Just about any city of significance in this world boasts at least a single focal point that defines it. Some, more fortunate ones have multiples – amazing even the fussiest of observers. Admirers of anything pronounced would note Eifel Tower as a definitive notion that encapsulates Paris as we know it. History buffs might be quick to disagree as the famed tower has not aged long enough to pretend to be anything but a brash upstart. These folks lean heavily in the direction of Notre Dame and Louvre. When crossing over to the Foggy Albion, some completely ignore the London Eye in favour of historic charms associated with Westminster and Big Ban. Others could hardly wait to hop onto the oversized observation cabins. And on and on it goes, as each new spot flaunts its charms in splendid squares, tall structures and breath-taking views to the delight of diverse multitudes who find much to chew on.
New York City has to be one of these places with a definite claim to notoriety. It, although decidedly too modern of a slant for some, pushes its heights in harmony with other, less crassly defined, landmarks. One of them is particularly much too odd and unique to be ignored by modern hipsters and musty old historians alike.
It is unfailingly mentioned in all New York travel literature. It plays hosts to multiple industries and millions of people. It is one of the brightest spots in the Universe, lit through neon glare of every possible size, potency and social acceptability. It hosts the biggest annual American New Year bash and is irresistible magnet for grey masses and bright pink starlets alike. And yet, it is almost impossible to find had it not been for some detailed maps and fortuitous blind turns – Times Square.
To start with, this is nothing but a plain intersection of two narrow streets that happen to find each other in the human ant maze that is New York City. These streets do not resemble anything a blissful Parisian and a snobby Muscovite might consider a place to walk with their children, eye-flirt with passing beauties or just enjoy tree shades on sweltering heavy days of July. Instead, these are just like canyons, stony and chaotic, with claims on intelligence associated with human design. While their natural counterparts have been carved by inexorable pace of all things gravitational, the intellectual gravitas behind the street lay-out of this city has been found wanting on many an account. Is this surprising? Not in the least, the city that is built on unbridled individualism, one-upmanship and money, a lot of money, could hardly care for such things as aesthetics and public purpose. As a corollary, even city’s squares have to conform to the mighty dollar that finds its way to announce value of every nook and cranny, no matter how hidden, on this Isle of Manhattan.
So does our non-existent square that boasts just about no sidewalks, thousands of cars and tens of thousands kamikaze human beings, ready to sacrifice their limbs and very lives for even a tiny slice of American pie. And slices there are many as evidenced by the most expensive neon lit space in the whole world. For hot summer days, one could hardly resist a refreshing size of Coke pouring right out of a bottle sized for a big white whale. Feeling slightly bored, and multicolour kaleidoscope of Broadway is ready to swallow you whole or in pieces if necessary. Fancying something frisky and negligee bill boards will take you as far as your imagination is willing.
The trickiest part of this neon parade is temptation - the temptation to distract your senses, and in the most inopportune time at that. While each human being should really concentrate to stay within narrow sidewalks and out of the way of yellow beasts with taxi signs atop, these neon temptations completely mess up our chances to emerge alive from this ant mayhem of competing egos and sizes enriched by trips to local Sbarros, McDonalds and other purveyors of transfatty acids. To make matters worse, local planners planted additional obstacles to create a true steeple-chase of survival. Here, on the narrow concrete island on the south end, there is a US Army recruitment office as an example. With one’s chances of dying in Iraq or Afghanistan already prohibitively high, your chances of arriving home in one piece become almost invisible when adding a couple of local trips to sign your papers. On the north end, a similar isle hosts a “50% Off Broadway” box office that performs magic similar to that of honey in Winy the Pooh, except that instead of oversized cuddly bears in a shaggy costume it attracts humans in their savage quest for bargains. Alas, some find their un-bargained-for and untimely demise under the tread of ubiquitous yellow cabs. What a pity! Having survived the sidewalk squeeze and neon glitter, it pains to see one so promising to yield its life for half-priced front row seats at Les Miserables…
Welcome to New York
Of course, I had already lived here for few months. Of course, I had been to this vortex many times, including those at my pathetic initial tries at the torture behind the counter otherwise known as Roxy’s. But this time I looked at the place with an entirely new set of eyes. Before, miserable and penniless, I could hardly afford to look up, manoeuvring sidewalks with sideways darts of a professional slalom skier. I could not linger and time pressed on my unsteady shoulders like a concrete block. Then everything around me, human and artifice, collapsed into two broad categories – remotely plausible and extravagant. If it was not useful in advancing my singular quest for a paycheque, it was ruthlessly discarded into the dustbin of unnecessary and distracting luxuries.
Now, with a job and some cash in the bank, I was much better equipped to notice other subtleties of my existence. And yet a visit to Times Square to attend a church service seemed utterly ridiculous amidst jewellery-laden store fronts and billboards replete with as much human flesh one could ever desire to lay eyes on. All this glare and shine made me instinctively squint in order to keep focus. May be it was just a hoax when Kevin invited to attend his so called church. I kept scanning for the sign, oh ya here it was – Roundabout Theatre. Neatly tucked in between a bright and gaudy camera store and haggard undernourished outlines of Kate Moss, its tastefully understated lettering on the front awning announced yet another Broadway venue for hire.
Utilized by night for off-Broadway productions, the venue was happy to milk any other pocket for some extra revenue. Being off-Broadway the theatre hawked mostly dramatics that did not pay nearly as handsomely as anything serenaded by catchy tunes and memorable voices of the Broadway itself. Here grim artistic existence ebbed on the cutting edge of survival that bordered on utter penury. Oh well, I inhaled a decent amount of outside exhaust and stepped in.
Welcome to the Moon
“I love you, bro!” exclaimed a tall character with long curly hard rock hair in a well-worn black leather jacket. “Hmm rather warm of a place”, I thought.
The next thing I know my rocker gives a full-blown mother Russia hug to a stylish, blue-eyed type with Upper East Side airs. “I love you, Jerry!” he smiled as sweetly as a dreamy beauty after thousand years in bad wizard’s dungeon.
Before my slow computer of a brain could complete its first set of feverish calculations…
“I love you sis!” barely untangling from the mirthy leather clad tentacles, our waspy client rushed up to a pale tall young woman with very inquisitive and almost certainly perceptive eyes. Now, extending one arm in a demure half-hugging gesture, he did his best to relay the undeniable warmth of his trendy dark blue blazer.
“I love you, Colin”, she nearly melted her lipstick in the warmest and most approving of smiles.
My computer threatened crashing, barely murmuring through the previous set of instructions. I desperately needed something warm, fuzzy and familiar. “Oh what a relief”, I just spotted my friend Kevin who invited me to the thing in the first place.
“Oh, Alex how great you came”, he smile could not have been any wider as I could easily count his molars, “Let me introduce you to some of my friends”. And friends he had as I had to go through hundreds of hands it seemed. Some even gave me hugs. It was truly an unbelievable experience in the city where even the simplest kindnesses of life came at a price. Here it was all gratis – amazing!
More than that it was not some made up sinister plan and all these people were part of a church, for Pete’s sake. I felt as content as ever, I could have died there as the holy ground under the auspices of Roundabout Theatre was definitely worthy treading if not kissing. I was certainly more fortunate that Moses himself, as he was only given a glimpse of the Promised Land. I actually arrived to stand on it. It was surely flowing with hugs and kisses. One was not even feeling as an outsider although I did not know these people from Adam. Maybe this was the very well-hidden truth about America not many knew about and I was fortunate enough to discover it by God’s provision.
After meeting Colin, Sue, Jerry, Vince and a whole bunch of others, we settled for a midday service. At first when invited to a “devotional” I imagined a small tight group of let’s say twenty individuals coming together for worship and Bible reading, and no more. This certainly was not the case as the theatre was teeming with people numbering in the hundreds. They all came for a regular church service with worship, preaching and collections. To me though, it all appeared as wonderful and surreal as I had just stepped in an alien spaceship. With eyes bigger than full-sized saucers I was soaking this strange new culture spread over a steep theatre auditorium complete with a professional stage, low lighting and beautiful people all around.
“Kevin, where all these people work?” it was noon and could not account for some many people observing this sudden siesta.
“We call it Performance Arts ministry, as so many people here are in the arts and work nights or on the weekends”, Kevin knew his shtick very well.
“You see that tall black guy there?”
“Yea”
“He actually sings one of the main parts in Miss Saigon”
“You do not say”, not only these people were beautiful but also successful, a great place to hang out. I could only imagine that given time I’d be hanging out with Clint Eastwood or Bill Cosby. Besides none of it seemed to cost a cent!
Now it was the time to shut up and listen or sing it you will. I did not pick up the cue quickly enough as the stage was surprisingly bereft of any music instruments whatsoever. Instead, a bunch of attractive people including the dude from Miss Saigon mounted the stage and started signing a cappella, staggered around the stage for better acoustics. Never in the possession of any capacity to sing myself, I yielded to beautiful emanations of those whose ears were sparred by stomping elephant feet (a bit of Russian etymology for you). The signing was superb and all consuming as the whole theatre started hoping in an artful unison. Kevin, next to me, came doubly alive with his black southern charisma and rhythmical finger snapping. If the previous half hour was like crossing Jordan, now I had just entered Jerusalem. It was so dynamic and celebratory that even least inclined would have been swept by the emotions. And even as the initial upbeat pieces were followed by some sombre hymnals the overall mood remained exuberant and irrepressible. Kevin was all smiles and Colin in his trendy blue blazer beamed darts of love eternal. Some of stardust must have landed on me as I felt like a million dollars. Everyone was a beneficiary of the meteoric shower: Kevin lost all his Bubba Gump awkwardness and took on uncle charming; Vince, his scrawny friend, suddenly became a valiant knight with a puff-up metal chest; and even hairy Jerry looked less and less like Mick Jagger, melting into the pure righteousness of John the Baptist. Having crossed few Jerusalem streets, I was now ready to enter the temple itself.
And as any good temple goer knows, the next part of the service was the one dealing with collections. Suddenly, bags of some plastic transparency found their ways across the aisles. Colin swiped out one of his own, passing on to me and further. Smiling brilliantly I took a clue that first one was free. Kevin, not having quite the privilege dipped in with some dollars, then went Vince, Sue, Jeff with Jerry closing the ranks by plunking an oversized stack of green bills – “not bad for a hairy guy,” my carnal computer was still at work despite the solemn hour.
With our entry granted, the pastor du jour in well-worn jeans and white sneakers stepped on the stage. No suits, no pantomime, and no myrrh, he was all fire and brim stone. Not quite in the southern Baptist tradition where hell rains right outside, instead he was exhorting and really Paul like. His vowels were deep and consonants juicier than a Hawaiian pineapple. I was mesmerized.
“Preach, bro!” shouts of spontaneous encouragement reverberated from many a listener.
“Amen!”
“Give it to them!” I did not know exactly who “they” were but it sounded entertaining enough. It was definitely hotter with excitement. I desperately wanted to be in. Ready made friends and family were worth gold to a lonely fortune seeker.
“What is the entry price? There must be something…” and yet any obstacles failed to materialise as I was invited to a Bible Talk at Colin’s place on the next day.
I was walking home and it felt like walking on a softest of clouds.
Palatial Encounter
Twenty four hours later and I found myself in a trendy Mid-Town apartment, right around the corner from the Roundabout on the 44th street, right next to the popular magnet of French cuisine – “Une, Deux, Trois” Not only the place had a friendly, well-uniformed doorman, it also had nice foyer décor, and clean spacious elevator. I have never in my life been in such a plush residential building and right in the middle of Manhattan no less.
Impressed enough, I was totally lost for words when stepping on a shiny, wall-to-wall, carpet that covered the entire pad. I had seen these things before but those were in expensive detached homes of suburban Chicago, this was an apartment rented to some twenty year olds.
“How much is the rent?” the question kept distracting me from properly greeting all those smiling characters that illuminated the room from wall-to-wall.
“Hi everyone, this is Alex. He is from Ukraine and works with Kevin” Colin smiled wide with his flawlessly dazzling white smile, the one so thoughtfully framed by his trendy blue shirt and club blazer. Weaponized with his detailed introduction rivalling those of Bridget Jones Diaries I proceeded meeting one happy face after another. This was the most remarkable. They either took pills or something else was clearly at play.
With unforgettable minutes ticking by, my worries were slowly subsiding as I failed to spot a single wrist band of habitual emergency room clientele. We sat down on a plush carpet and started the bible study. This one went alone for a ride with St. Paul and his travelling adventures throughout Asia. Being a new Christian and a history buff, I was fully engaged in every twist and turns with few thoughtful interjections that were appreciated by all.
By the end of the evening we were parting as long-lost old friends – enthusiastic and full of beautiful plans for the future, immediate and distant.
Hot Coffee Awakening
A couple of days later, Colin and I got together for a coffee expedition on the far west phalange of the 9th Avenue. In those days, old rickety New York diners were just about the only places to go out for a meaningful cup of java when in possession of time to kill. Starbucks were still enjoying their embryonic state on the West Coast, faster food joints offered coffee exclusively under unpalatable neon and morning street vendors dispensed their paper cup wonders in busy swirls of the sidewalks themselves. Then some places on key thoroughfares did offer some coffee atmosphere but it usually came with pre-fix menus and other expensive tricks, leaving diner culture unchallenged in its supremacy. Tucked in the very outskirts of anything chic, these offered great atmosphere, low prices and menus as extravagant and thick as to rival garish editions of Vanity Fair and Cosmopolitan. Here, in the middle of Hell’s kitchen, Upper Upper West Side, Chelsea and Clinton one could order French onion soup, red snapper and buckwheat pancakes, all at the same time. One could spend as little as three bucks and as much as one’s stomach could hold. Open 24/7, these wonder-bazaars of foody choices would perplex any Haut Cuisine trained chef and yet would easily flog its charms of ol-mamma cooking. Their waiters, always grumpy and haggard, never looked for better jobs, and their patrons, hailing from halls of Columbia and bowels of Wall Street alongside iconic derelicts of Lower East Side and Harlem, stayed just as loyal. Some found their way from their Fifth Avenue apartments, others sported heavy Polish accents and precious many mastered art of loneliness to perfection. In a word, the place smelt, walked and looked like a proverbial American melting pot. I loved it – dark or bright, flavourful and very local. Hardly anyone who came here was a stranger to the Gotham City. Instead, draped in all shades and sizes, people shared one common denominator – they all were New Yorkers.
Coming here for the first time with Colin officially inaugurated me into the ranks of New Yorkers. Sure, I was still sharing a pad with Jerry and Gus (the Mexicans) on the opposite shore of Hudson, but my soul and spirit were becoming soaked with all things Big Apple. I loved it all – sable coats, banana peel garbage and Plaza Hotel. My new acquaintance added to the collage just perfectly. His trendy slick jacket, Waspy airs and good humour scintillated in one perfect harmony under web-infested dark lights of the establishment. He came armed with an oversized New International Version and his friend Jody, a long-haired artist with an attractive aquiline nose and a serene amiable smile to rival the wispy charms of Mona Lisa.
“Nice to see you again”, I was truly delighted though unsure of what to do next.
“It was great for you to come to our Bible study. Hope you can come again”
“Of course!”
“Let’s read a few verses”, I was all for more piety.
Reading was a nice idea as our brains verve-d up over dark circles of the caffeinated brew. Discussing the material was a bit more challenging. I wanted to say “amen” just about to everything; Colin and Jody were a little more reluctant.
“What does it mean to be a Christian?” felt a bit like a baseball bat across my face – what did this tend to?
“What do you mean?”
“What does Bible say about it?”
“God gave his only begotten son….” I was happy to share my deep theological insights into the famous John 3:16.
“Yes, but what else?”
“Well. Maybe you could tell me”
“Okay. Let’s go through a few” Colin’s features suddenly firmed up.
Helpful Jody was already flipping through, looking for convincing passages. Some rather sallied pages quickly pointed in all right directions. Suddenly, I felt as if under a microscope but a retreat was not an option as curiosity weighed heavier than wide-open questions. The next hour was spent in numerous passages charting their habitual course through the Colin’s NIV. Following each reading, Colin posed all the questions, Jody smiled and I stuttered. At last, our pleasant coffee time, turned ordeal, ran its course and I left with many questions and feelings of inferiority that could no longer be concealed under the guise of newness and adventure. The general drift was clear although still lacking a particularly anchoring point. A little battered, I was still more intrigued leaving than coming. There was no way back and I had to learn about this beautifully strange Biblical fraternity – just about the warmest place under the sun, New York’s sun.
Sobering Revelations
The next couple of weeks I spent just about all free time studying with Colin and whoever else he chose to bring. Always with presence and his NIV, he was a powerful warrior with a mission. Little by little, details of my pitiful Christianity began to emerge.
Now, my old preconceptions of simple, child like, faith were laid bare and defunct. Apparently, I had sucked on milk bottles for too long, much to the detriment of my body craving for really filling solids. Colin’s recipe was far more extensive than anything I had heard before. I needed to share my faith regularly. I needed to be hot for Christ. I needed to have received Holy Spirit through baptism and I needed to belong to a group of likeminded. In other words, I was not a Christian and it was clear.
“What should we do?” echoed many of the converted on the fateful day of Pentecost some two thousand years ago, while I was sitting in the middle of an over-heated room short on escape hatches. Surrounding sat Colin, Jody and Arthur, the leader of the Performance Art Ministry.
It was more of a rhetorical question, as it was clear that I wanted to stay and if being a true Christian meant some talking to I did not mind this temporary lack of comfort in the least. Convinced to have found all basic answers, I was ready to plunge, literally.
“Repent and be baptised for the remission of sins. Sins could only be forgiven through baptism, water baptism”, Arthur’s juicy voice was soaked with conviction and zeal for the Lord.
“What else?” I puzzled in the legitimate question as the place did not seem to offer a full-on bath tub, not yet anyway.
“You have to be a disciple, repentant of your sinful past before baptism”.
“Yes”
“Be joyful and sacrificial in giving”
“No doubt”
“..belong to one true church and be fruitful for the Lord”
“…and you are the Church?”
“Yes”
“Where was it before Boston?” International Churches of Christ was founded just thirteen years prior in Boston by somebody with a rhyme-induced name of Kip McKean.
“True believers have always existed since the very original first century church. We are the true inheritors of the first apostolic church”
“What about infant baptism?”
“Wrong”
“Martin Luther?”
“Lacking”
“Mother Teresa”
“Not a true Christian”
I desperately wanted in.
“There is more”
“More?” I felt non-existent hair standing up ion my back.
“You need to count the cost. Being a disciple means sacrifice and unless you are prepared for it, you are not suited for Lord’s service”
“When then?”
“Tomorrow at ten”, Colin loved his nocturnal rhythms
”Earlier? No…OK”
“See you tomorrow, bro!” I loved my new brothers-to-be to bits.
Re-Entry
My re-birth took place on December 10, 1992. Exactly year and a half before I made my first attempt at Christianity by praying Jesus into my heart. Now, standing corrected, I took one last step as a sinner into Colin’s very own, filled to the brim, bath tub. Nobody cared if some spilled out on the white tiled floor; the main thing was to make sure that every bit of my burdensome body was covered to atone for sins as there definitely were some.
Just about the whole Bible Talk was present despite the late hour. After an hour long study of “Counting Costs”, I was ready, dressed in my best version of swimming trunks and wrapped in Colin’s fluffy and oversized beach towel. Every one cheered as if I were just about to ascend an Olympic pedestal. The only problem left unresolved was the smallish size of the bath tub; will it contain all my generous outlines? This was a crucial piece apparently. Oh well, time will tell shortly.
I stepped in, made my last confession and submerged, pushed on by many a hand. “Relief” – the collective effort worked and I re-emerged a new creature. Hardly anything felt all that different apart from my dripping trunks and an urgent desire to hug everyone belonging to my new family. Colin rushed to call Arthur, who despite it being nearly midnight was there to receive the joyful news. He gave me a heartfelt welcome into the brotherhood of saints. AMEN!
On my way back that night I felt as light as a feather, not feeling the ground and nearly forgetting how to return to my new place in Brooklyn. Since I had just moved from New Jersey to Brooklyn, my commute had become longer but more predictable, as instead of the bus through the terrors of Lincoln tunnel I took subway into the bowels of Brooklyn, Manhattan’s ugly cousin. I would have stayed in Jersey for much longer had it not been for one of my Mexican roommates, Jerry, getting his own place since his wife and a kid were moving here to join him. The pad, left to Gus and I, was now a little pricier, making me want to try some cheaper options. These were not particularly hard to find in the local Russian press and I quickly found myself on the other end of the metropolis. I could hardly tell you why I wanted to rent from a Russian, I do not honestly know except having looked at some dumps advertised in New York Daily News I felt that a little retreat into pirogi land might be in the offing. Besides, this happened shortly before my plunging into Colin’s bathtub, and so any new arrangements with anybody from the church would have to wait a while. Honestly, I was a bit tired of moving my two suitcases around dirty floors of public transit – the cheapest option going.
New Year Headache
“I hate sleeping on the floor without a mattress”, my first thought of the day was making its way through a tangled-up dream land. My bones were hurting regardless of the position, besides it was little draughty, and so staying in “bed” did not seem like a good idea. The only trouble was that I could not do all that much else as Helen was still seeing her New Year dreams, wrapped up in one and only true comforter amid very Spartan surroundings of my new room. It hardly contained anything besides a creaky headboard-less bed, one chair and old armour hailing from sturdier pre-IKEA days. It was hardly enough to store my meagre position fit into two well-travelled suitcases. At least, the room also boasted a small narrow closet with a couple of shelves and a water heater that contributed mightily to my hanging space.
I did not want to disturb her. It was only eight and we got home at about three. Such short sleep clearly was not enough even for her young and vigorous body. Leaving the room was hardly a better option. My landlord and roommate, Georgiy Alexandrovich, was still enjoying his hide-a-bed in the living room. Even the kitchen was off limits since to get there I had to prowl right through the living room filled with sour nocturnal fumes of my new companion. Turning into yet another tortuous yoga position, I closed my eyes and drifted off into a memory lane…
The past three weeks in my new church family was a remarkable life transformation. With my friendships, bible studies and church services, my enthusiasm for life multiplied day after day. No longer I was worried sick about the next day, the next paycheque and the next extension of my flimsy immigration papers. All life problems seemed to have stopped still yielding to sure tranquility of tomorrow. I was now a regular at Colin’s Bible Talks, contributing and ever learning things new. Besides Wednesday services in Roundabout Theatre, we also had Sunday services there. But this was not all since the Performance Arts Ministry was only a part of a larger New York church counting up to five thousand members hailing from all boroughs.
My church as it tuned out did not really believe in owning much real estate, especially in New York were it had always been sky high even for the most modest of venues. Renting on the other hand was way easier. Short time slots in off-peak hours in a theatre or mid-week gatherings at some barely surviving Methodist church with ghostly attendance will do just great. Leaders of the church, coming from all imaginable walks of life ranging from chefs and mathematicians to Michael Jackson impersonators, found many ever innovative ways to fetch relatively inexpensive and yet quite prominent locales.
A monthly service with everybody from miles around attending was an exception and must have cost an arm and a leg. On this occasion, services were held under spacey crystal auspices of Javits Centre. Situated further westwards than my cautious sensibilities would ever lead I feared the worst as if coldest of Hudson waters would imminently sweep over board. My fears were unfounded and everybody managed to stay comfortably dry under the immense glass roof surrounded by less than inspiring architectural gems of depression on one side and an immense railway yard on the other - a nice short walk away from the best amenities of the 42nd street with its ample selection of XXX goods and less than salubrious fumes of the Bus Central.
What went on the inside could not have been a larger contrast to the nearly marshal law of the surrounding neighbourhoods that looked as if seeing a police car not more than once a year on average. Here inside the multitudes of bros and sis were colliding in friendly waves of hugs, handshakes and day planners. The crowds were predominantly young, super enthusiastic and ready to spread out all their available time between Bible Talks, personal Bible studies and dating! Dating?
Having been part of the Performance Arts Ministry for a couple of weeks, I could not help but notice a number of very eligible looking members in possession of more than certain charms. At first, I felt a little apprehensive and inferior in such a company I did not dare to ask. Luckily, Colin promptly clarified the situation.
“You can date anyone you wish”
“Come again. What did you say?”
“All single brothers and sisters are encouraged to get to know one another”
“But this is not dating…”
“Well, in worldly terms it is not. Here, you should hang out with as many sisters as possible, not just to learn about them, but also build your faith and theirs. We call it dating”
I could hardly contain my excitement – this is just some sort of dating extravaganza! Bring it on!
“So I can date anyone I wish and they would not say no?”
“Shouldn’t. You are just like friends anyway. The only people do not go on dates with are those who are either engaged or going steady”
“You do not say…” I could hardly wait to finish our conversation. My immediate attention span was melting under a hormonal onslaught and my sights had already been set in a different direction. I was a new and improved Mr. Collins of Pride and Prejudice fame, unabashedly scanning lucid charms of all potential matches. Moreover, in place of five Miss Bennets I had nearly a whole world to contend with.
“Here is Sue from the Bible talk. She is tall, smart and almost Wall Street aggressive with a very low voice, echoing of sultry motives. Not bad, a little too waspish though, hailing from the Long Island and all. She also has this thing about subways and claustrophobia, taking only buses and taxis to get around - a little too nutty for me. Besides, Colin seems to have set out pretty hard in her direction already. It is surely a bit too much to bite all at once. Forget about it.”
“Oh, there is another potential match – Tiffani. She is a trendy African American girl with a firm latch on the latest affordable fashions with some wild daily swings on the top of her head, accompanied by frequent intrusions of ribbons, berets and other foreign objects. She is pretty in fiery sort of way, almost bordering on unbridled. Quite exciting actually! On the other hand it is hard to keep up with her, always complicated, stories about employment, or lack thereof, and her rent that refused to get paid on time. No, it looks too much over my head too.”
Feeling a little bruised due to rapidly shrinking numbers of prospective choices. I had to resort to some positive self-talk – “after all, buddy, you are not a Sultan of Ottoman empire and in the end you would be lucky to get away with one of these”. My guardian-self was right, what’s the worry when I only need one attractive member of the opposite sex, preferably one with good American papers.
Suddenly, turning around I nearly knocked down Denise “Hi Alex! Is this your first time here?”
The world was quickly becoming a better place, “Yea, is not this awesome!”
“I am glad you like it here”
I kept trying to keep my grey brain matter straight as steroids were back at their nibbling. Denise was really stunning. Not in a super-model sort of way, but stunning nevertheless with her shining white teeth, petite frame and glasses. Those were a million dollar glasses that turned her into a queen. And she was talking to me! She was also exotic, black as they came, with her African lineage clearly unadulterated. She was just that proverbial African queen imbued with airy walk, simplicity of manners and wispy, nearly mysterious, smile.
“What are you doing next week?” seconds could not have ticked slower
“I am free on Wednesday night”, this must be a hint. Do something!
“Do you want to go to the movies? I heard new Charlie Chaplin is quite good”
“Sure, let’s meet at six by Columbus Circle”
I tried to grip a back of a chair next me as vertigo was about to overcome all my senses dancing in golden glow of elation eternal…
“Wow, but do I wear? I urgently need Colin’s advice or at least Jody’s” I could not believe my luck.
Asking Colin would be great since he was a true paragon of fashion in my eyes. Born and bread in Philadelphia, he came from somewhat elevated and tasteful classes that expected a lot from their offspring. A degree from Columbia itself brightly featured on the resume of his talents. In addition, his father, who climbed professional ranks as far as to claim a partnership spot on the very tip of the pinnacle that was Goldman Sachs, had much influence on his precocious son, bringing him up in the best manners of Sachs Fifth Avenue. In short, Colin’s taste was impeccable. Alas, right at this time Colin was engaged elsewhere, leaving always helpful Jody as my only immediate option.
Wake Up Call
“What time is it?” Helen was just getting back to the reality of a crisp sunny day outside, the first day of 1993.
“Nearly eleven”, I was happy to end my carpet wallowing.
“Those friends of yours are OK types. A little too religious for my taste though”
Last night I invited Helen to the New Year bash thrown by the Performance Arts Ministry. It was an uplifting gathering with inspiring signing reverberating throughout the rafters of an old church just half a block away from Broadway and steps away from the Lincoln Centre. Besides singing and preaching, I was the most proud to introduce Helen to all my new friends with all those hugs and kisses in tow.
“Just people” I tried to blunt the lunge.
“Yea, till they reach into your wallet. It’s America, remember”, she, a perfectly sceptical product of the Soviet system, was not about to be taken for a ride.
“You always expect the worst”
“Trust me, I have seen enough”, her American tenure was a little shorter but no less eventful than mine.
“Well, anyway. We now have to deal with my psycho landlord. So walk quietly around his couch. He might look sleeping, but he is not”
Toe-stepping around Georgiy Alexandrovich went just fine. She left for her place in the middle of Long Island, not a very conducive place for straggled partiers. With door clicked tight, I just about swung around the corner to sneak back for some extra rest. It was not to be, my delirious landlord was fully awake and ready for a fight. Having perceived a weakness in my presumed church-going Christianity, he seized the moment with enumerate expletives and other similar genre.
I moved in just a short month ago, expecting to persist in the place for some time. After all it was cheap and convenient enough with a subway station just a couple of blocks away. But the more I learned of my landlord the less time I wanted to spend in the place. His story was really a simple one of freedom emboldened neglect, one so common to societies that are in denial about paying taxes. What really had happened was this. Some twenty years prior Georgiy Alexandrovich moved to the bustling New York shores from not less busy but decidedly less profitable free port of Odessa. Newly married and with a young kid, he was ready to make a transition to better life. Things went well in the first few years as he was happily and gainfully employed close to the things he had known since childhood – fish. He managed a busy seafood establishment nearby, making decent coin and waiving his new flag with stars and stripes.
Never an easy task to spend much of ones life close to ever slippery and non-responsive fish with eyes devoid of any expression even under a butcher knife, my countryman went a little crazy. Seeing myriads of fish eye shapes and sizes, readying for grizzly, guillotine like, procedure in complete tranquility did its dirty work in desensitizing the executioner. According so many a fish the glory of going down like Maria-Antoinette did very little to assuage the boiling insides of his seared psyche.
Fast-forward and few years later, abandoned by the next of kin, he was typically found, all coiled up inside, sitting on his couch starring at the abyss, trying to get of hold simple truths of life, now heavily obscured by gills, tails and other unsavoury fish contents. He desperately wanted to escape the labyrinth of lifelong puzzles but could not. He thought that the answer might by hidden nearby, next door really, in the next room, which he could rent for some supplemental income. Once accomplished, the rest of his life could be lived out on the high. Alas, what he really needed were strong drugs in good doses. And here was the irony of the situation. He, having escaped the madness of the Soviet society, was now deprived of its so much needed and basically inescapable psychological help that loved to haul you in at first signs of any problem. Here in free capitalism, the choice is not of those dressed in long white smokes and equipped with large syringes. Here, the choice lies within, the very within that cannot cope and is overwhelmed with life. The best they could do was to offer some meagre assistance. It did not work. Georgiy Alexandrovich, like many of his partners in trouble, never questioned his sanity even despite constantly closing door behind his many past and future roommates.
Today, with Helen’s fragrant air still hanging in our Spartan and very manly environment, my Christianity was going to be tested to its fullest. Sensing as if nearing a breaking point, going back to the city to visit some of my friends was the only option. I was as good as gone and now it was just a matter of time before I said my final “Adios”.
Othello Pangs
Going to the city was not a bad idea after all, since I still needed to see my comfortable Jody about his last dating instructions. It was all I needed to heal unnecessary roommate wounds. Although married, he felt like a good inveterate single, although American from the heartland of Michigan, he felt so fuzzily Russian, buckwheat-y almost. I did not even need to call ahead, a very American way of meeting someone. Instead, I could just show up, just like back at home. Besides, I typically had a good reason as Jody was my discipling partner. What the heck is the discipling partner?
A sensitive and daring innovation indeed since just few short weeks ago I had not the foggiest of what the notion of the discipling partner meant. The first time I heard of the position, it sounded marvellous. After all, I was just a clueless neophyte who needed all assistance he could get and an assignment of an official mentor was what the doctor ordered. Since the church was a very strange organism in itself, I needed this mentorship to navigate around. Prayer, personal quiet time, bible talks and church services constituted a joyous and yet at times overwhelming change in my otherwise lonely existence. I was glad that there was somebody who would make sure that I stay on straight and narrow, before settling on more mature pattern. The fact that Jody was becoming a close friend was just a bonus. Being a rather junior member himself, I was his only charge, giving us plenty of time hanging out and having a good time. Our link of mentor and subordinate was one of myriads, lacing the fabric of the congregation. The pattern carried from loose threads of lowly novices like myself all the way to the top where the church of headed by certain Kip McKean who did not seem to have any superior other than God himself – a little interesting crochet considering that Roman Catholic Church with the Pope in Rome was an utter abomination in the eyes of many here - an interesting question that could wait answering as my exciting new family was both flawless and infallible. Well, for now I was well shielded with Jody at the helm.
He on the other hand had a bit harder time with his superiors as Colin was his direct boss and he was never in the mood to let anything go scot-free. Whenever in one of his frequent mini-inquisition moods with his eyes stern and narrow, he could be a truly onerous fellow to get alone with. Fortunately, he managed to produce some brighter and much more benevolent moods from time to time. When in those you could not find a better company fully stocked with lucid annunciation, bright ideas and first rate manners. Sometimes I even wanted to be in his shoes that often betrayed a class of their own with price tags well-north of anything I could ever afford. Jody, I think, experienced less of this offsetting behaviour and hence had to exhibit some monumental patience to stay composed – not a common trait these days of gratuitous consumption. A truly rare specimen I was happy to befriend even if as a discipling partner…
“Hi Jody”, I boomed into the intercom of his nice walk-up just meters away from the famous Barnies fashions in Chelsea.
“Common up”, I loved coming here. There was a feeling of things being well-worked in and home made. Jane and Jody married just a short time, created excellent tranquil ambiance in this diminutive studio that boasted more furniture than free space plus a hint of a counter generously christened as kitchen.
“Alex, yesterday you were late for the bible talk”, Jody eyes squinted searchingly, as if our leader Colin was standing right behind him.
“The train was held somewhere in Brooklyn”, I blushed knowing that subway stoppages were always a good excuse.
“Just try to plan better next time”, Jody looked relieved, neither of us seemed to enjoy awkward topics.
“What about my date with Denise?”
“Oh, yea about what to wear”
“Exactly”
“Make sure you coordinate well”
“What’s that?”
Luckily, Jody was well adept at describing some key aspects of Haut Couture. This was necessary not only to impress Denise, but also appear “sharp”, a widely used church term that emphasised a need to look chic, attractive and thin - sort of a self-regulating tool for keeping tabs on the “holy” meter of our bodily temple. Most seemed to comply with very few exhibiting unhealthy amounts of celluloid.
Fed with right amounts of khaki and blue I was on my way to the first date.
Aftermath
The date seemed to have gone without a hitch and felt great. After all I had never had a date with somebody so exotic and foreign. All appeared exciting, fresh and promising till…
“You know, Denise is eight years your senior”
“So what of it”, this was not the first time my conversation with Jody was taking a strange turn with the squinting eyes behind the transaction.
“I mean I spoke to her discipling partner”
“Why?”
“Maybe you should date other sisters”, a felt a little knifing pang in my chest. It sounded like any direct and private interactions hinting at a certain degree of interest surpassing mere friendliness was a “no, no”. All such communications were done through third parties of discipling partners. As disillusioned I felt, it was a bit of a relief not to receive the advice directly from Denise herself. Oh well, this was right time start with a clean slate. As sad a thought it was, I needed to re-evaluate my charms and maturity that, maybe, needed more time and hardening in the ranks before I could match the standing and eligibility of others like Colin and Jody. For now I had to date others in the new and very confusing world of Byzantine looks and cryptic messaging. Jody was lucky to have made his choice already. At least on this front there was less of a headache to contend with.
Colin followed close behind when he announced that his eligibility was over as he and Susan were going out “steady”, a prenuptial dance of some local peculiarity as Colin could no longer hang-out with other females. So, if dating was primarily designed for mutually beneficial spiritual growth and character strengthening, why then it was “off the table” once certain inclinations of heart were declared? Maybe, dating was just a tool to find a mate – a little confusing matter since frequent uncommitted dates with the same person were apparently frowned upon by the discipling network.
Sergey Trouble
New Year did not bring any immediate answers to any of my quests for clarity. The need to move away from my peculiar landlord was definitely becoming a priority. The dating situation looked a little puzzling and now my underwhelming proselytising results were leading to ever more discipling pressures. Typically delivered by Jody (Colin’s strong posture, trendy jacket and squinty eyes always lurked nearby) these were never a pleasant exercise, when repeated often. I felt hassled and run over like a hapless deer in the spotlight. Suddenly, a nagging feeling of being trapped feeling was becoming ever more present.
At first my witnessing targets were easily met through sharing my good news with all my co-workers at El Torito. Some jeered at my presumed naiveté, some struck a more sombre pose and yet I was happy and relieved to get it off my chest. Besides…
“Is it you?!” I could not help but stop, frozen in the middle a busy Brooklyn sidewalk.
“Wow, where did you come from?” this was Sergey from my bodybuilding club back at home.
“When did you get here?” I was developing a clear knack for sudden and unexpected meetings with my past bodybuilding glories including those of Rudy and Jeff back at Sheremetyevo Airport.
Sergey, slightly deflated and humbled, arrived in the United States in a fashion similar to mine. Alas, he showed up with much less preparation as his English did not boast much more than a hundred words. And this was not his only problem – he hardly had any money and his current living arrangements looked very shaky indeed. Having worked under the table for a few weeks at some Russian store on Brighton Beach, he was now mostly out of work and in possession of no valuable documents. To make matters worse his lack of money did not bode very well for filing even a flimsiest of claims with the Immigration Service.
“Can I borrow fifty bucks?”
“Sure” I could not refuse, revealing a softer spot in my not so large heart – this was not going to be the last time I heard this request.
From that point on I got a new attachment in life. This was not an artificial arm or an eyeball; it was my newly found Sergey who proved very creative in locating me amidst busy New York Streets. His every appearance always came with a certain degree of sheepishness I could not resist. He needed a place to stay for a couple days and my asylum quarters were expended to include yet another victim of certain psychedelic rants. He did not mind as rent was free and he could sleep in on the floor. Whenever he needed some money for subway tokens, my purse string came loose once again. After all, I hoped all these trips to prospective employers would result in some sort of an arrangement. All for not, as days dragged and Sergey was not getting anywhere far. His English failed to produce much improvement and his interest in the church was primarily of culinary nature. I really did not know what to do with this deadweight; it is like all of a sudden I had a kid from a long-forgotten relationship. I never bothered to settle any scores or pay alimony, and now it was back to bite my ass.
“Boris! (my old nickname) Boris!” I just about dropped a hot plate of baked quesadillas right over somebody’s shiny scalp.
“What’s up? Can’t you see, I am working” Sergey’s face was rosy and excited, rimmed with rapidly deteriorating mid-January icicles.
“I just need to talk to you”
“Just wait a minute, I need to finish lunch”
I was interested to find his new scheme. It must have been it. I have been waiting long enough, just bring it on.
“I found a job”
“Great! Where?”
“In Florida”
“Are you off your rocker?” I could have used some warm weather myself but seeing Sergey melting into the hot horizon was not going to be easy “How can I help?”
“I need seven hundred for a ticket and other stuff” this sounded a little rich to me.
“I can only give five”
“Done deal, I will pay back in two weeks”
This was the first time anybody asked me to part with such a gargantuan amount. But there was no other way outside of being a bastard. Besides, it sounded somewhat legitimate and Sergey even gave me a phone number of where he was going to be working. My heart squeezed at the thought of my hard–earned dollars evaporating like a midnight nightmare. But I still had a hope in Sergey as we went to the cash machine.
With my money in the pocket, his face was once lit up in all colours of momentary happiness, he gave a hug and shook my hand “Thanks a million, buddy! Sure to give you a call in a couple of weeks!”
I am still waiting…
On the Move
“Alex, I got some exciting news!” it was Colin, just in time to dig me out of my fatherly thoughts about Sergey.
“What’s that?” I had to rev up fast as Colin did not like any lack of reciprocity, especially on the excitement front.
“Jeff and I are going to rent a pad in the village. Would you want to share it with us, it is huge, with three bedrooms and a large living room”
“How much if you can tell?”
“You are always about money. Somewhere in the five hundred range; a very sharp place you’ll love”
“Sounds great, just give me a couple of days to think it over”
I knew that Colin wanted to move from his nice apartment, next to Times Square. For what reason I did not exactly know other than overcrowding perhaps. You see, no matter how nice the place was it was still just a Manhattan style two-bedroom issue. Colin had to share a room with another guy, while one of the four had to be content with a couch in the living room for at least $300 a month. A little inconvenient but it will do as the second bedroom was just a glorified closet that worked well for somebody with strong vertical skills.
The couch guy, Chris, I really felt for as not only he had to contend with perpetual raucous and chaos but also with effects of a brain tumour in remission. He frequently had huge headaches and yet he could not even stretch his feet properly as his couch was a little too generous of a term for one old and rickety love seat. Luckily, Chris was a short little man.
The vertical guy, Audrey, besides an ability to fit his model body into the tightest of spaces boasted the very best and sharpest wardrobe for miles around. In short he dressed like Gary Cooper. Colin loved him and two seemed much in harmony together, sharp, trendy and energetic. Besides, both were going steady, sharing a mutual excitement of impending nuptials.
There was always a certain amount of air about the place. Before entering one had always to check on whether Chris was not having one of his debilitating headaches, and if Miles, a fifth companion who took hard to sleeping on the carpet, was disposed to you stepping over his prostrate body. To be honest it was a bit of an overpriced mass and unsurprisingly Colin preferred to use the pad strictly for sleeping and bible talks. Otherwise he was out on some important mission no doubt. Why such tight a fit – I did not really know, except that in Performance Arts Ministry everyone, with few inordinate exceptions, everyone appeared to be underemployed and overspent. In this light, my financial exploits at El Torito appeared more than successful. When coupled with my prodigious ability to skimp and save, I stood a chance to qualify as ‘millionaire next door”. I, a recent immigrant with no connections and a dead-end job, was prosperous in comparison, no wonder that my hard earned five hundred plus were flying south to Florida with bleeding Sergey. And no wonder that Colin saw me as a viable companion for his new plush place in the village.
Five days later…
“Have you decided yet?” Colin was still smiling, a little ominously though through his tightly pulled lips
“I think it should be OK” I was uncertain at the prospect of spending extra $200 per month but what the heck, I could save on subway tokens and travel time.
“Jeff and I, we are going to have a look at the place. You should really come. Tomorrow at five, sharp”
I showed up few minutes earlier knowing that Colin did not really celebrate tardiness and a good thing as Horatio 98 turned out to be at the very edge of anything liveable in this area, right next to the West Side Highway. Having a little time to spare before others appeared I took a look around surprisingly spacious lobby. It was huge, featured some real marble and art nuveau gobbledygook on the walls and at least two attentive concierges with light Hispanic accents. This was a class above and I could not begin to understand how my five hundred bucks were going to fetch me a whole separate bedroom.
Few minutes later showed Colin in a company of red haired and stringy Jeff plus a real estate agent in slick metal frames. The real estate of note around Manhattan was almost as expensive to rent as it was to buy spawning an army of real estate agent feeding off the rental market with hardly any less success than those skulking about some mansions in Beverly Hills. The slicker the agent the fatter the commission – I was feeling ever smaller as we tumbled in as one to feed our curiosity. Colin was a step behind priming a self-adulating smile. Wow, this was something to behold. Hardwood floors, two impeccable bathrooms and a tiny kitchen designed for a typical Manhattan bachelor set. All these were quickly forgotten as we stepped into the living room if it could be called that. It could have been a royal dance hall for I reckoned. Dark brown parquet glistened in the last glimpses of the afternoon sun sneaking its last through the only window at the very end. Wow, add a basketball hoop and you can have a game here, it was huge.
“I am thinking of putting my office right there by the window” Colin was in full designer mode by now.
“Couch and bookshelves would go here on the left and TV could be just right there against the wall” the man knew his tastes, no doubt.
“Awesome” Jeff’s eyes were popping out of his skull.
I was a little more pensive – for one I was not all that used to living in palaces, the other – it was a long-way from subway negating my dreams of saved tokens.
“Alex, you do not seem to be enthused about the place” Colin stern voice just shook me away from a moment of contemplation.
“Yes, yes, I am very happy”
“I think you are being selfish and ungrateful!” my stutter couldn’t deceive his perceptive spiritual receptors; I just recoiled into a tiny ball of fear.
“I am sorry”
“You do not need to be sorry; you need to repent. Having such great opportunity to live with brothers in this sharp place, you need to be a little more enthusiastic”
By now I knew better than trying to justify my deviation from the accepted norm, the church norm. Besides, it was a relative bargain of very unusual nature as we did not have to pay a huge amount of money upfront in a typical the New York style. Under all other circumstances, this amount would be staggering as the respectable end of rental real estate here demanded first and last moth rent plus a security deposit equalling one month rent. All added on any calculator would amount to at least eight grand for a place that went for $2,750.zero.zero per month. The whole tab was picked by Colin’s dad and I desperately wanted to know what he did for a living, as his partner status at Goldman Sachs was still a bit of a mystery to me.
“How would you get away with paying a measly $500 for a whole bedroom, all to yourself?” the question must be stretching your inner ear to the point of vertigo by now.
“Yes!” Colin’s father was paying half the rent as well, for each and every stinking month. I really wanted to know what he did for a living, if anything at all that is, as people with means of such magnitude usually preferred staying home despising to show up on anyone’s clock.
“You are right, I am a selfish pig in need of a complete spiritual overhaul” my self-flagellation seemed to have done the trick as Colin eyes managed to produce some fresh sparks of reconciliation. After all, he could not be all fire and brim stone, not when he sought to parlay his Columbia education, his choice of the prospective bride and the father of obvious means into a directing Hollywood career, no less. I got the sensation that he really fancied himself next Stephen Spielberg with awkward baseball hats, smart jackets and penchant for special effects. The ample airs of the new surroundings really meant to reignite Colin’s creative juices with an office by the window and a pricey delicatessen diet from around the corner that served expensive meals in much plastic and gloss.
I think that diet choices played a major part in financial plights of many brethren. In fact despite my short local tenure I could easily give just about in the church a basic advice to how save money. Alas, the very culture here demanded massive social interactions over meals. And if one adds up a few of those even at relatively modest price tags, the final bill was always substantial. Why not do it in more economic home grown ways so prevalent in Russia where people simply met over tea and biscuits? I guess miniature New York kitchens just did not quite fit into this paradigm. Well, at least when buying some food for the house many could have saved piles had it been for some selective shopping at less known locales as opposed to well-branded supermarkets. I realized my loss on this account quickly enough when Jeff, on the first move-in day, spent just about the last of his cash on some prodigiously expensive sauce from D’Agostinos – I will have to make sure to stay away from his corner of the fridge.
Adios Premature
Finally, the moving day arrived and needless to say Georgiy Alexandrovich was particularly foulmouthed and depressed. Sure, he was likely to get a next tenant du jour very shortly as the whole bevy of them had already gone through, attracted by low rent and a lack of language barrier. I felt a little poignant though. Yet another parting, yet another move to a new place that promised to have some challenges of its own, not a least of which was the fact I had just lost my El Torito gig with its costless burritos and priceless life experiences.
My troubles really started just a couple of months into my employment here, the employment that gave me a chance to establish an independent foothold in America. With every passing day and every new dollar saved (I managed save something like a grand per month) I felt more and more indispensable and brash. Joining the church hardly managed to moderate my carelessness. I guess I was still much a teenager although my passport said that I was approaching my mid-twenties. Some already had families and careers; I had a pair of black smelly waitressing trousers and a lot of attitude.
On my particularly slow February day, I decided to announce to a couple of cheap skates in nice suits that their business lunch came with good service and higher than ten percent tip – a Big No-No in the customer service industries on this side of the ocean. Sure, in Russia during my cake selling days by the beach, I could yell at my customers with impunity, here things like this tended to be less than acceptable. Surprisingly, I still found myself a member of staff at the end of that lunch escaping with a mere one-week suspension. Luckily, my weekly wages did not come close to $800K of Alex Rodriguez…
Well, the lesson did not really pay off as shortly thereafter I was found having a phone conversation in the middle of a moribund dinner with only one table and not more than seven bucks to my name. To my misfortune, they evinced a desire to leave precisely at the wrong time prompting yet another reprimand and a prompt Adios. Distraught and heart-broken, I was begging to do anything. Alas, this time my count was up and even dear Sally could not get me out of this soup – I hit the pavement. It hurt!
Suddenly I had much more time on my hands. The move was upon me and getting through my things promised to be distraction to last a couple of hours – I had not yet accumulated much junk otherwise known as traces of heavy consumption. It was not bad at all, as I had not transmogrified into a local notion of maturity that comes not only with a full-size bed, a complete set of pillows and a garage filled to the brim with God knows what. After an initial clean I still managed to limit my possessions to a pair of suitcases and a bagful of pure crap. As little as it was, fitting through subway turnstiles might still have proven to be a problem. Colin took care of that, sending his trusted and chic Audrey to pick me up in his very own Jeep Wrangler, a rare Manhattan luxury that managed to survive thanks to some still cheap parking on the very outskirts of civilization - somewhere around the glitzy Javitz Centre. My lack of material burdens proved doubly fortuitous as Georgiy Alexandrovich, a habitual racist in a long-standing East Slavic tradition, did not have to spend more than a minute in Audrey’s company, black man company that was.
The Centre of the Universe
Things went just as swimmingly on the receiving end as I timidly tip-toed my suitcases next to the door and rang.
“Is this all your stuff?” Jeff red head and well-angled jaws glinted with incomprehension.
“Yea, what else does one need?”
“How about a bed?”
“I guess I’ll manage somehow” the prospect of shiny hard wood floors felt a little hard against my tender ribs.
“Hey, bro! You can take my old futon for now. But you should really look for a bed” Colin’s red cheeks were dancing at excitement as he rigorously proceeded assembling his new poster bed, an inevitable father’s gift as Colin’s delicatessen lunches consumed most of his disposable income.
“You know, I need to find a new job first”
“Do not be that greedy, you have that stash of yours; you should really use it”
I kind of regretted telling Colin about my savings that seemed prodigious to him and anybody else in the church save for some really successful types with fat paycheques from Cats and Miss Saigons. But on the other hand, this very information elevated my status to qualify as Colin’s roommate, “it must be worth something”, or was it… “In this place, I am quickly becoming an economic beast, ready to put value on anybody and anything. But it is the last thing I am going to confess my finances to anybody, particularly Colin”.
“OK, you are right, just give me a couple of days” I desperately needed to come up with an alternative plan, otherwise I will end up like Jeff, with a big sleight bed and zero in the checking account.
“You can have my bank bed without a mattress for furniture is you want” Colin was in one of his generous moods, in Augustine sort of way, throwing a bit of a lifeline. Great, at least I was going to have at least one piece of furniture in my room, except it felt a little awkward to sleep on the top of the bank bed without a mattress in a large solitary bedroom without windows and a large square skylight beaming a near presence of civilization. The last thing I wanted to do was to sleep with my snores ricocheting against this skylight. The lower part designed as a desk would not do either. “Blasted” I just threw the futon into the opposite corner in the gesture that just about exhausted all my juices of creative interior design.
I cracked open the door and peaked at the efforts of my dear roommates. Jeff was now standing on the top of his prodigious bed, nailing a sizable piece of art into a freshly painted soft gip-rock surface.
“Eh Alex what to you think?” his ruddy face was lit with sweat of good and productive labours. After all, he needed an outlet for his youthful nature, devoid of well-endowed employment that used to be there as evidenced by many an art form already occupying other corners of his identical to my room. Jeff liked things of taste, wore trendy Timberland boots and parked his priceless Bianchi right next to his bed.
“Wow, this is really great!” I was overcome by his décor skills that could befit a movie set.
“What do you think of this?” Jeff was clearly bent on making some inroads into my muddy Siberian highways.
“A little blurry” I starred at some Cezanne in twentieth printing. “I guess I have to F-O-C-U-S” I blurted, unburdened by certain phonetic nuances.
“What did you say?” Jeff’s ears burned by my crass attempt at one of the most carefully inflected words in the English language. He did not grasp my less than careful Eastern European delivery that made the word “focus” just as risqué as any movie rated R or less.
“I said F-O-C-U-S” this time I almost spelt the word.
“OK, I get it” Jeff’s features softened. He shook his head and turned back to admiring his timeless art.
“I will use “concentrate” or some other synonym instead, anything to avoid another cultural controversy” I gingerly retreated to look for Colin’s company.
Colin was Napoleoning in the living room, breathing life into elaborate design around his workplace complete with a word processor and a filing cabinet. His plush striped couch was already well rimmed with a nice a-la-Persian rug with consequences. The last thing I wanted to do was to disturb the decorating genius. Tiptoeing back downstairs was an only option, as my work career desperately needed a job even under the subsidized rent conditions.
Craft of Identity
Given my extensive waitering career of just over six moths, I felt qualified to knock on about any door. Dressed in my one and only suit with white shirt and some claims to respectability, I started attacking them one by one. In an upbeat mood with a guarantee of an unemployment cheque measuring a whopping $130 per week, I started in the busiest and most promising places such as Plaza Hotel and alike.
Unfortunately, the season on former El Torito help had not opened yet and everybody, much to my surprise, wanted a resume – a very high-handed treatment, do not you think? The time was of the essence, I rushed back to Horatio Street to use Colin’s word-processor. Alas, things were not as simple, as a first-time use of the wonder machine required some skill. Besides, I hardly had an idea what a resume actually was – a completely foreign tool to anybody accustomed to Soviet style of job searching.
Colin and my friend Michael from Queens quickly came to my rescue with their versions of monumental personal achievements. On paper their colossal contributions to humanity looked simply unparalleled. And yet Colin hardly boasted a worthy occupation, working as a clerk in some office, the post hardly fitting for his sparkling and undoubtedly very expensive education spanning between Taft’s and Columbia. Michael did much better with his fully packaged and bona fide job on Wall Street as a programmer. Well, at least between two of their resumes, perhaps I could manoeuvre enough to wiggle to the front of the starting line. Little by little, things were taking shape as I produced not one but two resumes. One for restaurant industry, the other for some future pretence at mildly professional occupation – a splendid experience! I became so enthused that I even fancied applying for something I had no clue about – a job of an insurance executive for example. After all, I thought to be just as smart as the next guy. Add to the mix an unbridled freedom of resume writing and voila, you have a brand new individual – only in America!
With resumes in hand, I moved miles up the ranks of the unemployed. My food serving skills rivalling in grace and precise efficiency those of Bolshoy Ballet would surely open new horizons in the most prestigious of establishments. Watch out Four Seasons and the Plaza…
Well, the reality turned out a little less polite to my effulgently splendid candidacy. Although I did lightly better than just a dismissing glance at the Plaza, and coaxed as much as a half-genuine smile at the Russian Tea Room, my chances at well-paid and liveried union jobs at such establishments seemed no better than those at the US Department of Treasury. I was not the only smart one on the busy streets of the Chance City. Sobering up took a day or two, but it worked and I quickly lowered my standards to the likes of El Torito and such. Here they would hardly have benefits or a pay of over $2.50 per hour, but tips and free food was all I needed to get back above water.
Lobster Tails
One positive about my searches was that they took me around all sorts of places in the great city and I was quickly learning the regional differences between Chelsea, Clinton, Hell’s Kitchen and Little Italy. Most of the city parts offered some hope, others like Chinatown required a little more in the ethnic skills department.
One day, I walked into a fish place aptly named Dock’s on the corner of 40’s and 3rd. It looked promising with its tasteful hard wood floors, white tablecloth and an ample bar that perched like a great volcano cone stocked with many a shiny bottle instead of hot lava. The most important fact was that the place was super busy even in these last throes of the lunch hour. It was teeming with help, steamy lobster tails and well-dressed clients. May be I could snag a fish or two...
“How can I help you?” a classy woman with high cheeks in a sharply cut and undoubtedly expensive designer pant suit definitely wielded power around the place.
I, not to be confused with a potential oyster connoisseur in a suit and business coat, quickly made usual entireties. Something clicked, and the elegant Clare offered me a test. A Test! I never heard of such a thing. Sure they took some in Harvard and Yale, but here - simply amazing. I did not know what to expect but this one was going to be my first to fail. It offered weirdest of questions about some French wines, oyster preferences and threw me for a loop with a plethora of nasty haut cuisine terms. I was as desperate as to reach into my bag, fishing for my dictionary. After all, what was I supposed to do? I had never heard of anything “poached” or “tartar” amidst crispy tacos and margaritas.
Having floundered and halibuted through the questions, I must have answered some right as Clare, having perused the masterpiece, offered me a bus-boy engagement. Clearly, waiting tables will have to wait. At least, this job offered a simmering chance of near survival. I waited for my first shift with baited breath.
Arriving the next day in my dark pants and white shirt, I was given a fresh pair of Dock’s aprons and promptly thrown in for a try. Unlike very international and almost egalitarian ranks at El Torito, the locker room at this place was a throw-back to the old south. Just about all waiters, save for a couple of older French guys, were young, artsy and white. They expressed themselves in well affected English with wafts of dusty Columbia halls and exhibited very little interest in lower species with hardly anything in common other than ubiquitous aprons. White and non-Hispanic, my position in this new society was unclear. Luckily, my new short, dark and uniformly Mexican bus-boy crew found my accented attempts at Spanish endearing, showing me the ropes with some limited enthusiasm.
While waiters were bitching about their non-existent paycheques that were eaten up by taxes paid on their high tips reaching into a stratospheric range of almost $700 per week, I scooted down to the happier Conquistadors for a napkin folding duty. These guys were just flexing with energy and I could understand why. In this classy seafood establishment regular plastic dish bins were an unsightly proposition. Instead we had to be quick and agile by parleying huge trays in and around the place. This was no El Torito, as promptly after a start of the lunch time all seventy some tables were full with clamouring and well-paying clientele salivating for all sorts of tasty morsels from the sea bottom. To meet the unmitigated flood of appetites, the place had to run like a clock work with the Chef in wooden Dutch slippers running the back deck with a steady litany of adjuration and whips of imaginary lasso. No slack and time for a pause. In two hours of this steady twirl of lobster tails and sips of Marne Grainier, I was dripping with sweat. This was not a job to gain any weight, even at the expense of a tasty and exquisite staff lunch that followed. My bus-boy tip at the end of the shift amounted to a near equivalent of waitering tips at El Torito. I inadvertently stepped on a gold mine that was for sure. Unfortunately, almost all of that glitter was somebody else’s. At least I knew where Clare’s suits came from…
Weighty Blunder
My Dock’s work-out were becoming a norm although big trays and fast pace surely betrayed a certain lack of skill on my part. It was especially treacherous during dinner service, which was like running a marathon that spanned from five to midnight. Sure, tips were excellent but something was just waiting to go awry with my frequent near misses involving heavy plates and expensive, although empty, bottles. Somebody was going to suffer and soon, as I kept coming short in comparison with my super agile and smiley cohorts. Who said that genetics do not matter? After all is not the NBA is full of African Americans and Russia is brimming with Jewish Oligarchs? Well, when it came to the art of bussing tables, there were no equals to the blood of ancient Mayans when well-mixed with newcomers from Espanola. The latter came with voracious appetites for fast Tapa service and quick reflexes of toreadors. Something had to be done. Lifting weights looked like a good tool to get extra shoulder strength.
Going to gym could have worked especially well since I already had a contract with enticingly cheap Jack La Lean’s. The only trouble was that my gym folks did not care to put a cap on attendance making it nearly impossible even to touch a bench pressing machine let alone actually use it. Trying a few times, I had no chance but to give up on my $24.95 per month, these bloody contracts! Plunging to much more expensive environs of the New York Health and Racket was just not in the cards. What about a set of my own? After all, I had more than enough room encumbered by not much more than a loose futon and Colin’s bunk bed. Buying brand new, no it would not work either as I discovered the world of all things used and affordable.
In those days of the pre-Internet dawn, New York was filled with private sales ads that could fix you up with just about anything from a live crocodile to ancient African masks. Amidst this eclectic paradise, weight sets were easy to spot. Boasting a similar degree of usefulness that rivalled cheap knife sets and shoddy jewellery boxes from the Shopping Channel, these were offered at discounts as deep as any crap that ever came out of Wal-Mart. The rest was simple, few phone calls and voila, I lined up an over two-hundred pound set with a bench, and all of it for less than hundred bucks – phenomenal! On the top of it all, the guy lived just blocks away.
“Hey Jerry, Jeff do you mind helping me with some weights, just for a half an hour”
“Sure, bro” Jerry, the John the Baptist look alike in a rocker leather jacket and a beard to put St. Nick to shame, was ready to get things moving.
“How are we going to move this crap?” Jeff was seriously Ohio middle class and loved planning with minimum surprises.
“We’ll take Colin’s shopping cart” I was into anything cheap and a large sturdy cart offered much comfort for potential savings.
“Sure” Jerry loved heavy lifting.
The Cart Tsar
The door of a fifth floor walk-up opened only ajar, revealing inevitably thick in the waist possessor of magic weights – “Hello”
“It is Alex with friends” by biceps twitched ever so menacingly in stoked-up anticipation.
“Oh, great, here there are” our seller was happy to get rid of the dead weight and door was swung wide open for all to see a considerable pile of metal ready to depart its current abode like a bad dream. I squalled like a puppy eyeing a huge bone with chunks of a tasty pig still visible on otherwise bare ridges.
“Load up” Jerry and I started piling the disks into the shopping cart as Jeff firmly bit into the bench, which was in a drastic need of dusting.
The descent to the street level was laborious and sweaty. My puppy delights were turning into a heavy waxy mess of a marathon runner on his twenty sixth mile. Rolling was the only option as Jerry showed similar signs of succumbing.
“What about a taxi?” inquired our thoughtful Jeff
“We can do it” I strained at pulling this yoke of a cart.
“Squeak, squeak, and squeak” suddenly something was going off kilter with the cart spanning and contracting like a suspension bridge in a Richter eight earthquake.
The necessity of getting a taxi and spending extra $5 bucks hardly fit my intentions and yet by the time we reached the 9th, the wheels were surely coming off, literally. The cab was hailed and by the time we transferred blasted disks up to the apartment, the only thing remaining from our shopping cart was an undignified mass of thin spindly remains. Maybe it could be rescued?
Colin was about to arrive and the last thing I wanted to do was to piss him off. I thought he was coming back from a meeting with his discipling partner and these almost always left some dusting of a holy halo around him.
As I was in midst of trying to reattach some nastily unyielding cart parts, the door swung open and Colin was back, our tight room-mating electricity circuit just closed and energy rushed through every nook and cranny of my being like a tornado.
“What’s this?!”
“I just borrowed it to drag home some weights and it kind of collapsed”
“You mean we were not going to get a taxi?”
“Sorry”
“Alex, you seriously need to repent. This money thing keeps you away from God! You are miserable and cheap man. We need to have a house meeting, now!”
The next hour every bone of my body was well-scrubbed and washed with fire of admonition. Colin was doing his best; Jeff was cowering in some corner with supportive Amens. Jerry had gone home and I was to defend all for my self. Actually, saying defend is not true, I just tried to keep my eyes dry – I was that close to crying. Colin harangued for at least half-hour, he loved these “rip the skin of sinner” sessions with his eyes in suspiciously tight range. The only thing I could do was to walk out of the room alive and still be a member of the circle.
By the end of the meeting, Colin’s decisions were harsh and indisputable. No further attempts to fix the shopping cart would be made. I was to buy a new and hopefully better one. I also had to consider sleeping on something more substantial than a mattress. Any less was not going to do. After all, Colin’s vision of a Hollywood grandeur from his corner office could be obscured with my miserably indigent motives. And since I was the only one with savings, my progress was expected to be prompt and decisive, no more cheap imitations.
“Hey, guys do not forget about the special contribution”, a funny church annual rite of shelling out at least fifteen times of regular weekly tithing was coming up. I cringed - I might have been not the only one to feel this way.
Back in the room I assessed my ever more expensive weight set “I’d better work out hard”
“Alex, there a phone call for you”
“Hello, this Clare from Dock’s. Sorry to tell you but you are not working out…”
(To be continued)
