Jody’s prospects but not Colin’s. I understood him more than anybody and yet admitting to him anything like this could have amounted to a Papal Bull worthy of Martin Luther himself.

So with the bible talk to steer and spirituality to evince, Colin grew incredible busy in the refuge circuit. As one might recall the Kingdom did not quite function as the first century church, at least in the downward direction of our pyramidal ranks. When it came to tithing, we were to recall the luckless pair of Ananias and Sapphira and their untimely death following the refusal to be truthful with the apostles when it came to their financial resources. And yet when it came to the socialist sharing of the disposable resources, as evidently practised by the first century Christians, we below did not hear much of anything including even the most rudimentary of financial reports. When the question was the one of commitment, we were called to be like the three thousand of those who converted on the original day of Pentecost. When it came to actual entry into the Kingdom, the process took days if not weeks and not a moment sooner, sooner than the required amount of Kingdom studies had been completed.

The Kingdom was always suspicious of its prospects and needed to test and try before stamping its final sign of approval by the way of dunking the subject under water, the process otherwise known as baptism. The Kingdom studies, an arduous set of initiation rites, were a crucial aspect of the gate keeping. Only those marked by some spiritual authority and maturity, Colin and sometimes Jody included, could lead these studies. I, being a never maturing product, could only participate and nod. With such skills the Kingdom study refuge was not nearly as safe of a bet for those with flimsy credentials. To atone for any lack of maturity or experience, going to the some extremes was just about the only option. So as a result, I participated in long prayer vigils that ran parallel to the potential converts thumbing through the proscribed verses on their hard climb to the magic entry gate of the Kingdom.

These could last for hours with each participant expected to make a requisite verbal contribution. It was not always easy, especially for me since I tended to perceive the whole idea of talking to God as more of a private affaire. It was more like groaning of your personal spirit in its quest to find the celestial connection to the omniscient Creator. The words, while very important, mattered but were not supreme. Besides, always privy to any of our thoughts, God was already well abreast of our needs, wants and desires. A public prayer, of course, had always been an important sign of solidarity among believers and an expression of one’s personal faith. And yet one had to be careful as Jesus specifically castigated those prone to long and mouthy prayers in all places public. I presume that this applies even when praying among the fellow Christians. You see, part of the Jesus’ objection to long prayers was a need to avoid empty public adoration. And while such adoration was common place in the busy street of the first century Jerusalem, these were no longer a fact of life here, in New York City. Actually quite the opposite – street preachers were usually viewed, and sometimes justifiably so, as cranks and crazies. So just about the only venue of public fawning over the lengthy prayers became the tight circle of the church goers. Now, this was not specific to the Church of Christ, however, that’s where I really received a good dose of it. And there were never a better occasion than evoke many a verbose prayer to help along a new convert or two.


Josh – An Impossible Dream
On one occasion, Jody befriended a likeable bespectacled type from his own artsy alma mater. The prospect, named Josh, was a perfect catch. Educated in the twisted wizardry of graphic arts his intelligent visage and lanky figure brimmed with sparks of natural intelligence. He was going to be a worthy trophy for our glassed case of the “young and sharp”. The Kingdom was immensely fond of the “young and sharp” so the task of the final steering to the eternal glories could not be left alone to the Jody’s amateurish touches. Predictably amidst the Josh’s recruiting run, the reins fell into the apt hands of Colin. Brightened by the juicy prospect, he bit into this one with such enthusiasm as to shame Robinson Crusoe upon his first contact with a cooked meal.

The process was not going to be left to any chance. Just about anybody on our circle was pulled in for some heavy presence. The studies were unfurled with endless prayers and were followed up with numerous debriefing sessions. Josh was impressed. We did not skimp on anything including the full set of revelations about the cult status of the Kingdom in the traditional, apostate, Christian circles. The intent was two-fold. One was to make sure that there was no mistake and the Kingdom was not just another dry branch of the dead Christianity. The other was to ensure that the disclosure served as an automatic score against those pesky “cult” accusations. Sort of like an early recall of friendly Chinese toys smothered in good portions of the lead paint.

Everything was rolling on just nicely. Josh had gone through the major hurdles and the glowing reports of his progressions were issued at the weekly leadership gatherings. Colin was holding his head high and Jody was looser than usual. On some days I even skipped reporting my daily totals altogether. Jody’s mind was occupied with all things serene and my totals did not seem to matter any longer. Finally the time came to chime in with the last two studies in the “penitence” series as the rumbles of the final crescendo were within a hearing distance. Steering a ship through wide ocean swathes had been fun but now commandeering the vessel through the last set of narrow treacherous straits to the blissful harbour filled many with trepidation. Colin was getting more strung up by the hour. “How could he help God to bring yet another lost soul in his tent?” I did not know if God even cared but Colin and Jody called in an all-night prayer vigil.

We, Jerry the John the Baptist, Jeff the Penniless Artist, Craig the Rocker and I, were to spend an entire night in the Josh’s living room while Jody and Colin were walking our new friend through the last twists and turns of the salvation labyrinth. I was intimidated to say the least. Already suffering from bouts of insomnia from time to time, the prospect of spending the entire night awake did not bode well for my tight nerves. Well, at the least the next day I had only a night shift, so some rest was in sight. But what did I have to say? One thing is to fit into a two-hour session where by invoking a sufficiently large number of “dear fathers” one could avoid coming up with saying anything new at all while producing as many words and sentences as were necessary. But what about the entire night? I had some doubts about my ultimate survival.

As it turned out, I did but barely. Caught between a rock and a hard place, an entire night on your knees jammed up against hardwood floor was only half of the story. Staying awake was another. At first entertained by an occasional detail of the Josh’s journey so far that seeped into some of the prayers, I stayed refreshed. But any such details were bound to run out sooner or later, so the godly ardency was the only remaining source of energy. Exhausted and yet unwilling to show weakness, each of us persevered despite few light thuds against Josh’s sparse furnishings that announced yet another momentary causality of lost vigilance from time to time. Each such unhappy occurrence was followed up with renewed cries for Josh’s salvation. I guess just to make sure that God did not notice our shortcomings. I, surreptitiously, kept looking at my watch. Finally the merciful rays of dawn graced Josh’s humble possessions. I could not wait to find my bed. Completely exhausted, I staggered back home and just sunk into the never-never land of long nightmares. This respite did not last long when I was shaken back into a morose, distant consciousness otherwise known as reality. It was Jody. His face was ashen with fatigue and despair.

“What time is it?” I inquired automatically.

“It is about noon” I had barely slept five hours – blasted.

“Did you sleep at all?” I ached just seeing his blood-shot eyes.

“Not much” he trailed off. “Maybe…”

“What’s up, anyway?”

“We lost Josh”

“What do you mean “we lost Josh”?”

“He just called me back, just about an hour ago. He told me he did not want to have anything to do with us. Some friend or relative of his has presumably given him some negative information about the church. Whatever it was he totally turned 180. He told me that he did not want any calls.” Jody was nearly whispering like a doctor at the foot of the terminally ill-patient except he was the one writhing in pain.

“After our prayer and all, eh” I felt deeply sorry for my friend.

“I know…” I got up and gave him a hug. Whatever it was between us, he was my best friend even if unknowingly so.


Soul Searching with Jody
After Josh, even I all felt a little dumbfounded if not distraught. Even Colin was not beyond it, leading me to believe that this series of the unfortunate events could ultimately result in some much needed respite and healing. And yet, I knew that there could never be a true status quo, not given the folks that led the Kingdom into the future. Kip McKean and the brass kept raising the bar so getting busy in the Kingdom work was the only antidote to our current infelicity. The task, as always, was complicated by my congenial relationship with Jody. I knew that making up new stories time and again was not going to be constructive for my soul. Especially since after Josh, he decidedly changed for the better. Softer and ever more caring, he even allowed some secret respites for the subordinates to hide in, the respites that even Colin could not climb into. I was very happy to find a spot where I could bleed in sincerity from time to time.

“I know that do not totally believe all of the teachings” said he surrounded by the homey warm fumes of our favourite cheap diner, just steps Madison Square Garden. Jody’s delicate long fingers were clutching a mug of steamy hot coffee to fight the suddenly unseasonable weather chill.

“This is not like I totally do not believe things. But some of them make me feel suspicious. Sure, I have never met a more dedicated body of Christians anywhere, but the whole issue of exclusivity just does not sit well” it was not if I had been many places since outside the church my Christian experiences were mostly limited to the campus ministries back home.

“But Chris (Broome, one of the leaders of the Performance Arts Ministry) or Arthur have never actually stated that all outside the church were actually lost” he said sincerely.

“Look Jody, sure they might have never said exactly that but if one outright dismisses Luther and Mother Theresa than we have a problem. Remember how I asked Arthur during my Kingdom studies as to who were the authentic Christians in the middle ages. He could not point to a single one. Not only that, nobody in the church could point to anybody specific up until founding of the church in Boston, in 1979. I just find it all too implausible” I stated with a hearty conviction.

“OK, maybe there is a mistake or two but who is flawless?” Jody defended, taking another deep swig at his coffee as if taking a much needed pause.

“Flawed maybe but cleaving the world into two, believers and not, is at the heart of what we do!” I retorted emphatically, biting deep into a cloyingly sweet chocolate doughnut. I cringed, my teeth really hurt by all that sugar.

“So you say that we do something else that is unscriptural?” Jody’s brows arched ever so little.

“Unscriptural – hardly, but recognizing salvation only after OUR lengthy studies and only at the point of OUR baptism sounds a bit on the edge. Could we possibly be mistaken? Look at the day of Pentecost, three thousand people became believers in an instant and without much of a prep” I replied, struggling to wash off my mouth with fresh water

“But that was the first century.” Jody’s long fingers put a half-drunk coffee cup back on the table, the hot drink was becoming distracting.

Jody and I had many conversations like this. I was tremendously grateful - at least somebody on the inside was real. Most of the rest, however sweet, convicted and fired-up were just not all that believable. Especially since visible enthusiasm seemed the only ticket to the Kingdom happiness with the rest always shunned to the fringes. But for how long? How long did I have before there would be a time to leave? And where would I go exactly? These thoughts gave me much to ponder either on my long solitary walks or even in the midst of a church service. I had a suspicion that I was not the only one engaged in this heart-wrenching search.

Leaving the Kingdom was not like leaving just another church where you just go on Sunday. No, not in the church of Christ; here even in the most aloof forms one was thickly weaved into the pervasive fabric of accountability. Friendship, acquaintances and even prospective dating all came to symbolize much of what defined me and anybody else around. The more time on the inside I spent, the farther away from reality I felt. It was a true case of mental dependency.

We did live in the world of course. Frequently it was even impossible to tell what it was so different about us. We did not wear robes, did not stay celibate or even did not contemplate teetotalism. The idea was to merge fluidly into the outside to pass as hip and cool. And that was the crucial part of the overall Kingdom success. On the inside though, it was a complete 180. Here there was no freedom of actions or thoughts; it was uniformity at its worst. This was not the uniformity of looks and tastes; this was the absolute uniformity of the religious doctrine. Arguably one of the worst kind one can find himself shackled to. If the mainstream Christianity was sensibly open to the gift of God that was generous in various manifestations of healing, wisdom, mentorship and teaching. In the Kingdom, the only gift that mattered was an ability to bring more recruits. You could be a terrific friend or a veritable Samaritan and yet be swept under the rug of uselessness. The one inevitable abode for those who did not possess the personality or the sheer luck necessary to bring new flesh and blood through the door. With my successes frequently limited to the useless statistics, I saw less and less of any future here, the future that beaconed with just about the only friends and contacts I knew in this new life across the pond. Inevitably, I felt unhappily trapped. So persevering in this grey current for now seemed the only plausible prospect. Hopefully someday in the near future it would lead me to things more translucent. Consequently, for now there was some role playing to be done and with Josh slipping away, Colin was once again becoming ever more demanding of all in his bible talk subjugates. It was not the time to lose vigilance.


Russians to the Rescue
A phone in the Jeff’s paradise just rang. It was a ring like any other and yet it was not. Isn’t funny that no matter how advanced our technology gets, it is still incapable of predicting the news, personal or otherwise? Despite call displays, opinions polls and intricate statistics our immediate future has still retains a clandestine mystery about itself… “Alex, pick-up the phone!” Jeff shouted.

Had I known I would have run; otherwise I just slowly thudded with my heavy gait into the Jeff’s room where we actually kept the phone. Jeff was lucky since I would have surely knocked him off the ladder as he was climbing up with yet another piece of personal art to be dutifully hung on the lookout for posterity. Startled, as if in disbelief of nearly crashing, he steadied himself against his large self-portrait – a very modern exhibit. The timeless piece was veiled in some heavy splashes of green that betrayed good quality paint if nothing else. You see, before becoming frequently without means, Jeff was actually well-employed as a doorman in one of those chic hotels on the Upper Eastside. He made at least $700 a week but happy he wasn’t. Now getting by on much free time and very little cash he was still searching for happiness and here was the conundrum. No time but quality paint, no paint but much time – now Jeff was mostly sticking with pastel drawings – they were economical and yet just as successful.

“Sorry!” I genuinely wished to be his friend and seeing him breaking his neck in the midst of a basic hanging routine would have been doubly unfair.

“Alex speaking” grabbing the receiver I quickly re-asserted my Kingdom tone.

“Hi Alex, this is Brooks from the Midtown Professional Ministry. We met a Russian guy here, he does not speak much English and you are the only one we know. Can you help us with some studies?”

“Sure!” Halleluiah! I have found something useful to do! The enthusiasm of the minute overwhelmed me and I barely avoided knocking Jeff’s well-toned body to the merciless hardwood floor once again.


Searching a Profession
Having scheduled a date with Brooks for next week, I had a new great excuse and could ponder my future from some other angles. Looking for a different career sounded the most promising. The basic conclusion was simple. If I inspired to have any future wearing a suit to work I needed to stop referring to my useless Soviet education and start some place else. With not much but my passable English and a reasonably round head to recommend I had to find a niche to dig into.

Wall Street sounded the most promising. After all my Russian friend Misha was prescient when declaring that if “you want to make money, go to where the money is”. He went to work for Dean Witter in the World Trade Centre as a programmer and I wanted to follow his footsteps. Alas programming I could not, so giving another try at the sales gate was a more likely outcome. This time I was wiser though. I knew from my initial failed attempts at becoming a broker and a life insurance agent that working on commissions required nerves of a hippopotamus, and since I had those of a parrot I needed a salary and preferably the one that would not flush down the toilet my current busboy prosperity at $350 per week. I was willing to do anything, especially if it was anywhere close to the mail room, for I had heard that many a fortune originated in the Wall Street mailrooms. I did not know exactly what was so illuminating about the mail room. Whether it was about sorting much mail stuffed with valuable stock certificates, or that one was given much time to muse in the muffed drudgery was unclear. But whatever it was, it surely made one heck of a wise clever fellow who, more often than not, rose to the triumphal dizziness extolled in the Horatio Alger novels. In short I went knocking, perspiring with expectations.

Alas, my meteoric rise up the staircase was just as swift as my slide downwards. This was 1993 and the Wall Street was wallowing in the doldrums of the recent recession. The things were not particularly looking up and since the Wall Street in all its prescience was usually the last one to take notice, there were just too many from Wharton and Yale itching to get into the cold tiled mailroom environs, making my candidacy superfluous.

I brooded, I thought and becoming a programmer seemed like the best option. And even being a Russian did not hurt. After all, the Wall Street was bristling with Russians who beat handily any other ethnicity on per capita averages. If Irish beat those in the pubs, Hispanics did not tolerate the competition as the dish washers, Russian immigrants were the Maggie of key strokes.

The only trouble was that I had hardly ever stroked anything resembling computer keys. There were piano lessons at the age of six but street soccer beat those decisively and with speed. Then there were those computer dinosaurs in the engineering school but they preferred mysterious punch cards to the ergonomics of a regular keyboard. In brief, I am keyless, having to start from scratch. The best place in the Big Apple that managed not only to give the essentials of programming but also to deliver a job was a famed Blucher Computer School. The job hunt was usually successful courtesy of some fake work credentials but I did not care. If I could not get into the mail room fair and square, then the fastidious Wall Street would have to contend with little of my fibbing instead.

Being the provider for the Wall Street key-stroking fodder, the school was appropriately located in the famous neighbourhood with all appropriate accoutrements of the back office heaven: ancient sanitary pipes that refused to respect personal space and gurgled continuously, menacing to burst at the slightest poke; old faded linoleum that glistened with all shades of yellow since its original pre-1929 instalment date; and finally, back office types who forever exhibited the pitiful results of bad dental hygiene and cheap dry cleaners. White shirts and spotless stripes did not belong here as they were reserved for the slick people in the front office. In other words, the place was just perfect for a recent Soviet immigrant. Throw in overheated, even for the typical winter, swirls of air and dust mites plus many a student face betraying nothing but purely Ashkenazi roots – the place was surely a perfect starting block.

And yet I hit a snag early. These folks were ready to be helpful, financially and counterfeiting-ly so, as long I had a green card. I did not have one…

“What?!” the phone on the desk of the dishevelled school advisor just rang.

“There has been a bombing just two blocks from here, in the World Trade Centre!” she exclaimed after a short pause.

“Wow!” I could hardly contain the shock. “I guess I’ll see you later!”

“Sure” replied she running off tripping on her ample Jewish skirt to the next room to spread the news.

“Great!” I thought, at least I can sneak out without having to loose face. Explaining my more than dubious legal situation was always a royal pain in the ass.

The outside exhibited all initial signs of utter mayhem. This was not 9/11 of course and the fateful buildings were still there to stay for another eight years before meeting their ultimate demise. But judging by the desperate fire fighting and police sirens this one was serious enough with first ashen faced survivors filing out through the emergency exits. Amazing, this was history in the making and I just could not resist a bit of gawking. This was just like in the movies – whoa, there was much to tell, especially to the heat up the inspiring director juices under the wings of Colin, anything to keep my final reckoning at bay for another day.


Back to Present - Ali’s Universe
The tanks were moving into the combative positions in the middle of a bridge, their tracks shredding the pavement and their guns slowly tuning into their main target – a large white building with a prominent piece of insignia on the very top. Wait a minute; I have seen this place before. Oh my, this was the White House, the Parliament Building of the Russian Federation, the site of the famous Yeltsin’s triumph over the hapless Communist Coup. This was just two years ago, now the roles have been completely reversed as the tanks were shelling the elected representatives into the full submission at the behest of the inebriated and clueless president – Mr. Yeltsin.

I was watching the latest live CNN coverage in Dock’s, very happy to be here instead of witnessing firsthand the disintegration of order back home. Yes, I still thought of Russia as home although it was no more as my native land was now separate and independent. To what end? I struggled to understand, but was it really that much calmer in the Big Apple? Hardly, as the place was still buzzing with all the latest about the World Trade Centre bombing. Indeed, the world was becoming very intriguing…

“Alex! Two more cappuccinos and espresso!” shouted somebody on the floor, shaking my off my contemplative stupor. My fingers went tirelessly to work, churning up a couple of superb creations with snowy tops that could rival Everest. I was once again in the happy coffee nook and my head was floating happily in the tranquility of the Ali’s universe. This was great. And I just kept carrying my normal conversation, with Paul the Gay Yale Actor this time. The heat of the recruitment drive was off momentarily so I could indulge in all things mundane and simple.

“You know, all of this sucks!” growled he with a couple of Martini glasses dancing precariously close to the edge of his tray.

“What are you talking about?” I had just turned abruptly to load up the rest of his burden with my newly minted creations. At least now, the tray looked a bit more balanced.

“Well, you know. We all went to school somewhere, we all wanted to be somebody and all I get to do is this, serving bleeding fish to some drunks on the expense account” defeated was an understatement of what he sounded like.

“What happened?” My mind was still facing my distraught friend, while my back turned 180 - a new batch of cappuccino was getting a first layer of its thick chignon.

“I went to an audition for that stupid movie, the same one Nicholas (another handsome and surprisingly straight waiter) went to. At least he got three days worth of scenes, I got nothing. What’s my Masters worth? Dick!” he rushed off with his order, pissed and smiling – as usual.

“Well, do not despair there will be another show and another film” my index finger was nudging yet another cappuccino under the milky hot shower, as my back felt his soon return.

“And then what? More of this bloody fish again…”

“Poor Paul” sighed I. “Poor Me!” I just about scolded my hand at the thought, nearly releasing my grip on the Ali’s universe. “This is all the same for everyone; we think that this is just temporary. One month, two max. But then it’s years and decades. We are just like that fish except it is not going to be Brian to rip us open and fry…”

Suddenly staying even another minute, making my twenty by the hot kitchen was no fun anymore. Searching a way out was to become of utmost priority. Out of Docks, out of the Kingdom, both undertakings were going to require some inordinate effort.

From that day on, I was all activity. I signed up for a night computer course at Baruch and went searching for a different job in the meanwhile. I tried anything, or nearly so. Once I responded to a secretary placement agency where they decided to subject me to a Windows proficiency test since it figured as an acquired skill on my resume. What they did not take into consideration was grammar, since the word “proficient” really meant “ready to learn”. Once in front of the computer, I gazed into the exercise sheets with my comprehension nearing that of the Chinese. I was truly stumped. To escape, I requested a short bathroom break. They might still be waiting for me to finish the test...

After the Windows fiasco, I came across an opportunity to work for something or somebody Japanese. After all, I had taken a whole semester in the mysterious tongue. Upon arriving they very unexpectedly gave me test in math. I passed with absolutely flying colours. My examiner was startled to discover first human computer. Alas, I needed many more than one semester to get the job so somebody or something Japanese was doomed to use a calculator for the rest of his/its days.

With my computing proves proven, I even responded to an advertisement by some shady Korean Bank searching for foreign exchange traders. What did I know about the FX – precisely and sweetly F all. But they did not require the knowledge of their tongue and appeared satisfied with my blue suit. The hiring lady with a strong Seoul accent framed in a shiny designer knock-off exclaimed that I was the first to be hired in a long, long time. I was delighted to know it, particularly considering the fact that the waiting room was filled to the brim with a number of prospects with actual financial degrees. They were yet to be interviewed but I was safe, running away with the weighty prize.

The latter felt a bit like a conundrum as I was not assured of any salary. Instead, my lot was going to be fed with pure commissions. But this had to wait since I had not acquired any clients and not passed some regulatory tests. Given the obvious constraints, my employment arrangement appeared a little loose. What to do next appeared to be difficult question. This was made ever more complex since the trading floor was exclusively populated by many young people in suits and gelled hair. They did not disperse advice except for a fee and my lady in the knock-off kept incessantly occupied by the ceaseless stream of new interviewees. I decided to learn by observing. It turned out that almost all of my new co-workers, outside of occasional expletive laden remarks at the personal FX screens, did nothing but shark for clients and drink black coffee all day. After a couple of hours it became clear that I’d better came here between my Dock’s shifts, whiffing in with trails of fish oil and anchovies. After a few intense days of gazing at the D-Mark/USD screens and making few pretend bets with varying success I realized that my well-polished colleagues with Long Island accents wrapped up in folds of flashy polyester suits knew precisely F all about the FX. Their only edge was the long lists of dentists, proctologists and other folks who dealt in cavities. I did not have such a list and so after departing on one of my bathroom breaks, I never returned. I hope they are still waiting.

In other words, I had to be patient…

Dream Builders – Earthly Paradise
The new opportunity to unshackle was soon presented right in the Kingdom. Once, while about the Kingdom business, where meeting new and surprising characters was never in short supply, I came across Ricardo. There were usual introductions, back-slapping and brotherly hugs but it was just a part of the brassy routine and nothing more, since Ricardo just did not strike me as somebody all that promising. Having just few post-high school years and an innocent smile, Ricardo was polite and almost timid with hardly anything in particular to recommend him - the Upper Manhattan neighbourhood where he grew up was replete with his way more flamboyant Puerto Rican relatives. I even felt a little sad for my new bro, really. It took him a while to figure out what had exactly hit him just few weeks ago when he was summarily dunked with few other brave souls in front of thousands during one of our grandiose monthly Javits Centre services.

Among those who took to the stage with him was Julia, Ricardo’s girlfriend, whom he must have dated since the high school. All seemed just perfect as both souls entered the new realm holding hands together Well, it was not to be since the Kingdom only approved of the couples that had either already been married, even if on the outside, or those that had been specifically sanctioned by leadership to date and engage on the inside. Julia and Ricardo were not married, so all those years spent together were not something the Kingdom looked favourably upon. With the couple successfully broken up to benefit our dating pool, I felt a tinge of personal pain for Ricardo in his well-pressed 34th Avenue suits and sharp razor touches. What a pity, they looked so suited together just like too doves perching on the precipitous cornice – romantic but…

Oh well, I could not dwell on it since it was clear that meek Ricardo was just not the kind to stay around for too long. And if I wanted to stay off the radar screen on his account, the best I could do was smile. The bigger my surprise could not have been when one day, out of the blue, Ricardo had invited me to attend a “business meeting”. Apparently this was to be a great opportunity to get involved into something from the ground up. The opportunity promised grand returns for all those persistent. It sounded familiar but I just could not put my finger on it. It also had a name “Dream Builders”, alluding to something wonderfully realisable and fluffy – money!

I was immediately interested since my days amidst tuna and couscous looked ever less appealing. I pressed Ricardo for details but he persistently remained elusive, insisting on the “ground floor” and a nice pair of sufficiently pressed business trousers who always wore. The first meeting with my perspective destiny was scheduled in the Ramada Inn, right across the Madison Square Garden. I knew the surroundings very well, having spent months in the vicinity: first shuffling the pavement in search of employment and then skipping along in search of bargains. And these were many among on the bazaar like sidewalks that dispensed affordable wing tipped shoes and cheap underwear with hardly a smile and certainly with no warranty.

I was even well aware of the carpet smell that beset the hotel that might have had some class in the long-gone past. Now, however, the establishment was clearly struggling with senility of the drab old real estate that gave Manhattan that Gotham City look. The attempts to keep it up with many a renovation usually did not amount to more than a couple fresh paint smudges here and there. Changing large patriotic banners and foyer red carpets was always a better bet that was followed with some staunch religiosity. Who cared if you had cockroaches in your bathrooms? As long as the front entrance was adorned with an oversized Stars Spangled Banner - all was splendid in the projected prosperity – right? Indeed, this was no Hyatt and if any repeating customer dared to show up again in their old dirty buses with mud-splashed Kentucky license plates, they did not pursue anything called “class”, I assure you.

So hip-hop and a scotch and there I was in my only presentable pair of Soviet trousers tapering below some inherited old shirt with a three-dollar tie that persisted in bearing the grizzly signs of some unfortunate and well-forgotten dinner. Even with the time to spare, thick human clouds by the entrance were swirling impenetrably on my way to a large conference hall. I barely made my way up to the mezzanine level. I guessed as long one called it a “mezzanine level”, expecting a certain level of La Scala sophistication was a given. No, not really.

A high ceiling meeting room awash in bland white pastille was no match for the famed operatic venue either. On the other hand it was more than replete with brimless energy that seemed poised even to burn if not careful. Ricardo, prim and snug in his latest crème fashions, was shining with a boundless brilliance. I had never seen him so happy. Always sombre and respectful in the Kingdom confines, his Dream Builders personality was nearly a complete reversal. He was not alone. Surrounded by a bevy of no less glittering companions, it all screamed fraternal success – One for All and All for One. If this was Dream Builders were like then I was in. Almost predictably and despite a strong desire to retain a low profile, I was passed from one hand shake to the next as if soaring above the crowd above the myriad of fixated eyes exceedingly filled with myrrh – “I am number one!” I had seen this before somewhere and yet I could not resist. At least for a moment I could feel like a million dollars. For only a moment though. Next I knew we had to rush to our seats, for the meeting was about to start and all effulgent emotions immediately transformed into a solid mass of rapt attention.

All rudders turned to the stage in the possession of some middle aged gentleman in a double-breasted suit and a pair of solid business shoes whose shine immediately threatened my retina. And yet I could not look away, this was it and my dreams were about to come true as the speaker commanded the audience with help of a well-polished chalk board. What was it for? I did not know and did not dare asking either – all eyes stopped batting, hearts ceased pounding and even healthy livers took their break from straining.

“I was born in Jersey, just across the river, hopefully most of you know where it is” - rolls of laughter loosened some initial tension as the gentleman in shiny shoes went on.

“I grew up in a classic middle class family, you know, nice lawn, two cars and a big honking TV. This was quite a thing then. My mother stayed home and my father went to work. He worked in the City and hardly ever came home before 8PM, and he even frequently worked on Saturdays. At home my mother was mostly left alone, chasing me and my two sisters all day long. Do not give me wrong, it was a wonderful way to grow up but we never saw our father, sometimes I wondered even if I knew who he rally was. Even when at home on holidays and weekends, we had hard time relating to one another” the gentleman paused for a well-deserved sip of water.

“When the time came to go college, I missed my home, my sisters, my mother but not my father. I just did not know exactly who he was and even if he even cared about me. He was just an object of the household, like a chair or something” this followed by another refreshing sip.

Where he was going and what any of it had to do with the “ground-level” opportunity puzzled me but not for too long as the answer turned out to be simple. It was the concept of “time” or rather the lack of it. “When my father finally retired I got a chance to spend some quality time with him. He turned out to be a terrific fellow. He was into fishing, camping and baseball. Why could not he do it twenty years before? Well, at least my children could have fun the grandpa. Tragically, much of it was unfulfilled as my father passed away just days short of his three year retirement anniversary” few drops of water just spilled on his emotionally shiny shoes and many a tear glistened across the audience of young, sharp and well-dressed. I felt a bit dry in the mouth – “I have this before somewhere but where?”

“…surely he enjoyed good fortunes much of his career, but was it worth it? He had enough money and possessions to fill in more than one house but no time to enjoy it. All he did during his life was simply exchange his time, almost all of it, for money” the shoe was dry and back in a splendid stage-walking form.

Of course, this was so obvious! The society had taught us that the only way to make it was by exchanging our time, our lives and ultimately our souls. This rigid system had been so efficient of robbing us of all that precious time that even when we dared demanding more time it just simply threw more money to quench the problem. Time was just too valuable to give away. This was a veritable Catch 22. And there were only three ways to get out of it – find rich relatives, win a lottery or leverage your efforts. And here was the punch line, it had to have been, as all my co-inhalers took one deep breath – “here it comes!”

But how does one leverage his efforts? The answer was as unexpected as trivial. It did not include any of the prohibitively expensive dentist marketing lists or more affordable other “work at home” schemes that constantly polluted the printed press. No, the presenter did not pull out a simple “Make Your Baseball Cards at Home” shtick at few hundred bucks per kit. No, instead the gentlemen in the double breasted suit produced an inanimate cardboard box that revealed nothing but tooth paste, detergent and soap – really!

Hardly anybody around seemed surprised. More so, the audience gradually came to life by betraying an intimate familiarity with the world of cleanliness and toiletries – “that’s where Ricardo gets his killer clean cut looks” I slapped myself silly. Forget about Proctor and Gamble, this was it! My mouth was already gaping for more of the wondrous products that were simply unheard of the corporate confines of Wall-Marts and Walgreens. These beauties came some little town lost amidst the dusty industrial wreck otherwise known as a state of Michigan. The price was definitely right as for less than a hundred bucks I would not just receive the mesmerising cure of all my inadequacies but also become the member of this exclusive club of sharp razors and divinely soothing soap.

I was warm and ready when the gentleman in the double breasted suit made a pivotal 180 towards his chalk board. Surprisingly, the magic soap box was left as if discarded just to be quickly shuffled away by the dutiful stage attendants. Now, the mathematics became the primary subject of every one’s attention. Smiles and nods accelerated to such a degree as to threaten many with early arthritis and stinging whiplash. I surreptitiously looked over to Ricardo, to see how he was doing. My new comrade appeared completely transformed as his nearly angelic face shone with heavenly white “Moses and Elijah could not be too far” I pondered smiling. His dark black eyes were fixated like those of Peter and his mouth gaped in utter readiness to say something really stupid. Luckily, he was kind of a silent Peter.

The scribbles on the black board multiplied with each passing moment. So did the potential earnings of all those lucky to be on to this “entry level” opportunity. Flabbergasted as I was, a new peculiar way to introduce various levels of the organizational success could not escape my attention. The gentleman in the double breasted suit used names of precious stones to delineate one’s progression up the ladder of command here. I started hearing something about rubies, emeralds and diamonds. The highest was the diamond, of course, and our presenter inevitably hailed from this exclusive club of paste and suds. I could not possibly imagine being anywhere near a diamond unless I have put in my time. But something called a direct distributor was well within an almost immediate reach that nobody in the audience had any wherewithal to withstand.

To confirm the proximity of the sweet pinnacle and sweep aside any resistive stupidity of even the most paranoid sceptics, the gentleman in double breasted suit turned to the most exciting part of his shtick – a multicolour slide show. Hundreds of fainting gasps and exclamations worthy of an Elvis’ concert rumbled all over like mighty peals of sheer ecstasy. Seeing was definitely believing and exciting images of red sports cars, sprawling adobe mansions and happy rosy cheeked kids with oversized lolly pops smoothly rolled to the drumbeat of some uplifting tunes. I had heard these before. Gradually my senses were filled to the brim with happy and motivating thoughts of the glorious future, Ricardo’s eyes wistfully glistened with tears and one of his crème suited associates held his hand on his chest in a silent salute.

The magic that had just transpired on the screen was simply unsurpassed as one did not have to do anything but jump, twirl and pivot in the eternal ether of bliss. Forget about selling. The scheme did not require any of that - just convincing. After all, the magic factory, back in Michigan, provided a direct link to the goodies, jettisoning the very useless and greedy middle man. America hated the middle man, and here was the recipe of his final demise. The deal was just so good, it was impossible to pass up even for the giants of the industry who clamoured to access this huge growing pie of prosperity. Forget about Wal-Marts and corner stores, IKEAs and Sport Authority – the power of direct buying was laid bare in front of our eyes.

Do not even think about the arduous task of going head-to-head with Coca-Cola. In this scheme Coca-Cola came to you, begging to sell their addictive wares to all those friends of yours. What friends? The very ones you brought to the meeting. Just change their habits, teach them to go to your store and, in turn, teach the others to do the same. Right, but how in the world I was going to get that many friends? After all if the locally grown Ricardo was still looking for more where was I with my church only friends? The church, precisely! I already had my market stall! After all, everybody still needed tooth paste and soap, and according to the gentleman in the double breasted suit, I only needed six converts. Once signed, all I had to do was to teach them how to find their own six. Other than that the path from rags to riches was wide open. Barely three turnovers of the six-member iteration promised to deliver me right into the veritable nirvana of unlimited time, money and happiness. I was in awe. Besides, this simple and attainable technique required no initial investment (other than a hundred bucks for the magic box), promised many instant friends and even availed one of certain tax benefits (a piece of good news confidently whispered by Ricardo on the “very good authority”).

I was sold and was soon receiving many a hand-slap of my newly found associates who were ready to spread into all five boroughs of New York with the ferocity of the biblical locust - all in the name of riches for all. Happy with the magic black board math, I could not be happier when we finally started filing out into the foyer amidst inextinguishable exuberance of future riches. Amidst the deafening din of frantic chatter and clapping day timers (this was before the PDA revolution) my path to the exit became unexpectedly compromised by a large table that featured the gentleman in the double breasted suit. While I pictured him still back in the auditorium, helping the most enthusiastic to finally find the exit door, he must have sneaked backstage to ensure precisely the opposite.

While the path to happiness lead through toothpaste tubes and bars of soap, the gentleman in the double breasted suit was now prominently featured behind a simple rectangular table that featured nothing but a seriously worn satin red table cloth adorned with yellow tassels. It was taxed to the brim with books, tapes and more books. The trade was brisk and breathless. Our diamond, and his faithful attendants, could hardly keep up with the flow of the happy Whovillites who nabbed at anything that moved. It was watching feeding of piranhas. At one point I even feared for the old Communist red of the table cloth with yellow tassels. Fortunately, it was spared the last time I checked before rushing through the first possible opening in the crowd, slithering away from Ricardo’s weakening grip that even he could not maintain amidst the emotional whirlwind.

“I’ll see you in the church!” I yelled, hopeful that my voice could slide over the sleek hairspray runways of the milling associates with an ease of a paper plane. Yes, he heard, lifting his thumb above the crowd.

Now, being a prudent sort, I wanted to taste an appetite of those close to me. I was dying to know whether they held any deep admiration for well-discounted paste and soap.

“Hey Jeff, want to save on your soap and toothpaste I have a great idea!” I exclaimed rushing through the door.

Jeff sort of looked at me as if half mad “Do I need to?”

“Well, we can just buy a whole bunch for the household, in bulk” I always felt that Jeff was a little too careless when it came to his penniless budget.

“I do not use that much. What is this about?” a slight smirk passed his chiselled visage.

“I was introduced to this opportunity to bypass the middle man, right from the factory…” I was already presenting despite a stark absence of the double breasted silver suit.

“This is AMWAY, isn’t it? Do not waste your time. Trust me, I know. By the way Jody called” he remarked casually. Jody! Of course, I had to call back and report my numbers.

“Great! Today I would not have any issues as I have just met more young, smart and sharp than the whole church combined! It does not even matter if I double-dip with Ricardo. He is in the different bible talk anyway!” I thought with exhilaration of a narrow escape as my sanguinity quickly turned into a flaccid indifference. Jeff was not sceptical often but if he was then what? Yea, it was warm and cuddly here, especially before Colin came home. Who really wanted to go back into the cold outside to sell the blasted toothpaste dream? No. I’ll stay here…


Russians to the Rescue - Caught!
His scuffed-up leather jacket had seen better times. Its colour was no longer hard to attribute to just one descriptor. While decidedly black and shiny under the collar and around the shoulders, the colouring became unquestionably sketchy in other locations. Around the pockets the leathery surface was no longer smooth. On the contrary, it was crinkled and burrowed, struggling to conceal the light grey lining. Elbows, button holes and collar did not fare much better, betraying all sorts of decaying grey. The greasy edges were interrupted by a well-worn pair of jeans. And its collar revealed a thin chicken neck of the jacket owner. The neck appeared struggling to remain straight, as if stretching on its own toes. And yet it was nearly in vain since Leonid, as the jacket owner was called, hardly managed to surpass 5’5’’ even when helped with an errant, flapping in the wind, hair strand. With air pausing still, all such nefarious strands usually settled on a balding visage that refused to grant its owner a day under forty five.

This was my new charge who was snagged by the industrious Brooks somewhere in the midtown Manhattan weeks ago. Brooks was from the Midtown Professional Ministry and it showed. The Midtown Professional Ministry met at nights, unlike the penniless Performing Arts, and comprised a thicker level of folks who actually earned salary and even bonuses. The overall result was not only the rifer amount of neckties and clean white shirts, but also straighter, more self-assured, postures. Brother Brooks could not have been a better representative of it and could not have served a bigger contrast to Leonid. After all, he took cabs and Leonid drove them.

Leonid was an illegal with a status even below mine. At least I, a direct Soviet export, had a hope of an asylum one day. He did not. Having spent few years in Israel, and already in possession of a decent passport with a Menorah on it, his claims of prosecution would have to pretty well best those of Asser Arafat to have any success. So the only avenue he had was to apply directly for a green card since his sister was already a US citizen. Alas, this process was just taking too long and itching Leonid decided that sneaking in on a tourist visa would give him enough life experiences to lessen the ultimate shock of moving. For now, he straddled two worlds and was more or less comfortable with it. His grown daughter was already in the States living with the aunt and going to school. His ex had already transferred her affections on another male back in Israel thus his life here was simple, simple enough.

Do not give me wrong, although simple, easy it was not. Leonid still had to feed himself and driving a cab in Manhattan was just about the best he could come up with. And an entirely pleasurable piece of bread it was not. He worked just about any ungodly hour, always paying strictly into the owners pocket first. Then came the gas and other incidentals. Only after six of seven hours in the traffic meat grinder of Manhattan was Leonid finally in the position to eke out a very modest personal living. His heavily mutilated English did not make matters easier and the new sedentary life style was only good for all things contemplative. Leonid liked to ponder and reckon. At least that was what they taught him in the Soviet University where his major was not stunt driving but math.

Amidst one of his contemplative idylls, God brought Leonid in the presence of Brooks who is the process of doing some heavy lifting of the recruitment campaign. Brooks, a respectable bible talk leader, could not resist. I do not know if he dropped a tip, but dropping the word he did and few days later Leonid was ready for some real bites of the biblical reality, the Boston Church of Christ version of reality.

During their second meeting it became apparent to Brooks that since his godly gifts did not include that one of the beautiful Russian language, he needed help and pronto. Surprisingly there was real dearth of the Russian recruits; I guess the bloody Communism managed to poison us with enough worldly scepticism after all. Brooks was at a loss for action until my name came out of hat. I still would like to find out whose.

“Nice to meet you, Leonid, my name is Sasha (Alex in Russian)” I enthusiastically stretched my hand towards all shades of his leather jacket. It was like the magic Technicolor Coat for colour blind.

“Sasha, thank you for coming; I met Brooks few weeks ago but my English is that great. I hope you can help” he cracked a friendly smile beset by a haphazard collection of teeth badly in the need of a dentist.

“Absolutely! Although I do not even know where to begin” I felt calm with Leonid. And it was not the language, it was his sincerity.

“Well, when in Israel I met some Christians. They helped me with the Bible readings and I went to their congregation a few times. You know in Israel there are not that many of them, so I was lucky to come across that group. I lived near Tel-Aviv and worked in the suburb of Jerusalem, so the commute was a bit of a nightmare. Working six days a week did not help a bit. But I tried to read the Bible whenever I could” he quietly recounted.

“Are you a Christian?!” getting to the point was one of our trademarks and letting in Brooks first would have diminished my disciple points.

“I do not know what this means exactly, but I do believe that Jesus is the Israel’s Messiah and the Son of God” Leonid replied, smiling disarmingly.

“Great! Did brooks tell you about our church?” I vigorously proceeded. Brooks was just nodding his head mindlessly. Isn’t it great to be in charge even if for just a moment!

“Yea, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. He told me about your church and I thought it would be great to come to your services. I sort of miss it, after leaving Israel more than three months ago. Jake tried to explain, but it is often hard for me to get what he is saying. I went to some of your services in the Midtown. It was great. The singing and praying was very heart-warming, I just could wait to learn more…”

“Is he interested in the Bible studies?” Brooks interjected excitedly, flipping open his disciple day timer – a true sign of an organized Kingdom leader.

“I think so.” Honestly, I felt like punching Brooks’ happy clean face.

Here was the guy who was probably a Christian by just about any measure except those of the Church of Christ. Apostles would have been happy to see Leonid in their ranks on that fateful Pentecost day. Leonid was open, sincere and even courageous since seeking out the truth about Christ in the modern state of Israel could be problematic. Particularly in the eyes of one’s peers, especially Soviet-born peers who are all too frequently prone to racism and xenophobia. In their ranks, equating Jesus with worst sins against the Jewish race is an established and undisputable fact. And yet we were not satisfied. Alas, I was of no help and had to go along to preserve my own hide if nothing else.

A series of bible studies ensued with at a ferocious pace and I had to be available in all hours of the day and night to accommodate Brooks’ and Leonid’s schedules. At first, everything proceeded according to the script. Leonid did not have many objections to the deity of Christ or his utterances regarding his Kingdom. Brooks was triumphant in anticipation of a new notch on his resume. I was delighted just well – Colin was off my back and my general Kingdom standing was on an upsurge.

Unfortunately, the smooth sailing towards somebody’s bathtub (the only place aside from putrid East River to baptise in Manhattan) hit a snag. Leonid turned out to be just as sceptical as the next Soviet. We were raised that way. Not in the school, of course, where we were fed with the daily propaganda diet. It happened on the street, in our jokes and around our kitchen tables. Consummate lovers of all conspiracy theories, the Soviets learned to mock the official line quite adroitly. The octogenarian dribble of our previous rulers made it all that funnier, producing not only edgy anecdotes but a whole generation of professional sceptics. Most of it had to do with politics of course.

This time the wrangle had a different, theological spin. The issue was the unique place of the Boston Church of Christ in the course of history. The exclusivity of salvation that came only through its baptismal rites was hard enough to swallow. But when the salvation was explicitly denied to the stalwarts of the world church ranging from St. Francis of Assisi to Martin Luther and onto Mother Theresa one had to really suspend all disbelief to remain a worthy disciple. Leonid, not yet tied up and connected in the Kingdom’s web, resisted admirably. He reasonably asked the same questions out loud that I carefully hid from anybody to see (with exception of Jody). And yet instead of feeling a sense of camaraderie with Leonid, I was getting pissed off and irritated.

I really did not like myself then all that much. I was growing exceedingly conflicted and numb. On the one hand I wanted to be a good boy in the Kingdom books, on the other I did no longer believe in the many things our leaders did or said. And since I was doing my translating for Brooks just for the sake of a check mark I could hardly wait for it to end. Believing that Leonid’s destiny, earthly or celestial, would change either way was no longer an important question. He was already a Christian in my books. His fate was not going to be decided by either Yes or No to the Kingdom. His conversion had already been decided by his Yes to Jesus. But I, feeling trapped, did not want to let on. Instead I just wished HE HAD STOPPED RESISTING!

Was it a case of cognitive dissonance on my part? This is for others to determine. But in the meantime it was not a pretty picture. Brooks was struggling, Leonid kept asking and I was boiling inside and out. Had it not been for Brooks’ decorum, it could have come to a fist fight more than once. It seemed endless. Finally, as if taking some mute clue from my painfully puckered face, Leonid gave in and was promptly baptised in the same bathtub as I did. What a relief for me and the check marks for many. Triumphant phone calls were promptly made to announce yet another newborn, Arthur boomed his congrats, Colin’s smile threatened to crack open his face and Jody gave me a brotherly hug. Tremendous!

What followed afterwards mattered little as Leonid, pressured by his expiring visa, waved good-by never to be seen or heard from again. Whatever his personal consequences and however common his tale, bro brooks and I were forever inked into the annals of the tireless and worthy. From now on, my translating fame was spreading quickly throughout the Kingdom. After all, former Soviets were many and converts among them were few. I loved at least for now. It was as if I had mysterious side business that Colin could not divine as long as I showed up religiously to all those translating sessions and did not cause all that much havoc.

As with Leonid, the story of Jesus resonated with just about anyone and how could it not. Jesus was the most mysterious part of whatever all Soviets missed growing up. This was a true testament to what Bolsheviks had wrought. In the West, most had at least some vague notion of who the Christ was supposed to be. In the USSR, his name sounded just as foreign as Bugs Bunny. So when out of the clutches of totalitarianism, we often were hungry to find out just about anything and everything. This alone did not make one a Christian but it surely served as a sure opening line.

The more ambivalent the better and so the translational muddles came extremely handy. For what would have taken five minutes to clue into the cultic nature of the Kingdom for an English speaking person, took days for a Russian one. Russians also liked to argue to boot, so the concoction was explosive in its ability to eat up time. Now I was travelling throughout Metropolitan New York on my translating assignments. Westchester, Brooklyn and Jersey City – I was getting exhausted. None wanted to convert and yet everyone loved the comfort of a company, especially Brooks’ company. I was getting really tired of his effulgent visage and constant phone reminders of yet another meeting. Suddenly, I realized that having eased my way out of the Colin’s clutches, I was caught AGAIN!


Engagement
AGAIN! In an utter desperation I even wished to be tighter to the Colin’s circle again. What a suicidal idea and yet it came to be that way one day.

“Alex bro, we have not been in touch for ages it seems. I guess living under one roof does not make friends” he smiled amicably – one had to be on alert.

“Yea, you are right. Want to hang out?” I smiled my widest – the best defence. At least, the lack of enthusiasm was not going to be the sin du jour that was worthy of rigorous expiation.

“You know Sue and I have been going steady for more than six months now. We have really grown really close. She is just a terrific gal and a committed disciple. In short, I am going to propose in a couple of days” Colin shared, nearly whispering for better effect.

“Wow, tremendous! How are you going to do that?” I pretended to care as I was nearly intimidated by Sue as by her boyfriend.

“We are going on the date the day after tomorrow, a picnic on the West Side. I am going to bring everything – food, champagne and a ring. She is going to open the basket and find it herself! But to arrange all this I need to get a particular ring from my grandparents in Philadelphia. This is a family heirloom and I would like to propose, giving it to her. I think this was the wedding ring of my great grandmother.” His eyes glistened sentimentally as put his right hand softly on my left shoulder in a gesture of brotherly confidence.

“Do you want to go together?” I could not resist the advance, wagging my tail as Bob (“What about Bob?”) at the slightest of provocations by the beloved Doctor Marvin.

“That’s exactly what I head in mind!” he exclaimed – at least for once I managed to fit into his mood. I was ready to skip like a half-mad dog in the caressing rays of the summer sun. Besides, I could not resist a trip out of the Big Apple clutches.

Engagement?! Hey, this was one of those exciting and yet private events that usually escape the gazes of all, save for family and close friends. In the Kingdom it was as public as the Luis the XIV morning sit-ins on the “siege perce”. The rigour of this public dating game with multiple partners was so confusing for many that finding a steady date was a miracle in and of itself. By the way, this was celebrated too if nothing else for the benefit of others to strike out a name or two from the dating rosters. But “going steady” was just the beginning. Though while a de-facto engagement, the commitment had to proceed with a considerable degree of pomp and decorum. It had to last at least a few months, both (and I mean BOTH) partners had to demonstrate considerable spiritual maturity and leadership, both had to receive an explicit blessing of their disciplers and an implicit of those in the leadership before advancing to the next level.

In this intricate dance, nothing was beyond the purview of the chiefs. Mild kissing were allowed at the “going steady” stage, breast exams and anything heavier had to be deferred until marriage although I had a suspicion that some had hard time resisting the edict. Once in the wedlock, everything was legal. In exchange, the partners never regained their full privacy as nothing even the sex life in its most intimate details was out of bounds of enquiry. Not surprisingly, an engagement announcement was inevitably greeted as if the queen had just delivered a male hair – with hoorays. It was almost bullet proof and the leadership loved it. No unworthy couple, who based their decisions strictly along the selfish lines of love, platonic or physical, ever got this far. In fact when perceived as detrimental to each others’ spirituality, some couples were made to break up as to avoid any later embarrassment if nothing else. The leadership was not to lose face and this was final.

Once sanctioned though, the engagement rites could take the most unusual forms in the effort to best the next guy. The girl was just waiting and ageing, the guy was to be the perfect rescuer of virginity in all his splendour. The Kingdom, headed by few flamboyant personalities, did not seem to mind the extravagance of the spotlight – personal or communal. In fact, the more the better, so when the 20/20 ran a lengthy piece on our antics all rejoiced – “This was the confirmation of the Divine”. Forget that Larry King and his copy cats loved to interview religious radicals almost daily, “We showed our stuff” and this was paramount. All were expected to love the exposure. After all, we were not just some backward bunch of religious zealots. No, not at all, we were young, sharp and “sold-out”. So when it came to important occasions, all caution and care were thrown into the winds of happy adventure. Happy to-be-fiancés climbed, vaulted and parachuted into well-choreographed cut-outs of the unworldly bliss. No expense was spared, as long as the special contribution still took precedence that was.

I remember how just few weeks into my new life in the Kingdom I witnessed my first engagement spectacle. She, aged and unsuspecting, had waited long enough and yet surprise was beyond any written word could do justice to. He, aged and cavalier, had mounted a real horse, rode it a block or two right into the Times Square in a full medieval regalia that included an oversized breastplate, a pair of very tight shoes, a lance complimented with some ancient pistol that bristled with fake jewels and a certain degree of menace. Had the ATF (Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms) been on the scene they would have surely arrested the chap. Fortunately for him, they were away fighting David Koresh back in Waco so the job of arresting his advances was entirely left up to her, if she could resist. But this was really out of the question. How could she say anything but “Yes” when presented with an oversized ring and a blessing of their discipling partners? No, there was not battle to be waged other the one of one up-man-ship.

Not to be outdone, few more extravagant proposals followed in quick succession. One particular one was especially memorable since it featured a prominent New York evangelist named Jim and his fiancée of some muted Broadway fame. Jim, a man of deeds and aplomb, was not in the position to settle for mediocre given his relatively unremarkable income or at least what was rumoured of it. So instead of a horse, Jim hired a whole helicopter crew, set a date in the middle of the Central Park and fashioned a largish “Will You Marry Me” banner sized to clothe a smallish village in Punjab. The outcome was as soppy as it was famous with Jim devoting at least 1.0 of an entire sermon to the vainglorious happening.

With all these stories, it is needless to say that my surprise at the Colin’s plan to demure from the public eye on the joyous occasion was profound. Was he uncertain in her “Yes”? Hardly, I was sure he had already cleared with the higher ups. Was she under suspicion of anything else other than the most ardent love for him? No way! She treated Colin as if he was the last virile hope of the impotent humanity. Sure, she retained some independence and she should have. She ran her own women’s group, was outspoken as usual and paranoid of the subway system as always (she was claustrophobic of the underground and preferred cabs instead). But otherwise, she was the most committed girl friend a disciple could ever dream of. I was certainly puzzled, until…

“Alex, you know, I would like to tell you about my wedding plans” Colin volunteered, wiping off the myrrh of fatigue – this was after eleven at night and we had just crossed the Hudson. After a whole day of navel gazing Colin was ripe for something really sentimental.

“I would like to make it a grand, formal event” he proceeded solemnly. I tried to perk my ears, just as fatigued after a day of shoving dirty dishes.

“I have already found a venue I think, it is really close to NYU and is something truly unique. Magnificently set in the turn of the century brick, the place used to be something of a warehouse. But now, recently remodelled, it is just perfect for an all-tux event. Would it not be great to have a wedding with a message? My father and my family would be simply blown away”

“Yea, this is great!” I was struggling to stay awake.

“And Sue’s family and friends. You know she grew up in Long Island and she could invite many from her pre-NYU days. I have already asked Jim (the helicopter guy) to officiate. I am envisioning also a mixed seating arrangement with brothers and sisters witnessing to the rest. What a great evangelistic idea, do not you think?” I figured Colin was going to fill up his stats for at least a couple of months – a terrific plan to avoid hard street slog.

I could not agree more when entertained by the toxic refinery lights that illuminated the whole of eastern New Jersey like an NHL arena. The iridescent glow of the moment was just mesmerising. One toll, two tolls, three tolls... One needed to do left arm curls quite regularly just to get through the day here on the Turnpike.

“And you, one day you will find somebody you want to spend the rest of your life with. God will bless you as long as you stay true to the Kingdom. Would it be great to have little Posoukhs running around?” Colin was just bathing in the newly found Romanticism.

“Wait, wait! Where are we?” my friend sounded a little alarmed. We had just finished a nocturnal victory lap around the grand monuments of the old capital. All around was glinting with sparkling prosperity and how could it be otherwise – we were swinging right through the cradle of the American civilization. Suddenly, instead of a highway leading to his grandparents’ home Colin’s upscale jeep ended up amidst utterly derelict ruins that could compete with Frankfurt or Dresden circa 1944. Although there was no one around, the streets looked eerily threatening. Scraps of strewn garbage, kicked-in doorways and windows with barely a strap of cloth to guarantee minimal privacy – all pointed to some obvious mistake in our navigational plans.

Colin, covered in ghostly paleness, made few very abrupt and undoubtedly life saving manoeuvres. I had never seen anybody making his escape so fast outside of the Hollywood productions. Colin, whatever his film director future held, was already well-read in various stunt techniques. Few frightening moments of being white in black America later, and we were gathering our breath once again. Not a window opened, a door creaked or a human being sighted. No indeed, the primordial fear of American race relations did not need any of that, as long the glaring economics were present enough, especially in the shade of the Constitution Hall.

Few minutes later and two happy travellers were hungrily slurping a nice cup of tea with home-made biscuits in the neighbourhood with real curtains and tended flower beds. What a change just a short drive could bring? Colin’s grandparents turned out to be a delightful old couple somewhere in their seventies. I had not known that they were first generation immigrants from Austria, so nothing had prepared me for the shock of their accents. Not that it was all that impossible to have an accent even after forty years in the county. No at all, but this just did not fit into the Colin’s patrician manners, his refinements, his vaunted Columbia education and Pilgrim ethics. How could it? These warm welcoming folks should have been my grandparents instead and yet I had to reconcile my senses to the reality when Colin’s grandmother pulled out a treasured tiny jewellery box that contained her wedding ring, the very one we came there for. Alas, it was nearly three in the morning and having a good old Europe reminiscing was out. Colin did not even do any Kingdom witnessing. After all what was the use since I had never glimpsed anyone of pensionable age in our midst. Colin must have been of the similar mind, as we both crashed nearly senseless after the day of heavy travails.


No More Fish for You
“Look who is here!” Joe the Runner was squealing with a childish delight.

“Who?” I have seen many different faces of varying achievements and degrees of fame, so dropping it as casually as possible was not a chore.

“Bill Murray!” My hand froze in mid air as if hitting an unseen obstacle.

“Wow!” I was still struggling with the most basic notions of the American culture but somebody like Bill Murray not only stood apart but had completely transcended it. We knew and enjoyed him in Russia too!

And there he was, right in the dead hours that fell into the cracks of the midday shift change. Dressed in a sloppy flannel shirt with a wild hunter’s edge and a hopelessly stretched pair of old jeans, Bill was simply terrific. Add an old baseball hat and his ensemble was perfectly complete. Oh wait, his hat was having problems when it was spotted desperately struggling to contain even a tiny fraction of the disorderly tangled mess that could be mercifully described as hair. Its strands shot-out of the hat’s sides like random paintball explosions. In other words, this was the very tangible, palpable and real hero of our times. He stood-out against anything – white table covers, black wall tiles and, most of all, the guy he came with. Fitted in a straight black suit with a black gleaming briefcase, there could have hardly been a stranger pair to ever consume a plate of oysters for an appetiser.

“Hey, Bill how are things?” yelled out Bruce the bartender.

“Excellent!” Bill smiled back with the most dazzling of the radiant smiles. What could have been a server’s Faux Pas in any other circumstance was greeted with the loudest of delightful squeaks when Bill benevolently tore himself off his black-suited friend and descended to the plebeian masses to do a round of hand-shakes and jokes.

I wanted to linger in this shining moment of common glory but changing my dirty apron for a suit, that I had just dry cleaned to its original blue shine, was a priority. I had to rush to answer one of the rare “professional help wanted” ads in the Russian newspaper. I did not really care what professions they sought as long as it was closer to the suit and tie and further away from fish even it was cooked by Brian the chef.

No matter how hard I tried to cover the flaps of my suit under my overcoat, Nancy cast a suspecting glance. Now in the advanced stages of the ruthless American child bearing that did not come with any benefits, she seemed able to steal these glances more and more often. But be as it may I was expected in the fateful World Trade Centre to help steering some shipping undertaking through the greedy customs at the Russian ports.

The next day: “Alex, can I talk to you?” the endless blue of eyes was drowning in the sea of grey this time.

Descending behind her into the subterranean bowels of her office I knew that my suit flaunting escapes from before had finally worn out their welcome. Now it was an hour of reckoning and nothing but a sudden premature baby delivery could spare my steady income. Alas, no contractions were detected on the way down and yours truly was promptly thrown out on the street with nothing but a lonely last paycheque to follow. Splattered on the sidewalk I was truly distraught. This had been the most fun I had in the last few months and leaving not on my terms felt like a square juicy punch in the face. Well, at least for now I could dissolve my misfortunes in someone else’s happiness – Colin’s wedding was chugging to its final apogee.


The Wedding
The preparations for Colin’s glorious wedding started immediately after the happy and unconditional acceptance. After all, this was to be the grand Kingdom event and no details were worth forgetting. Jeff, Ralph and I were promptly made aware that our subsidized stint at the Horatio Street was coming to its untimely end. I hoped to enjoy the Village luxuries until at least March, exactly the year since we moved in. I was sure that there was no way Colin, even with Sue’s income, was going to afford this monster and besides why did he need three bedrooms, they did not even have a dog!

And yet I was mistaken. Colin, having had another of those talks with his father, must have swung a new arrangement and he was going to stay. The “hit the road Jack” was reserved for us and I had to move out somewhere in the first week of January. The weeding was set for the 15th and Colin needed an ample amount of time for renovations. Renovations!? Was he crazy, the place was basically new just few months ago? In Russia renovations were done only when walls threatened to cave in. But here a grown man with a dowry and no meaningful employment would not think twice to make statement. I was amused, especially when Colin stepped into his obscure world of dreams and visions. Maybe he was a budding Spielberg after all…

And yet for a time I was genuinely happy for Colin and his minute preparations that gradually acquired life of their own. Honestly, no matter how artistic I could not fathom how many frilly details a grown man with Columbia education could come up with. The paradox could not have been more palpable since Susan did not seem to care all that much. All she wanted was Colin and was ready to get married in a cave if that what he preferred. But this was not as apparent at first - her low voice and direct manners could have almost made her the virtual male in the relationship. But she wasn’t. No matter how much on fire outwardly, she melted any time Colin entered the space she was in. Was this due to his childish attempts at western flair with his pointy cowboy boots and his towering ability to cower the lesser types, or was it just his ample dowry – I would never know. But for whatever it was, she could do nothing but yield and he loved her so much more for it.

With Carte Blanche to let his fancy fly, Colin frequently became prone to sitting me down for late night briefing sessions near his director’s desk lost in the corner of the living room. Here, nearly dazzled by the towering lights of Jersey streaming through the only apartment window that led us to the outside world, Colin loved to indulge yours truly in his latest plans for table pieces, curtains and beef cuts. I was always more than amused and thankful that at least for now I could, more often than not, avoid reporting some awkward personal statistics.


Krystaltech – the adventure in capitalism
The reprieve from personal statistics came in handy. My weekly unemployment cheque of $132 was not going to cut for too long so getting myself working was a priority. So my Manhattan schlepping in a Soviet blue suit and a tie returned with a vengeance of. Just like any average Soviet I expected the worst. Surprisingly, it did not take long to land a basic employment in a hotel named Dumont Plaza. Have you ever heard? I guess not. Neither had I. And for a good reason as this understated edifice served as a prime welcoming spot for those who called Madison Square Garden their work place from time to time. Typically these were many a shiny NBA or NHL star who valued privacy above all else.

But apart from these and some other severe looking folks in double-breasted suits, the place was not anything to write home about. Run on a thin staffing strategy and food concentrates, the service and food here were barely above the minimal standards obligating the customers to pay the bill, let alone leave a tip. Had it been not for the captured hotel public, the place would have never survived and yet it was not all that dismal since I could always count on some star-gazing. It was always fun to answer “sandwich and three Cokes” calls for tall and hyperactive NBA giants; or hasting to fulfill “tea and cereal” for the NHL workmen with big shiners and burst, reminiscent of past fights, lips. Isaiah Thomas, Chris Chelios and Jeremy Roenick were just some of our cheerful guests who, while in the possession of multi-million dollar deals, rarely cracked a smile.

What they were so glum about I would never know but it surely did not bode well for some of their foreign team mates. Once I met a Russian dude who slugged the blue line for Ottawa Senators. Then perpetually in the tank, the nascent franchise was a true pit of despair for my barely syllabic (in any language) guest. He, isolated and picked on, felt trapped in the need to make money unheard of in the motherland. So miserable he looked in his obligatory NHL jacket, that I barely resisted giving him a hug of fraternal support. The life in the NHL appeared hardly more exciting than that of an average Joe. So when on my next shift I arrived in my Chicago Black Hawk jacket to serve the drowsy looking Hawks their cereal and juice I did not even bother having them sign it – Big Mistake!

During the following lunch break I was desolate. With head in my hands on the counter, I brooded my pitiful prospects as the Hawks parted to pound on the Rangers and I longed to get out from under the heavy yoke of eggbeaters and fake beacon. I picked up the phone to call the last place I had spotted in the Russian newspaper. Again, this was something about export, imports and people in grey suits. I did not really care, as long as I could capitalize on my glorious Russian connections and do some pounding on the computer keys. Hastily rushing home I donned my battle-weary blue suit once again.

The place’s name was elucidating - “Krystaltech”. I especially liked that “K”, which made it so Russian, so Brooklyn. I surely could beat the competition with my nearly flawless English. The only trouble was my resume. While gleaming with numerous successes on the other side of the Atlantic, my recent achievements on it looked sheepish. To mention my dish-cleaning travails was clearly going to be a grave mistake. I needed something more plausible and tutoring my friend Semen’s high school daughter in Jersey looked to be the best and even marginally verifiable bet. From now on I will be a “tutor”. It sounded dignified and even condescending, sort of like a “governor” or a “butler” in an old noble sense. Happy, I rolled up a couple of copies and pressed the elevator button to whiz me up to the eleventh floor of an office tower perched on the very western edge of the Midtown, nothing Brooklyn but the name.

It was rather late in the day when I was ushered through the shiny wide glass doors into the office that exhibited anything but failure. Yury, my original interviewer, was not there and I was to be interviewed by the big man himself. His name was Mark and he had a tremendous grey mane of hair that made him look much, much older than his then thirty nine. He clearly was a man of presence and weight since he did not mince words by diving right into my resume with his grammatically flawless and well-cadenced English. At first thinking him a typical Russian, I became tense as this guy was not to be fooled easily. And yet I was in luck that day as Mark’s benevolent smile announced a new chapter in my illustrious career measured at cool USD $25K per annum.

Hastily rushing to the Conway’s on the 34th I loaded up on some essential office wear to compliment my recent second-hand suit acquisition at Michael and Dorin’s store. At least now, I could be presentable for more than one day in a row. The following morning, I was presented to my new immediate boss, Yury. He, barely a couple of years older than me, fit the locale perfectly – he looked easy ten years more ancient with his receding curls, soft pop-up belly and chewed-to-the-raw nails. Becoming a little guarded seemed warranted as the work must have been hell given the appearance of the two key figures I had met so far.

Fortunately, my suspicions were completely groundless. The pace, although furious given the high technology we peddled, was always well-counter-balanced by humour that managed to flow about quite freely in this multi-cultural cauldron that rotated between two key tongues – Hebrew and Russian. Throw in a pinch of Long Island, splash of Brooklyn, dash of Hungarian and chase it by some very nervous French and you get the picture.

My main gig was to dance about a spanking-new keyboard, pretending I could type and that I did. Whatever deficiencies I might have had were rectified within days as I shortly began producing many very important business letters on the very important embossed letterhead of Krystaltech. Just about all of them were in English although their final destination was some overloaded Moscow fax machine. In those heady days of the early Russian capitalism, when everything was up for grabs, English was all the hip much unlike today when even ski ticket clerks at Zermatt are obligated to speak some passable Russian.

Yury was delighted with my handiwork which gave him many comedic moments especially when I endeavoured to write letters to some select clients who had been too busy to pick up even rudimentary English. Apparently my prose in the Pushkin’s language was so inspired by the Queen’s tongue that anything Slavic, unabashedly free-wheeling and haphazard, was inadvertently replaced with Albion rigidity. It was as if my brain was a completely redeveloped piece of real estate. There, instead of old crooked and medieval rivulets, everything was suddenly reconfigured in a wide gridlock in the best Napoleon III traditions.

In the simpler terms, I was peddling anything from memory chips and hard drives to computer cases and strange things called Ethernet and Netware. At first, not having a slightest, I screwed up a lot. But just within a couple of months I was a pro at finding anything even under the barrage of Israeli expletives that jetted to and fro between my neighbours – Avi and Roy. Leafing through thick computer catalogues with ink smudged fingers was my lot but it was not boring in the least. Especially as long as I spent my lunch hours listening to just about any and all latest New York gossip. Who sued who was always palatable, who screwed who was even better particularly with our own office acts that refused to keep their matters private and were proud of it.

Besides, we always had a lot of interesting business folk stopping by for an occasional heart to heart. So once upon a time, when I was called into a conference room to translate for some older looking Russian type, I did not attach any particular meaning to the occasion. And while the meeting went on, I just kept getting snagged on a prickly little thought of having already met the character once, some time ago, long time ago…

“Excuse me, Michael Abramovich (that was his name) did you used to live in St. Petersburg?” I just could not help being inquisitive.

“Yes” he answered as a matter-of-factly.

“Did you live right behind the Mariinski Theatre by chance?” my suspicions were angrily chomping for more fodder.

“Yes” sparks of life were lighting up under his old heavy eye-brows that connected his both eyes in one unfailing strong line, Brezhnev like.

“Did you have a first cousin in Dnepropetrovsk, Ukraine?” this was one of those moments.

“Hmmm, yeah”

Then I knew that it was one of those heart-quickening moments that one usually does not forget for a long-time. Of course! This was my grandmother’s first cousin in whose house I actually stayed once nearly ten years ago! And here he was, standing, slightly awestruck, digging the coals of his memory for some other explanation than a mere “chance”. I, already blessed by God in more ways than one, was a little less petrified and even happy to finally find someone, even if distantly related, amidst this large and yet so tiny world.

This needed a conversation, the one with somebody dear and close. Luckily, Krystaltech’s phone fairy had always been benevolent and generous regarding my personal needs of heart and soul, so placing a long-distance call to Tracy with the unexpected news was a breath of fresh air in the decidedly staler New York undertones.


Tracy – Agent of Change
I had never thought that a pair of striped clown pants, arriving all the way from Finland despite all potentially illegalities of trading with the enemy, could become so pivotal, life changing really. But on one summer day this proved to be reality when I climbed aboard a certain bus filled with strange people with smiles and bibles. This was a student Christian group with Campus Crusade for Christ on a soul-searching mission in Ukraine a couple of years earlier. Their arrival not only announced a profound shift in my spiritual outlook, but also in my personal fortunes. Among many on that bus, one particular person made more than a lasting impression. Her name was Tracy and she loved my crazy striped pants.

From that point on, we had kept in touch regularly and with a purpose. When in close proximity “the purpose” usually meant something serious and long-term. When separated by visas and flight hours, I did not know what that meant exactly except to say that it was a link I definitely cherished. Upon my entering the Kingdom, our connection acquired somewhat of a different flair. At first it was becoming a little antagonistic since Tracy was no longer a Christian I had thought her to be. Gradually, while my Kingdom saga was developing, my opinion of her started changing once again. Within few months, she had become my straw of hope. When all this Kingdom stuff turned out to be not above any and, later, all my suspicions; Tracy became a true pillar of support for me and my convictions. As the fall of 1993 was gaining its full refreshing momentum, my future in the Kingdom was shaping on ever the tenuous ground. If I wanted to stay, I needed to find some other hidden meaning beyond the usual “pap” of exclusivity and brotherly love. On the other hand, if I were to leave I surely needed a push.

While I was vacillating, hoping to find a soon breakthrough in either direction, Tracy decided that she had travelling plans of her own. Few weeks later I was picking her up in JFK. I did not know what to expect personally. But this paled in comparison with my Kingdom logistics that involved a provision of her housing. Had she been a man, the issue would have been simple and she could have stayed with us, perhaps even in the Mile’s old closet. The next logical step would have been his (her maiden was Mann after all) conversion. The fact that she lived in Vancouver would not have been a problem since there was a Kingdom outpost there already. And that was a good sign since the Kingdom was always reluctant to let in those who could not remain within a reasonable distance from an existing church. Soon these general defects were to be rectified since our masters headed by the indomitable Kip McKean were going to conquer the world. But for now one could become save only if in a proximity of a large metropolitan area in the USA. And not only there as the tentacles had already crossed the Atlantic and were fast spreading into Africa and Asia. The Kingdom even made easily predictable fruitless attempts to conquer godless Madrid, Paris and Milan. I could not quite grasp the expensive strategy behind the failing moves other than letting our pope Kip and some of his closest cardinals have a close by private chapel while on the exotic vacations on Corsica or Mallorca.

Alas, Tracy’s womanhood did not make my logistics the closet simple so I had to do some heavy lifting particularly since I was allowed to play host under one central condition - she had to stay in a discipling household, attend at least a couple of studies and spend as little as possible private time with me. I was nothing but a friend and perhaps that was what I meant to be until…

After few frantic attempts to find an empty couch, I finally located Anne. She hailed all the way from Paris, wore perfume and was generally on the fringe of the discipling universe. I thought her hide-out on the Upper Westside was just perfect as my Canadian friend was going to taste the Kingdom through a much gentler lens. But this was not Colin’s priority, when he announced that the plan had changed and after just a two-nighter at Ann’s Tracy was to be relocated into the harsh realities of Susan, Colin’s fiancée.

Fortunately for me, Tracy and I took an advantage of a long Westside walk before Colin’s plan came to fruition. Here, amidst the freshness of the New York fall, we reacquainted with one another, all over again. I was not wearing striped pants any longer, bequeathing them to my mother, while Tracy was no longer relaying the basic spiritual truths to a fresh convert. Now we could talk like two equal adults with the timing that was just perfect! I was so glad that this was November and her first glimpses of New York caught a truly magical fall morning, a phenomenon extolled in more than one poetic chez-de-oeuvre. The sun no longer blazed but lazily emitted; the leaves no longer hid but simply scintillated in every wisp of wind; and spring no longer held its coveted patent on love. This vertiginous heart-melting combination no longer subscribed to seasons and was palpably hovering around all five of my senses.

Left alone and un-chaperoned, we rapidly established the initial rapport and quickly moved up a level or two. I could hardly contain my delight. It was for the first time in months, I was feeling free and unburdened. Momentarily, I recaptured that lost light-hearted feeling. For once I did not have to subscribe to some stilted script when dating, especially when dating someone I was not impartial to. The whole experience was simply magical and I had a feeling of not even touching the West Side Drive pavement that morning. I did not want that walk to end but it did as even New York could run out of walking real estate.

Back in the reality we had to part since Tracy’s visit had to be atoned through the usual rigmarole of the Kingdom bible study series. These were typically led by Susan, who, amid her wedding preparations, acquired a real verve to convert Tracy in the shortest amount of time possible. She just had a week to do it and Colin would surely be happy if she succeeded. Tracy, a descendent of the staunch Pentecostal Christianity, was, of course, not given a single credit point on the stairway to heaven. So Susan started from the very basics that dictated that Martin Luther was really a looser, Mother Theresa wallowed in an idle worship and some dude in suit named Kip McKean was the only real godly apostle – the usual line-up.

By now, I did not have to wonder whose side I was on. And not wanting to be a hypocrite any longer, I freely dispensed some decent defence tips to my friend. Luckily, she did not need much armour to arrive home in one piece. After yet another encounter with the warring Susan, we could always escape to boot - away from the Kingdom eye and into some friendlier ground. This was just one of the best cat-and-mouse games I had ever played. I could only giggle at the Kingdom kudos Susan was piling up while Tracy appeared obedient and attentive.

In reality, Tracy had other plans and I was a central part of it as it turned out. I relished the rapidly developing relationship for more reasons than one. Now I had an excuse and motivation to taste things that touristy New York was well known for. I was actually dragged to Miss Saigon, tasted some authentic French food and witnessed the lighting of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Centre. At last, I even discovered that David Letterman was actually a very funny fellow. I was like a prison inmate on his first few days after parole, it was truly amazing and all of it was due to my agent of change, to my new and secret girlfriend. Within days I knew that I did not want to let her go, as we kissed for the first time riding up a glass elevator in the Marriott Times Square, within meters of Susan, Colin and other participants in the insane Kingdom spectacle. It was more exhilarating than riding the biggest Disney roller-coaster. It was the final straw of my rebellion.

After one breathless week, I was a changed dude with new lease on life. I could not even be tamed by the impending pain of temporary separation. Well, at least this was eased when Tracy, after narrowly missing her flight, got her a first class and a three hundred dollar voucher instead of a spank. She took a full advantage of the unexpected gift with much extra leg room and orange juice on demand, while I suddenly needed a new long-distance plan. Once back at home, she, very accidentally, threw away the magic voucher for another New York jaunt. I knew it was a sign - my New York days were numbered.


One Month to the Wedding
After Tracy’s departure my apartment fortunes hit a decidedly steep decline. No longer able to conceal my irreconcilable differences with the Kingdom I was slowly descending into the ranks of those ready for the exit doors. It was like Hades in reverse. I was not unique of course since the Kingdom holding tanks of the teetering were always quite full. On the one hand, I was at a comfortable place. At least, I did not have to be as accountable as my spiritual pulse was nearing a flat line, on one was going to trust me with soul finding, translating or baptising. And yet, I was not completely out yet, still able to eke out certain friendship graces out of the most benevolent characters in the Kingdom. On the other hand, it was a rather sad place, as I got a chance to witness first hand those shiny and exciting faces of new disciple batches on their ascendancy into the world apart. There was no way of knowing how far their climb would reach or whether their stay was going to be of some duration or not. No one knew that so for now the climbing upwards was bearing its fun-filled fruit and it pained me to witness it.

Colin, being one of the sternest gate keepers of the enterprise, could not look past my sinking position. Gradually he was loosing interest in my persona with my wedding briefing sessions becoming ever sparser, until finally, ceasing altogether. Besides, now working in Krystaltech I could not longer attend the daytime services of the Performance Arts Ministry, having to switch to night time services of the Midtown Professional. With this change I had to join a new bible talk, be assigned a new disciplining partner and undergo a general spiritual makeover. These changes, if not giving me an outright new lease on life in the Kingdom, at least extended my Hades experience. For now there were other new people I could plead clueless to for change. Obviously Colin was not in their ranks. So much so, that when returning from another gruelling important letter writing campaign in the office one night, I found my room perching on the precipice of extinction. Sure, I still had something like three weeks left on my apartment deal, but Colin, spurned on by the new creative urgencies, could not wait a minute longer. The central idea of his grand renovation plan was to hack a huge hole between my bedroom and the living room to create an intimate dining experience for the newlyweds. In addition, Colin’s artful taste just could not tolerate plain white walls of the apartment. This had to change, so some painting was definitely in order. Promptly, our light-less hallways were covered in depressing deep purple with inserts of screaming orange – just a dark twisted circus ring. All for the sake of chic décor I guessed.

While generally indifferent to the design that was about to extend basketball court-sized living room to a fifty-yard line, I did not relish the idea of sleeping covered with little pieces of drywall. And yet this is exactly what happened when upon entering my room I saw nothing but hollow space and a happy sweaty visage of Carl, the Kingdom Demolition Man. No excuses, nothing. My sparse personal effects were stashed summarily into a corner of the room to prevent their premature demise but air! I could hardly take a breath without a mask for a couple of days following. In other words, I was not worth much than the next warm body that happened to live behind a thin curtain, the only barrier between Colin and I. The signs were not good. Colin had also got a real job as a well-paid doorman at Waldorf to boot. With this plus an impending honeymoon in Tahiti, I did not stand a chance to reason. Not surprisingly right after Christmas I was informed that my invitation to the blessed event had been withdrawn, the ring procurement camaraderie notwithstanding.

The solemnity of the event was emphasised by a splendid gift of Christmas red socks with happily skiing black and white cows on it. Colin had just returned from the family financed holiday in Aspen (!) and his gnarled conscience must have longed for a closure. I, having grown up in the Freud-free Russia, squealed and giggled at my sock gift. Colin looked paternally satisfied and yet I knew that something was up.

“Alex, I can no longer have you at my wedding” he remarked firmly

“OK” I knew I asking for a reason was pointless. Besides I suspected that this had to do with Tracy.

“You know, as long as you maintain your relationship with your Canadian friend, your purity as a Christian is compromised. I still value you as a friend and a brother but my wedding is going to be a real witness to the world: to my family, to my old university friends. The opportunity cannot be compromised and your current spiritual walk is just too shaky. You can still come to the ceremony if you want. There will be a general reception for everybody to attend. But I cannot have you at the main event itself, sorry” I remembered Miles…

“Thanks for the socks anyway” I had nothing else to say. I knew this was final, short of a complete recanting of my currently held views. And even that could require a new Kingdom re-study – a special feature reserved for those wanting to fully re-enter, a feat not to be accomplished in time for the wedding. Less than inclined, I actually counted my blessings as splurging on a tux was no longer necessary.

‘Thanks for the socks, Colin!” shouted Jeff holding an identical pair in bright green. Maybe it had nothing to do with conscience after all, as Jeff was going to the wedding in the best form and in a superb financial position as he had just recovered his old hotel doorman job.


Volodya – Pushkin Untamed
Wading through the ether of lost humanity is never fun. Doing it while still nominally in the Kingdom was even less fun. You were suddenly to count on many less friends that you had been previously accustomed to. At times, it could become very lonely especially for those who were snapped up into the Kingdom early on in their New York career. You see, this city was always eager to prove the ruthless maxim of “more people less friends” or any variation on the theme. As such, here it frequently took an extravagant amount of time to line up anybody you could remotely trust. So when your search was abruptly interrupted by the happy Kingdom express, you felt as if walking on water was your inbred talent. Alas, the opposite proved entirely true when exiting the group. At once you were helpless, hapless and friendless. Your ability to fly was severely grounded and you had to start from scratch, all over again. The only trouble was that everything around looked suspiciously familiar and yet completely out of reach, making the desperation of exiting even more heightened than happiness of entering.

Christmas was around the corner. Luckily, all of my roommates were to be away. And since my room was no longer for Alex’s sleeping but for Colin’s dining, hanging out by myself in all that remaining space sounded like a splendid idea. But before I could put it into practice I had to wait until Christmas Eve with Jeff and Ralph setting out to follow Colin along the family tracks. With the happy day finally on the doorstep I felt a sudden urge to do some exploring. The Big Apple was mostly covered, so resisting Boston, the cradle of the Kingdom, sounded inane. Within hours, even before noon, I was starring at the green monster of a highway that, in those days, snaked right through the middle of the historic town. The world was my oyster and I had few hours during which to explore this gem of the great civilization.

The experience was more than satisfying since I managed to cover many a landmark including the Little Italy, Boston Commons and Beacon Hill. This was a world apart from where I just came from. Well-manicured public spaces, clean sidewalks and no street garbage – no wonder they called the liberal heaven. Yea, they paid taxes here and it showed, at least in the daylight. As soon the pre-Yule dusk began settling over the city, the joyous street crowds started emptying like on a fire drill. Within an hour, it was all over and dead. Save for some individual stragglers like me, Boston was now a ghost town. It seemed that you could not get anybody on the street even if you tried to pepper your trail with dollar bills. Back on the bus and right at midnight I was back in the familiar territory. The crowds were as large as in any rush hour, boom boxes tested everyone’s hearing and homeless begged so persistently as if just about to be speared an El Dorado. This was the flip side of the universe.

With a happy outing to Boston I was bit by a very itchy travel bug. Stray far I could not, but visiting an old acquaintance near Philadelphia for a New Years celebration appeared more than advisable for a gulp fresh country air if nothing else. Volodya, that was his name, was one of those guys to whom a “friend” label had hard time sticking. He scored much better with the ladies and it usually had very little to do with anything platonic. Unlike many of us, Volodya was just too esoteric as to be searching for inspiration in a company of regular male beings. Tall and thin with a straight posture that accentuated his chest without a benefit of a push-up routine, Vladimir looked a bit like a giraffe. His long and awkwardly unbending legs betrayed an utter lack of coordination, save for some bed tricks in which he was an admitted master. There was nothing athletic and all intellectual about the rest of his sharp foxy features that hid under an ample canopy of black curly hair. This was his natural perm trademark that failed to yield to smelling anything of coiffure, amateur or professional. This was also a mark of a true genius who involuntarily evinced a clear claim to the lineage of the most exoteric and famous literature personality of the old Russia – poet Alexander Pushkin. And like his putative forefather Volodya wrote.

Considered by many to be head and shoulders above everyone including Mr. Shakespeare, Alexander Pushkin, a descendant of the first and probably the last black Russian general aptly named Hannibal, was a true enigma and a tragedy, ending his young life prematurely, at a duel of all places. As horrified and distraught upon his passing the mother Russia was, the folks, simple and complicated alike, were at least left with a rich array of his writings that colourfully depicted not only bard’s moods, but the very history, fabric and soul of the motherland. And that’s precisely where the differences between Alexander and his less famous progeny began. While just as prone to fits of rage and passion, Volodya’s writings failed to impress the contemporaries with the same tour-de-force. The history is always left to judge by the future generations of course, but looking at the immediate results I was not hopeful, considering Volodya’s favourite inclination to probe anything and everything sexual, sometimes bordering on pornographic. Inquisitive to be sure, such a tack to learning the darkest Freudian recesses of humanity was not my cup of tea and that was certain. And yet Volodya and I failed to stay out of each other’s way once first thrown together.

This occurred in the midst of the Ukrainian steppes on our first ever translation gig (re: Quick Change). We shared a room for at least two months toiling under the harsh Ukrainian sun, and much fun it was. Volodya snored and I suffered occasional insomnia. I was all, especially foreign, men’s man; Volodya preferred a set of explorations into the doomed virginity. I found my refuge in the new busy people’s career while Volodya was less collective by seducing a couple of young women right on the factory floor. Fortunately for him and less for his wife back home, the field was more than fruitful, as the fir factory where we worked was literally strewn with women in dire need of romantic attachments. Consequently, it would be superfluous to say that my pass into the land of plenty (USA) was sealed with more than one (out of my translating charges) willing to play a host while Volodya had to seek other avenues of escape.

You, my dear reader, could only imagine my surprise when learning that our intrepid poet made it to the felicitous shores just as well. Moreover, he did it at just about the same time and even on the better terms. I merely wanted a refugee status while he possessed a student visa to attend a Pennsylvania bible college for nearly free. Can you imagine? How did his peculiar ways ended up on the church pew? Well, six months prior to our departures we both converted and joined the university Christian group. At that point Volodya appeared to have tamed the most flagrant of his old fires, and on the wings of new hopes, he acquired some key transatlantic Christian friendships. These proved more fortuitous. As a result, Volodya entered the sparklingly clean halls of Christian learning on a full scholarship while I scoured the New York sidewalks for the elusive scraps of hope. In few months, Volodya imported Irina, his wife of few and tumultuous years, and his quest to never return (home that was) began in earnest. I sort of envied my more established friend. He understood the immigration landscape way better, knew what he wanted and pursued it I, waylaid by the Kingdom, could only hope was such certainty. “So closer to my country man the better” I selfishly thought. Besides, I knew his wife as well so joining them for a New Years celebration was just what I needed, to vent off my recent struggles and more.

Getting off the bus in Philly, I was really glad to see them both. He was still that old giraffe and his, hardly reaching to his diaphragm, had not grown an inch. Happily packed in his old Toyota, we departed on the quick survey of the country side, which proved delightful. The undulating treed hills, fertile furrows and homey wafts of the pre-industrial dung gave me a momentary feeling of sheer happiness, of the one escaping from a mental institution.

Volodya and Irina occupied a spacious apartment, which was a part of a small and rickety old farm house. Cosy with old cute curtains and creaking hardwood floor it was, but that’s not where we spent most of our time. Instead, the heat, food and entertainment bills were to be paid by Volodya’s friend John, the college president and a pastor. John with his wife Catherine, lost somewhere in their late forties, were very welcoming and warm people who did not mind sharing their hearth with perfect strangers like me. This was in their blood. And not surprisingly since they had been in the company of Jesus, the very place I was longing to be, for years and it showed. No more judging looks, piercing words or inquiring about the exact timing of the all important baptism. Boy, that was a relief even it was to last a mere forty-eight hours.

On the New Years Eve, we went to a local Baptist church fashioned in the staunchest traditions that included an orange shag carpet and old musty hymn books. For many of you, this may sound boring but for me it was the most emotional of experiences. I might have even shed a tear or two. A collection was taken in one of those velvety begs and the church bulletin actually spelt out exactly what had been previously collected and spent. Wow, what a contrast to the Kingdom!

The next morning we went to church again, a different one where John’s kids went. This was a very contemporary version with cheap folding chairs and stark white linoleum floor. It was located right in some strip mall and just about all came in jeans. The songs were upbeat and the preaching enthused, a something closer to the Kingdom minus the guitar strings – the Kingdom eschewed the musical instruments for worship. A plastic ice cream bucket was passed to collect coins just as shamelessly as bills with everybody smiling without using “bro” and “I love you” after every sentence. Once again I was suspended in momentary bliss! Alas, my bus to New York was to depart in mere hours and there was still so much to chew over with Volodya.

“Alex, I have applied for a refugee status as well” said Vladimir as if searching for something. “I have hired this guy in New York who is really good and can arrange a connection with a church or a synagogue depending on your story. He charges altogether about ten grand. What do you think?”

Pleading the refugee status on the basis of a religious persecution was a legitimate practise. But Volodya had been an atheist almost all his life and his conversion had actually come as a result of the newly found freedoms and not old entrenched beliefs that left so many to rot in the Soviet jails.

“Sounds great but why do you need to find a church when you already go to one?” I was a bit cunning in my reply since my heart little Grinchly heart was gnawing with little envy actually.

“You see, the protestant churches are usually reluctant to manufacture the cover, Orthodox can do it for a fee, so if you are a non-Jew you go to the Orthodox Church, if you are a son of Zion go to a synagogue. By the way, do not tell John or Catherine!” his green eyes glinted radiantly as if a bit excited.

“Why not?” I wondered.

“Well, he thinks that I am going back after the graduation…”

“Ah” I understood my friend instantly.

“I am actually going to be in New York, meeting this immigration guy next month. I may be a bit short on the first payment. Can I borrow $500?” he inquired sheepishly – and how could I say no even if in pangs of envy?

“And by the way, before you leave here is the copy of my book I have just published” He pronounced as if to emphasise understatement to hide his obvious and probably well-deserved pride. I felt another gnawing tinge of envy – “I wish I could anything like that…”

Having written a cheque and having said good-bye, I was leafing through Volodya’s creation on my way home. The gut-wrenching themes of adolescent sexuality, advanced explorations in human anatomy and sneaky look-around others’ mail pervaded the pages. Minus $500 in my pocket and Volodya was just the same old lecherous pal I had known for some time now.


David Whitley – A Happy Paradox
First time when I met David a year ago I did not have any inkling of becoming his friend. After all he was a bit too cheerful for the old rigid etiquette of my new Kingdom surroundings. Of course having fun was not only allowed but strongly encouraged, outwardly anyway. But David appeared to have too much of it, bounding about with his perpetual high quality brown leather bag and an expensive overcoat, somewhere between finishing his music masters degree at Julliard, looking for Broadway gigs and enjoying his young gorgeous wife – Zenobia. He was one of the fun loving enthusiasts who did not seem to fit into the grave surroundings around folks like Colin. And thus I did not trust him at first.

Thus the more surprised I could not be when my weaning from the Colin’s trough led me not only to another bible talk, but directly to Mr. Whitley himself. And here, in new surroundings, after few interactions with my exuberant friend I realized that he was one of the most approachable guys I had ever met, all despite the glitzy exterior.

“Alex, are you still looking for a place to stay?” David asked during one of our bible talks.

“Sure. To be honest I am little stumped. I have about three weeks to get out and have no idea of where to go next” I answered plainly.

“How about you move in with me for at least few weeks? You see, Zenobia has decided to join the army and she’s gonna be in the boot camp for a while”

Wow, I was elated! I could not believe the opportunity. I did not even care to ask why a gorgeous young woman in her mid-twenties would want to join the military. At least, I had a couch to plunk myself on. What was even better, his fifth-floor walk-up in a typical glum brick Midtown tenement was all but a three blocks away from my new Krystaltech gig. It was heaven sent despite the corridors and stairs so narrow that I had to exhale just to navigate to the apartment doors. Predictably, my new view to the outside was just another set of dusty old windows that were at just an arm’s reach. Any times I even expected “Capisce paisano, keep this for a while” with a heavy non-descript sack thrust into my hand.

On the inside David’s place was much less Godfatherly. Instead I witnessed a kaleidoscope of comedic performances that could rival anything and anybody including Bill Murray and Eddy Murphy. David was a naturally born comic. He had a tremendous theatrical instinct. David just had it in his blood to entertain and that he did, experimenting with my abilities to stay alive while ripping my lungs out with laughter. It must have been David’s make up of southern roots of deep Alabama mixed with more polished, Washington DC, angles where the abrupt urban jazzy undertones aptly converged with the poetic and rueful South. David’s voice followed the blueprint to a “T” with him ending up a prodigy from an early age. Sometime in his teens he found himself even touring with the famed Harlem Boys Choir. Later, he landed in the Manhattan School of Music and then at the nascent age of twenty five he about to be touting a degree from none other than prestigious Julliard.

But behind his shiny exterior, gradually I was learning the other, more sombre reality. His supportive mother in DC was not the only one member of the family. His father, having suffered a very serious illness some years ago, had been essentially a vegetable for years. The pain was visible even on the David’s face, if I looked closely. Zenobia was another source of concern since her army endeavour had nothing to do with kicks of shooting other human beings but with a college fund. I was learning that in America taking up guns was so tightly wrapped with all things peaceful and educational. In Soviet paradise they gave us the education for basically free plus even paid us a stipend to feast on potatoes and garlic. In the USA, it was more complex to be sure.

And it did not end there. While Wall Street loved to differentiate on the basis of your school choices, the Broadway scene did not really care for degrees. On the contrary, the artsy New York valued talents almost regardless of the letters after one’s name. Please do not misunderstand, David had a fantastic voice and great performing skills but in the Big Apple one had to vie with ferocity for the slightest of bits. And it was not easy even for him. Biding his time for big times, he was temping all over town with his fashionable brown bag in tow, always waiting for the phone call. The phone call that was yet to arrive in any serious sense.

No surprisingly and in a short order, I became David’s biggest fan and supporter. He paid in spades, listening and advising while I was going through the choppy times. He, having met Tracy in person, was the only one who had a very balanced view of who she really was. Here, while cautious regarding my relationship with her, he was the only one who did not treat her just like another potential convert, like another number. On the contrary, he treated her as my, and consequently, his friend. When they met, they clicked instantly, confirming that some real humans were still kicking it around the Kingdom.


Wedding – the Apogee
It was 4PM, Saturday, and I had just finished my long breakfast/lunch shift at Dumont Plaza. And yet instead of relaxing David and I were in a hurry to make the Colin’s wedding. My invitation had not been renewed of course but nothing could prevent us, among more common Kingdom folk, to attend the glorious event.

I felt like we were the members of the distinguished paparazzi corps. Nobody was particularly expectant of our arrival and our casual appearance did not seem to fit the festival scene all that well. So with the exception of a camera, which was handily substituted by two pairs of strong eyes, we could have easily been chasing Diana and Charles instead of Colin and Sue. Hardly noticed, we joined the ranks of the less fortunate in the back. The front was reserved exclusively for the members of the rented tux club plus those who could afford a more permanent version. My first glance through the wide space, adorned in meticulous rose white, fell on Colin who was flanked by “who is who” in the Kingdom on the one side and his father on the other. I had never met my benefactor but I knew for sure that it was him. The serendipity of his features projected status and consequence - two unmistakable qualities I was very familiar with. He held his chin high, thrusting up his ample nose, for a plenty of view that revealed the plebeian masses thirsting for a true ceremonial spectacle that was to come alive any moment now.

Abruptly, as if on the silver screen, the bridal music announced the commencement of the ceremonies. An ever so slight jet of air touched the white rose in the Colin Senior breast pocket. The precious flower waved benevolently and the bridal procession began. All rose, just a moment later than perfect, to greet the predictably spectacular bride swathed in the almost unimaginable plenitude of various toilet intricacies that could have been only purchased with the real money. Led by her father, she glided as if on air towards her brilliantly scintillating prize. Tears glistened all around and emergency Kleenex boxes re-appeared just as efficiently.

Colin, surrounded by the unimaginable blessings on both sides, descended his three ceremonial steps with maturity so slow as if to freeze the time. His face was radiant as he took her slightly shaking hand to lead towards the meticulously garnished altar. There, both suspended in the midair of bliss, endured a whole mini-church service led by the brightest preaching lights of the Kingdom. The softer than usual sermonette was especially tailored and well-executed vis-à-vis the heathens in the front row. None seemed to be bothered and the white rose in the Colin Senior’s pocket did not display much emotion, still in its commanding pose. To deliver another kick at the can, the service was concluded with an evocative delivery of the Amazing Grace. Although written by the presumed infidel, the tune still possessed much of the needed repentance oomph for the Kingdom.

Alas, no visible conversions took place and all were relieved to find out that finger food for the masses was about to be served. Barely had the merry couple made their obligatory disappearance, did the thrones of guests, invited and otherwise rush to form a receiving line – the last obstacle between chicken fingers and their devouring jaws. We joined in, going through the hand shakes and hugs with relatively decent velocity. Colin, having spotted us, was visibly moved while I struggled to shed a tear. Our hug more brotherly could not have been, and I knew that even Torquemada took time off his heavy labours once in a while.

After the greasy opulence of the common folk reception, the people in tuxes departed to feast on some serious food that actually required more than one fork. I felt a little sad, casting a glance at the intricately set-up table and ornate central table pieces. Roses, twigs and thorns – all were absolutely sublime. “I could have been here too” I sighed silently. “But at what cost?” this question sounded way more upbeat. Yes it was true, when all weighed in, the cost would have been just too exorbitant to ignore.

As such, David and I, visually satiated, discovered that a nice ethnic dinner in the Hell’s Kitchen (David’s neighbourhood) could be just what doctor ordered for the occasion. None could do better than some particular hole in the wall of an Afghan variety. After all the Soviets were out, Osama was still a friend and the rugged land still inspired a heavy reliance on meat and not on opium as it’s main source of pride. Seated under some dim lights revealing some well-worn Persian carpets, David and I had time to brood over the preceding events, while not neglecting the scant plastic menu that featured some good red wine. Of Californian variety it was since dragging cases of liquid across the Pushtun desert did not appear economically feasible, not yet.

The tender meat, full-bodied wine and ubiquitous couscous were just spectacular. So much so, that I could barely move my softening limbs at the meal’s conclusion. Honestly, my legs nearly succumbed to the Californian concoction and wanted to go for a good lie-down. And yet this was not our plan, especially for David who was urgent about killing that white rose glow of the wedding. The Met was our next and very near destination. Did we have tickets? Not really, thanks to David, who being a Julliard regular, could sneak in on just about anything left unsold. That Saturday we were particularly lucky since four-hour Aida did not attract fickler crowds nearly as much as the Swan’s Lake with its shorter span and bigger check-mark glory. With our costless passage to the galleries secure, we plopped into the snug seats for the momentous show. The rest was a bit of a blur since on the account of our Californian wine the long-struggling plot seemed ever more tedious. And this was despite the presence of some notable stars that visibly, even from the forth level, shed some serious sweat to reproduce the timeless masterpiece one more time - all to the delirious ecstasy of the audience-savant.

Thankfully, at about 10PM the slow elephant procession on stage ground to a temporary halt otherwise known as an intermission. What to do? I really loathed splurging on some overpriced Champagne and caviar. That was reserved for those with actual tickets. So unburdened by the unnecessary pomp, we simply descended into the bowls of the immense landmark to crush the worker’s cafeteria. And the place, momentarily replete with all sorts of legionnaires, kings and eunuchs, did not disappoint. David fit right in the middle of this primeval paradigm. Meeting many an acquaintance dressed in some golden tunic tucked into a silver sword belt was much fun. Discovering cheap painted plastic, of dubious origins, underneath was even better. In any event, I took it all in and chewed on some much needed fries if I were to survive the tragedy of the second half.

“Crunch! Crunch!” it was fun soaking these lithe potato sticks into the midst of a juicy glob of ketchup, and then try swooping them in mouthfuls without letting a drop. “Wow! I could have been eating Colin’s foie gras just about now. Burr” I nearly shuddered. Picking up another fry with my untidy fingers, my hand paused carelessly, releasing a huge chunk of ketchup. It, having sort of hung in the air, made a couple of flips before landing on my light-coloured sweater with the most obstreperous of splashes “Kung!” Smiling benevolently, I did not even bother stretching to fetch a napkin. Putting still warm fry in my mouth was way more important. Whether it was that wine or just the fact that Colin was about to set sail far, far away to Tahiti on a honeymoon paid for by his mother, I felt a warm wave of momentary bliss snugly engulfing my whole being.


Posoukh – the Krystaltech Shark
Finally, I not only had a job that required a tie and few key strokes, but the one that also had an actual dental insurance that did a little more than just covering only the most glaring of cavities. The time to deal with my horrible, post-basketball-post-kiss, front teeth had come. I had longed for this day for more than year now - all just to be able to smile a little wider instead of constantly hiding behind an awkward smirk. Back from the dentist, I was now proudly parading, with my head high, through the office foyer.

“Hey, who is here?” Yury was standing on his office doorstep, smiling with his hands criss-crossed over his puffy pork belly. He looked like an elf, a benevolent one at that.

“Here!” I smiled as wide as I could, stopping just short of rupturing my lips in the process.

“Wow! You look like a shark. Hey, everybody look at these things. They look great!” he utterly was triumphant.

“Posoukh the Shark! That is what we will call you from now on!” Yury jokingly gnarled his teeth to reveal small, partially eaten, stubs of his own.

My new sobriquet was quite apropos since I was in the midst of a transatlantic deal that was about to define my career. I needed everything and anything sharp to tear off a piece for myself. Thus my new teeth came handy to chase the opportunity that came hastily on the heels of my, at times torturous, business writing excesses. It happened just about when I was about to despair about my own persuasive genius. Sure, it was fun enough to ride on the coattails of the more successful fish in the international exporting waters. But I, not unlike Freddo Corleone, “wanted something of my own”.

So one day, when momentarily away from daydreaming by my computer, I decided to call my old contacts in Ukraine. Although the country was barely emerging from the very cold economic therapy induced by boys from Chicago (Chicago School of Economics), some appeared to have a considerable deal of the newly found money and were looking to acquire high technology elsewhere. This was because Ukraine was just as capable producing computers as Silicon Valley of eating salo (pure pig lard – a voraciously consumed Ukrainian staple. It is especially delicious with vodka). And here where I came in touch with certain Mr. Berdyuck, an IT manager for a large Ukrainian money-laundering institution known as Privatbank. He was previously known as Comrade Berdyuck. But the emergence of the new brave society required efficiency from everyone, so swapping for a plain “Mister” or rather “Mr.” was advisable.

Although he worked for an entity called a bank, Mr. Berdyuck did not facilitate much in a way of teller services. In those heady days of the fish-munching-fish capitalism, Ukrainian banks did not do much of borrowing or lending. Instead, they concentrated their efforts on shipping the very collective wealth of the motherland into some very individual Swiss accounts. They would have done it with a bow and arrow, if they could get away with it. Alas, the Swiss liked computers, so the notion of an IT department came into being swiftly and decisively. Luckily for the banks, the hordes of unemployed IT graduates were chomping at the bit to leave their imprint on the civilization for nearly no pay and much effort. In other words, the IT department of Privatbank was a poorly funded venture with bribes for politicians in Kiev being a priority ahead of new computer screens.

So when Mr. Berdyuck returned my first fateful call, I did not have much hope of furthering our cooperation. He wanted everything rock-bottom. I tried to bring up the notion of quality, but it was dismissed out of hand. Mr. Berdyuck, having spent years fixing the technological scraps that happened to have seeped through the Soviet border, was in no doubt of his repair genius. Consequently, the quantity was the only notion he bothered to toil with.

“Yury, what are we going to do with this guy! He tells me he can get a 486DX with a 20megs hard drive for something like $900 from some other dudes, this is so cheap” I wandered out loud, rubbing my yet un-sharked teeth against my lower lip.

“Yea, this is really cheap. There is no way we can get anything like this from Dell or IBM. Hmmm” he echoed with his gaze finding an invisible horizon just between my shoulder and the door knob. His hands folded in a prayer clasp with tips of his delicate fingers touching his distinctly Jewish nose. I knew not to disturb - Yury was lost in a deep creative thought.

“OK, the only way to sell anything here is to call Larry” his nails sneaked back into his mouth for yet another chewing session, Yury was back and I rushed back into the Ukrainian fray.

Of course! Larry was out our ace in the hole. He was going to clinch our deal. Who was Larry? I did not actually know save for a heavily-accented Mandarin voice that frequently lacked any consonants and a pain to decipher. Actually, interpreting Larry was sort of art form in and of itself. When Mr. Berdyuck showed on the scene, I was nearly fluent in this arena. Besides the linguistics I knew two unmistakable facts - Larry lived just across the Hudson and supplied the cheapest electronics America had ever known. I actually did not know where he got his parts and gadgets. He could have collected them from some reject bins in the Silicon Valley or Bangalore. Or perhaps he just subsisted exclusively on dog meat and Ramen noodles for I all knew, except to say that nobody could ever beat his prices. What was even more amazing – his gadgets actually turned on most of the time, producing multicolour Window displays and other useful functionality. Moreover, Larry did not even care if his name was actually displayed on his creations. He was just as happy to brand them “Krystaltech”, “Dell” or “Halliburton”. Larry, like most of his countrymen, did not care a hoot about patent protection and we loved it.

Needles to say, that when I came back with an $850 price tag per each glorious 486DX machine fashioned, Mr. Berdyuck bought them all and then some, concluding a $110K deal that included many brand new “Krystaltech” tags. At last, I earned my true “shark” stripes. “If you can do it here, you can do it anywhere” sang in my head and yet my raise was just over $5K. No, I needed to switch everything – job, location and love life. I needed a new fresh start, somewhere closer to Tracy and further away from the East Coast. I heard they had superb fresh pine air and beautiful ocean sunsets.


Final Inquisition
After a couple of my jaunts to the West Coast to see Tracy and her family, my clock at the Kingdom finally hit the buzz button. Remember Mayans? The wise ancients actually kept a better calendar than the Europeans centuries later. They did it with a special magic clock that predicted the end of the world circa 2012. And while we are yet to see the result in this realm, my final Kingdom buzzer was unmistakable. There was no return apparently. Sure my zombie of a disciple was allowed to persist on the fringes of the Dexter’s apartment for moths now. And Dexter, of course did not mind. He, a comedian at heart, was incapable of anything really cruel, so knowing that I was going to leave Big Apple in two months anyway, he couldn’t care less. This was not the case for Jerry and Arthur, the restless pair from the downstairs. They came as such, substituting for some weaker members, who had just been dispatched to the famous 101 for a spiritual clean-up boot camp. They were still redeemable. I was not.

Arthur, a young and zealous disciple from Miami, had been chomping at the bit for a while now. His, a namesake of the popular Kingdom leader, had been acting a little strange lately. At first, his persistent failings to deliver basic niceties of a greeting did not bother me all that much, although I found it hard to figure. When it became more of a pattern, I made particular efforts to be friendly. Quite contrary to my expectations, any of my ‘hellos” seemed to make him even more pissed and frustrated since he could only muster a growl or two in return. Jerry was a bit cheerier. But having been around Jerry long enough, I knew that “fire and brimstone” were not far behind. He was reminding me of a milder Colin who could burst into a raging fit at a moment’s notice. Did I mention that rage in the Kingdom was acceptable as long as it was “righteous”?

“Hi Alex, we need to talk” Arthur struggled to squeeze out an unnecessary smile as all three, Dexter included, managed to find a seat between the kitchen counter and the door.

“Sucks, I am on the hook, forget about a refreshing outside work-out” I thought nearly out loud – “Sure, just give me few minutes to change and have a bite to eat”

“No, we have to talk now” growled Arthur. Suddenly, he was looking older and more mature. Perhaps those small roving coals of rage were having a special effect on his deep brown eyes. He might have been ready to step up to a more serious role in the Kingdom, so interning as a Torquemada junior appeared to be a logical step.

“OK” I replied sheepishly. It felt as if talking to Colin all over again. You could never be yourself, feeling like a dog with a tail between the legs even if you did not know exactly what the matter actually was. This time it was worse, I easily foresaw the script.

“You know why we are here” Arthur’s words clicked like freshly polished Gestapo boots.

“I can imagine” I replied quietly

“You have not been coming to church for at least a couple of months and you have been visiting that girlfriend of yours”

“Correct…”

“How happens to somebody who have tasted the heavenly fruit and then turn to the earthly vomit once more? He is worth than he started out to begin with” Arthur handily paraphrased one of the Biblical parables. This was a popular line for expulsion, I knew it.

“But this is between you and God….” He dismissed the difficult theology with a quick hand wave. “Your living here however, has to do with us and that’s why we have convened this meeting to let you know that you have to move out immediately!” Arthur’s eye coals were making fierce rounds about his eyelids.

“Can’t you give me at least few weeks to figure stuff out” I thrashed violently, trying to arrest my sinking into the quicksand.

“No, you have had enough time to do it. We have to follow the Corinthians by expelling the immoral person from our ranks. Your own confession to the relationship outside the church speaks loud and clear” Arthur retorted firmly.

The Corinthians story, of course, had to do with the man sleeping with his step mother and his expulsion from the church was not necessarily an expulsion from his household. To make matters even less punishing, Apostle Paul actually never ceased calling the man “brother”, having much hope in his salvation as “through the singing fire”. Alas, apart from sleeping with anybody, I was talking Arthur and Jerry instead of Paul.

“But I am planning to leave New York in less than two months anyway” I was loosing my grip on the last of the rope.

“That’s your business, but we do not want to be anywhere close lest be besmirched by your ungodly stains” Arthur brusquely regained leadership position.

“Can I have at least a couple of weeks?” I bleated helplessly.

“No, one week and that’s it. If you are not out by next Monday, we will throw you stuff on the street!” Arthur exclaimed with final authority.

This little man had a lot of anger indeed, but what about Jerry and Dexter. I looked furtively with some hope. Dexter’s eyes were burrowing through the floor. I knew he was, sort of, on my side. Unfortunately, this was not his call to make. Jerry was the deciding factor.

“Jerry, you have known me for some time. You know I would not disturb anybody, it is just for few weeks anyway…”

“No, I do not want you to be here another minute, let alone till next Monday” Jerry’s eyes were shrill with steely determination and his usually ready-to-be smarmy smile was nowhere on the palette. He liked saving folks but only once.

“Alright” I sighed in hopelessness. God giveth God taketh away.


Bye-bye New York
OK, with my latest trips out west it was clear that my relationship with Tracy was getting pretty serious and staying in New York was probably not the best option if I wanted to advance it any further. Seattle here we come. But before I could embark on the cross-country move, getting some of my stuff in order here and trying to fish out some contacts on the West Coast was probably a good idea. In short, I needed a couple of months.

The only trouble - I was now virtually homeless after the meeting with the firing squad. Had it happened in some vacancy rich part of the country, my troubles could have been minimal even with one week’s notice. In the perpetually overloaded Big Apple the task did not appear that simple. I started searching for anything around Columbia but everything affordable short-term kept getting snapped right in front of my eyes. It felt as if I was just chasing some apartment-gobbling monster that was just a split second faster every time. This beast dialled quicker, leafed through the phone books with meteoric speed and read two columns of “For Rent” at the same time. The most frustrating aspect of the whole ordeal was that I could not even sneak a peak at my adversary, let alone catching the bastard. As such, I gave up and moved North, the northern part of Manhattan. After all I could bear a thought of crossing into the notoriously sketchy parts of the Southern Bronx. Although just across a narrow sliver of water, when you told somebody that you lived in Bronx it typically translated into an equivalent of a daily commute from Gary Indiana. US Army Reserves anyone?

Being a bit desperate I was ready to stay in some floor basement, just do not ship me anywhere close to the Yankee Stadium. And if you think that the basement meant something with a fence view in Surrey, you might be mistaken, as I learned about a year before. Then, prior to getting lured by Colin into the paradise on Horatio, I was tempted by a $250 deal on the Upper Westside and it was not 101 as I were to have my own room! The church ad was posted by Jerry in his original, friendlier than Tony Robbins, John the Baptist reincarnation. Alas, his friendliness was not enough to fascinate a sufficient amount appeal in my heart. First of all, the spacious two-bedroom affair was revealed to be only accessible through a rat-ridden bunker masquerading as a boiler room, which was replete with horribly chilling industrial sounds. These, produced by some pre-WWII heating system, proved especially irksome in the midst of winter - precisely the time of my inspection. Then, after a blind crawl through the utilities, behind a thick steel door, the picture became exemplary in its completeness. There, the leeringly dark space betrayed nothing but one bird-sized window which was thickly smothered in putridity of a garbage collector pad. A couple of cheap Edison bulbs betrayed the rest from their perches at the end of an exposed electric wire. The rest was nothing but one lowly bachelor’s cote plus a couple of books strewn on the slimy concrete floor. Suddenly, I understood why Jerry had that distinct mossy smell. Burr, I still shudder at the thought.

Finally! My search led to some place at $400 per month that was still available when I called. I had to rush and quick, since it was a bit of a ride right, all the way to the edge of civilization at 208th. I had never been this far. Extrapolating the progression north of Columbia, I was almost certain to come upon some lunar rocks at my destination. Surprisingly, my soon arrival revealed a neighbourhood much more palatable than the ravages of Newark and Jersey City. Sure, it was a bit rough about the edges but at least folks actually lived here with hardly a curtain-less window on display. With the predominant architecture persisting from the days of Don Corleone’s first steps on the American soil, everything looked very familiar; I could have been on the Brooklyn’s Brighton Beech or the Queens’ Lincoln Boulevard for that matter. Consequently, feeling comfortable was not a chore save for some exceptional sewer stink that greeted my re-emergence into daylight.

A third-story walk, my destination, was just a predictable part of the obvious scenery. Gary, my host to be, opened the door that led to a very long narrow hallway that culminated in a pair of rooms, an austere bachelor kitchen plus a bathroom that was well-endowed in missing caulking and large black cockroaches. I really could not say no, although hiding the fact of my soon departure gave me some unease. Oh well, the fact that I was paying probably two-thirds of the rent for exactly one half of the pleasures relieved my spiritual burden, somewhat.

Gary was a teacher in a local high school. What he taught remained a mystery but by judging his ample chest, oversized biceps and the Long Island Mohawk hairdo, his perennial successes among those of the weaker sex were assured. Unmistakably, his room was well-equipped for just about any exploit - bristling with oversized speakers, a large comfortable bed and a powerful air conditioner under a heavy load of recognizable liquor labels, an absolute must during the savage New York summers.

My room presented a stern contrast to his. It had a bunk bed, an old plush couch with long-passed expiry date and one wobbly ceiling fan. The rest of the space was filled with dust and certain small fury creatures that had managed to squeak in rent-free. One look at my new Spartan arrangements soon to be complimented my prided weight-set was comfortable enough to plunk the deposit money in the Gary’s ample paw without a second thought.

From then on, my routine here was very predictable. Gary was hardly seen and much heard with his soft pop music hiding his nearly daily escapades with girlfriends of varying sizes, colours and ages. I, still single and in the perpetual throes of temptation, could not do any better but take long walks around the neighbourhood, which seemed always drowned in the stench of garbage. The summer heat did not help either. The Saturday mornings here were the most peculiar as the working masses, mostly hailing from Puerto Rico, loved their street partying every Friday night. The festivities, having gone deep into the night, never failed to produce at least an inch thick layer of rubbish scattered all over the sidewalks. This was a world away from the West Village. But I did not mind it one bit – my life was soon to change and having such memorable experiences made me only happier in the long run, I was sure of it.

In fact, when I really wanted to escape my surroundings I could just climb few blocks up to the Washington Heights. Here, although it still stank, the life was decidedly different. I did not even have to employ my Spanish to buy a pack of gum at the corner store and Yiddish was a definite choice. The neighbourhood that was relatively clean, well-guarded and crime-resistant. They even had a park that surrounded an old fortress hailing from the days when thick walls still held certain nefarious characters at bay. It was a great to get lost in my thoughts. I enjoyed the experience so much that taking up walking as a major hobby was a no-brainer. Once I even marched all the way down to Wall Street, in one day and in one piece. I wanted to scour Manhattan the best I could to have something marginally interesting to say later on.

On one of such outings I decided to renew my connection with the Christian world. Surely it was sad to have lost all those friends save for my ongoing contacts with David and Jody, but just thinking about going back gave me a cold sweat-shower. No, I was delighted to leave that world behind. But what to do instead? I decided to check out the Times Square church, a huge charismatic congregation under the tutelage of a well-know luminary named David Wilkerson. Apart from some general knowledge of the place, I was interested, not in the least by the frequent and disparaging references to it I heard back in the Kingdom.

At first it was a bit intimidating to walk through wide open bronze doors that lead into a large concert-hall complete with a balcony, faux Egyptian statutes and spotty red carpet in drastic need of some patching. The place could have fit thousands and thousands they were, worshipping with a music accompaniment. Many had their hands in the air, some were on their knees and everybody was involved, it was visibly emotional. I could hardly comprehend the haphazard scene that completely lacked. The Kingdom admired uniformity. Besides, they used, and apparently with pride, musical instruments. The Kingdom, in it’s strive to replicate of whatever they sought authentic Christianity to be, eschewed the usage of anything other than the person’s voice.

Here anything went - horns blaring, saxophones crooning and drums chasing those pesky melodies with a great degree of professionalism. Another peculiar practice I noticed, within minutes of arriving, was speaking in tongues - a long-drawn out subject of many a theological controversy. The Kingdom declared them dead but here, little conflagrations of “weird” were bubbling up in more than one quarter, spreading unevenly and with no visible choreography. After nearly an hour of worship, unheard of by the efficient Kingdom standards, the minister finally made a call for money. It was a few minutes long at best, followed by a short prayer with private velvety donation socks passed around, crisis-crossing the audience in whichever each way.

“No they do not have any bible talks here, the money is just handled so disorderly” I thought peacefully, stuffing a couple of dollars into the passing sock.

“Cling, cling” suddenly I heard somebody dropping change. “Wow, this is unbelievable, nobody, but visitors, would have dared to plunk loose change into one of those transparent bags at the Performance Arts Ministry – “What a difference!”

And difference it was as right after the sermon the crowds started pressing towards the doors with some urgency. Nobody was screaming “Bro!” or “I love you!” I felt a little sad and out of the place. Some people were hugging and smiling, sure – but there was no fishing going on. No lures, sturdy nets or promises of unconditional love, just people seeking God in one big empty place. I did not have a connection and that was certain Inexplicably, I felt happy and optimistic. This was closure and a sign that New York was over and done with.

“Splat” I felt a heavy warm drop of water landing on my cheek, announcing one short reprieve from the stifling July heat, aiming to wipe this slate clean and start anew some place else.


Post Scriptum

The Westside liberals are still munching on the Dock’s fish offerings. Sunday clam-bakes are just as popular as ever even though the management has changed. Their coffee machine can no longer compete with Starbucks down the block because the management has changed.

Jody, having inhaled enough Big Apple fumes, have, with his wife Jane and two children, back to where he came from – the state of Michigan. Now he lives in Grand Rapid, enjoys family life and pursues a reasonably successful freelance career. His work is as terrific as ever.

Jeff never married “Polly Pocket” Amy. He, having left for a little tour of Florida few years ago, never reappeared in the Big Apple. He took all his precious artefacts with him. These included his favourite Bianchi bike and the self-portrait in green.

Volodya eventually received the dream of his life – the US green card. Shortly after the conquest, he could not hold himself any longer in the straight jacket of reasonable morals by leaving Irina for somebody else. And yet his ardent nature had hard time settling its expectations. The last time I heard, Volodya was unavoidably detained in some jail near Chechnya. By the way, I am still waiting on those $500 bucks he borrowed.

Colin requested and was granted a significant advance on his inheritance. He and Sue just could not wait to start their life together without it. I caught up with Colin years later. I requested and was not granted an interview since tainted by the imprudent marriage to Tracy. In any case, at the time of our last contact some eight years ago, Colin was a realtor and lived in a suburb of Philadelphia. He actually never made it to the West Coast, the cradle of his film career expectations, quite contrary to what his father might have been led to believe. He, Colin, did choose Madison Carling as the name of his first born however…

The Boston Church of Christ (aka the Kingdom) experienced few more years of rapid and vertiginous success. Alas, this did not last and the scheme had a misfortune of imploding. Its abusive practises and doctrinal shortcomings were cited as the main reasons for the calamity. This was not helped by some embezzlement scandals that led all the way to the prophetic lair of Mr. McKean. Today, the indomitable Kip is trying to re-build. So far only a handful has signed up – interested?