Looking at the title one might get an erroneous idea that I am about to plunge into the old discourse of rags to riches. I feel slightly intimidated by such a prospect. After all there is many more a famous tale. Instead I’d rather stick to a cold observer point of view, maybe... Well let’s try, though living in this fish bowl of humanity can hardly leave anybody impartial unless endowed with a UN pension and diplomatic status to boot, and that’s around forty second and first. Otherwise, be prepared to eat your own if necessary.
Many imagine New York City to be somewhat of a brat in the peaceful and surprisingly cohesive family of America. They figure that having seen New York does not qualify as having seen any of the true America. Others view New York as an absolutely indispensable part of American lore, the one that, if unseen, creates a material gap in understanding of the last great empire. Before we repeat the cycle once again that is.
Everyone has his set of arguments in this debate. Some are logical and lucid, others confused and convoluted. However, in any case this debate persists and isn’t about to die down any time soon. Succumbing to temptation, I cannot resist. Having visited much of the American geography, to me the Big Apple is the most American slice of the whole pie. This is not only thanks to its pivotal role in numerous turns of the American saga or its immense riches mingled with amazing diversity. Adaptability is the word that defines it best. New York is superbly adept in pushing whatever typical “American” trait may be to the most extreme forms. These traits condense and wedge into the very fabric of life here. They create unimpeachable strongholds of various societal microcosms that make up the great country in the tiniest spans of space and time, making New York one small and potent hands-on display of the great civilization. Forget the New Jersey Turnpike; it does not need to exist as the rest of the states. New York is all one needs, with enough luck, course.
The reality of New York is just the reality of America. Here, it is so easy to conjure up neatly compacted images of just about anything one needs to rest his thoughts on. So many competitive visions survive here side by side; here the most glorious achievements and despicable ills can be easily caught in the same glance. It is not jarringly foreign, it is essential. New York survives the life contrasts like no other, it thrives. At times, the very presence of these juxtapositions distracts as to make them unrecognizable. And yet nothing is out of place confirming New York to be the very kernel of the American essence. Although frequently compressed to the point of unfamiliarity, it preserves all important substance; the substance that is sometimes so wrung out of fluff that you feel like you need a magnifying glass to spot even the most obvious strands of truth, whatever they might be.
Pyramid City
One such inconspicuous truth is that the city is covered in pyramids, not those of the original perfectors hailing from the banks of the Nile. No indeed, these ones are born of individual rather than common ambition. Can it be sustained in the long run, I do not know. Egyptians are still in the lead; after all they managed for nearly three thousand year, can we? One has to admire their much more pragmatic approach to the myths of societal mobility. Sure, they did not have the nukes or even a simple steam engine. But these obvious privations did not stop their determination, collective determination. Logical creatures knew their place in life and simply succumbed to fate by building pyramid dreams exclusively for their rulers instead of wasting their personal pride on individual undertakings. And voila, today we marvel at their collective creations. New York, on the other hand, has forgotten some of these wisdoms and instead decided that everyone can have his own pyramid of successful and self-aggrandizing existence. What is frequently forgotten however is that any pyramid requires much more corpulent bottom in order to carry the peaks that grace the sunset skies. The obvious laws of geometry dictate that the precarious successes of few ought to be born by many. Alas, this truth is frequently lost on folks breathing in the carbon friendly airs of the great city.
Here, the pyramidal expectations lurk everywhere. It is not just people; it is anything and everything. Stockbrokers compete for commissions, neighbourhoods for class and the mayor for votes. For decades now, everything has been trying to build their own pyramids at neighbour’s expense. And yet one hasn’t been able to summon enough to match even the most pitiful creations on the banks of the mighty Nile even with all that Wall Street money. Everybody wants to be in charge and nobody thirsts for even slightest degree of subjugation. Where is the presumed melting pot, has it been stolen? The posh Upper East Side looks askew at its twin sister on the Upper West and outright scorns its poor cousin with a strangely Dutch sobriquet of Harlem. The selfish emotions do not limit themselves to the Isle of Manhattan, they reach beyond the five boroughs and thrash their way into sleepier suburbs of New Jersey, Connecticut and far beyond. The virtue of ambition has long swallowed any sparks of collectivism. There is no Forum or Acropolis here, its most famous square is just an intersection of two narrow and tree-less streets, its green spaces, outside of the aberration known as Central Park, hardly invite tranquillity and contemplation. Just about all speaks to compact conveniences of individual egos, ceding anything common to the stale wreck yard of all things foreign and thus useless. It could hardly be otherwise, in the midst of millions trying to erect their own personal pyramids in worship of upward mobility, success and fortune – what would you expect? Even the magnificent Park is just a tool, a kind of no-man-land where the competitors can duke it out to crowds’ delight.
Cruelty and indifference abound. Do not be deceived when first coming upon this city; at first the whole world seems to have collided here to throw one big party – all seems really joyous and full of life. All possible races, languages and cultures invade its streets, tenements and penthouses, all at once, in an unceasing cacophony of sounds, smells and crisp dollar bills. But wait until the evening and this illusion of perfect harmony just melts away into the patchwork of disparate parts with some disowning others in the most treacherous fashion of the old Brutus fame. The ritzy middle of Fifth Avenue does not give a rip about the distant cousins on the West Side; and while barely acknowledging its less regal southern parts it outright refuses to feel anything remotely warm past the 110th. All divided in strictly individual pieces of the great puzzle. It is really easy to get lost in this party that is really no party at all but just a meeting place for individualistic, disjointed and self-absorbed egos looking for gratifying success and good time at the expense of others lest you fail to build your own pyramid. If it does not stick out, even ever so slightly, above others, you have failed.
Truly, New York is a very colourful and thought provoking environment. I bet a gifted psychologist could make a world-renowned career just dwelling on and dissecting this ever-escaping and slippery subject of pyramid building in New York City. Alas, since my academic background and credentials sorely lack in the architectural department, I’d better stay away from generalities in favour of recounting my personal pyramid building experiences.
One Way Ticket
My trip started during the bizarre days of the Communist coup in the cool days of the summer of 1991. I will skip the pertinent portion of the specifics of my life saga that is covered in the “Movies for Roubles” segment of my glories. Sorry for making so painful for everyone…
Anyway, having come into possession of a super valuable American visa, the next step was to get a ticket – round trip of course with the second leg hiding under one humongous “?”. The ticket hunting has never been an easy task for just about any “out of the bear clutches” trip – short or long. Getting a ticket to America seemed to be a monumental task that involved numerous trips to the local Aeroflot ticket office to grovel and small talk with people whom I came to know nearly as well as my own family. With time on my visa ticking I was getting ever more desperate. I even travelled to Kiev to get an audience with a deputy Minster in charge of travel. All was in vain – these tickets were harder to come by than the visa itself.
This saga went on for at least three or four months – I was getting tired and my visa given for a six month window was getting closer and closer to expiration. The prospect to trying my luck once again with the folks at the American Embassy did not seem all that appetising but almost inevitable.
God had another plan, as on one cold December morning I struck gold when my favourite ticket agent managed to locate a single seat on Moscow - New York for February 18, 1992 – just four days before the visa was set to expire. Once reserved, the ticket had to be purchased within a couple of weeks for a tidy rouble sum that was an equivalent of approximately USD$500. Now the seemingly reasonable price for a transatlantic round-trip was a true fortune for an average Soviet getting along on mere $20 per month. I would never have been able to afford it had I not worked on various translating projects that paid hard currency. The next trick was to convert my dollar earnings into this rouble fluff since the actual ticket was still quoted in roubles. Alas, a simple black market transaction did not promise to be all that simple this time. The new and bold post-Soviet states could not wait for capitalism any longer… The “misery” of the centralised economic management abruptly ended just few days ago accompanied by sudden abolition of price controls on everything from milk and butter to automobiles. Now, nothing stood in the way of frigid and indiscernible markets, as they blew their arctic spell in our face. To say the least, the situation was tense everywhere including the local black market where its regular types nervously fidgeted in the January cold - the foreign exchange trade had just exploded as depreciation of roubles and other newly born currencies was accelerating with every passing minute it seemed. One had to act shrewdly and nimbly…
From pulling anywhere from 15 to 20 roubles just past summer, the mighty greenback commanded the rates of about 100 roubles by the end of November, and by early January of 1992 it was 1,000 to 1 and kept climbing higher. The already meagre savings were quickly turning into cheap wall paper for millions and one had to time all steps just right when dealing in currencies those days. Miss by a day and you could easily end up holding the proverbial bag. Aeroflot did not want to suffer either and kept changing its ticket rates just about daily.
Finally, I had to pay. With the Aeroflot price fixed for the next 24 hours time came for bag action. One literally had to bring a backpack to haul the price of the blasted ticket that arrived in exchange for twenty five neatly folded twenty dollar bills. You see, Soviets were not up on adding zeroes just yet and counting 60,000 roubles in fifty rouble bills took at least two hours – the best lesson in arithmetic I’d had in years! On the way home from Aeroflot I kept thanking God while licking my discoloured by rouble counting fingers and patting the treasured tickets firmly wedged in my chest pocket. The timing of departure, in hindsight of course, was perfect as it spared me of having to live through the 180,000 to 1 exchange rates of three years later. One needed wheel-borrows then.
Experiencing significant health problems in the last couple of months coming up to the V-day I had to summon my best to cope with preparations and every bit of help was welcome. Mother and Misha were the key supporters, of course. And this was despite him dealing with the birth of his twins and ever more precarious domestic situation vis-à-vis his first wife who was the mother of the said children. Misha, flushed with some early market successes, even surprised me with the whole compartment on Dnepropetrovsk – Moscow train, all to myself just to help with sleeping my last full night on the home ground. I could not be happier, falling asleep in the peaceful cadence of train travel. I needed rest as my stay in freezing Moscow was to be a short one – just hours. Before any sign of the next day, my friend Vladimir drove me to the nearly deserted Sheremetyevo airport nearly covered in speedily moving snowdrifts of a brutal sub-zero Russian winter. I could hardly wait to leave. My flight was one of the earliest that morning and the usually teeming with people place looked like a ghost town. The larger my surprise could not been when the first two people I discovered in the cavernous departure hall were my American bodybuilding friends – Jeff and Rudy. It was a true miracle – thank you Jesus!
Jeff and Rudy
I had known these guys from my translating gigs at several annual international bodybuilding events organised in part by my expansive friend Gennady. His towering statute and huge Arnold like biceps did not save him from being a typical Soviet, hence my translating help was always welcome and I got a chance to take part in at least three instalments of these tournaments – Moscow, St. Petersburg and Dnepropetrovsk. Then Americans were only too happy to bring a decent team that would typically win everything unless stopped by some phenomenal Germans and an odd overfed with steroids Russian. I was only delighted to observe the ripples of foreign interactions. I even got a chance to meet modestly famous people – a bonus. During my last gig in St. Petersburg I even met Ronnie Coleman who has been now crowned Mr. Olympia for eight years running! He was slightly smaller then, of course, but already in possession of a well-sized ego and gall since he kept disavowing taking any steroids. Needless to say, language barriers did not matter and many were amused. I guess Ronnie is the last one laughing…
While Gennady and his cohorts handled the logistics on the Soviet side, Jeff Brennon was the key organising force on the American end of things. Jeff’s slight stature topped off with generous strands of completely grey hair was slightly deceiving, as he pulled real weight in the US bodybuilding community. He organised and partially financed a number of eastward campaigns where his savvy of a very successful business operator came exceedingly handy. Very personable and perpetually smiling, he made many friends in all sorts of places. Rudy was one of such friends who made his Russian debut at my last tournament in St. Petersburg. This German bear of a man from Illinois was a much better power lifter than a bodybuilder since his natural wide waisted physique did not lend itself terribly well to Speedo-clad performances; and yet he persevered and had some moderate success at a regional level in home. He was a very friendly and sympathetic type who felt exceedingly sorry for us, the Soviet lot. Consequently, he brought a whole bunch of valuable stuff to bestow on less happy folk here – jeans, shirts and a shining Chicago Blackhawks jacket. After striking a good relationship with yours truly, the most his benevolent garde-robe ended up in my suitcase with the much-coveted jacket included. I really scored on that trip I have to admit. Nevertheless, in the end we all went home and did not hear from one another until the fateful day of my New York bound departure that miraculously coincided with Jeff and Rudy’s plans to return home after a short, organised on a whim, trip to savagely frigid Russia. This was going to be one of their last Russian trips, as previously very cheap adventures were getting to be decidedly more expensive and less pleasant with every passing day of skyrocketing prices and burgeoning popular discontent.
Fly Away
The odds of meeting these two guys on the same flight on the way to New York could not have been better than one in a million, and yet God favoured my undertaking in the most profound way, as I was to find out only short time thereafter. In addition, my eighteen-hour flight promised to be a much-ameliorated experience since I could enjoy their light-hearted company - exactly what I needed to keep off niggling worries of the unknown.
Our first stop on the way to the Promised Land took us to the green and grassy knolls of Ireland. After leaving the biting blizzard just three hours prior, I could not believe my eyes when the plane first broke through the grey clouds. Suddenly our senses were completely immersed in the bright kaleidoscope of amazing scenery with undulating emerald hills graced by countless sheep that generously dotted the landscape. With the economic and social chaos that reigned back home, this tranquillising scene appeared to have just stepped out of a fairy tale. Our one-hour Shannon stop was just a one-hour refuelling deal – no chance of getting outside. And yet the West beckoned even only through the tinted airport windows. Even pavement, strange tiny cars with steering on the wrong side and cheerful well-dressed people: the sight was simply wondrous. In the lounge, peace, order and prosperity reigned just as well. I was only happy to share these with Jeff and Rudy who treated me to a round of soft drinks otherwise unattainable to my unburdened pockets. The funny local accents and warm smiles made me want to just stay there and stare at all that sheep for eternity. Alas, the state of my passport, fully replenished aircraft and the Land of Promise were calling to riskier and potentially more rewarding undertakings. Leaving my sheep behind, we swooshed up into the sky heading to Gander, Newfoundland.
My first glimpses of Canada were hardly different from my last ones of Moscow – Gander was just buried in feet of snow brought by the storm that seemed to have raged for days. Unlike the evergreen Ireland, I failed to notice much of anything other than snow, beer and yet more snow. A scheduled one-hour stop turned into a three-hour sojourn due to the naughty weather conditions. Otherwise all that is left in my memory is setting fatigue, Labatt beer counter favoured exclusively by the male part of humanity and a pretty girl manning the bar with a sullen face in need of sunrays.
Finally, after another two hours we were basking in the full of sunshine - New York. I could hardly believe the difference that just a short flight could make. The first holes in the racing by clouds revealed the ground bereft of any snow and sun rays playfully dancing in the numerous swamps. No sheep or tranquility, the placed was laced with large cars and freeways. Upon landing it took us at least 20 minutes to find our designated birth at the terminal. JFK was by far the biggest airport I had ever seen – the ground was teeming with activity. All technical people working on the tarmac appeared to be completely unaware that it was the middle of February. Most of them wore just light jackets, some even sported shorts and T-shirts – total insanity considering that New York was supposed to be just slightly warmer than frigid Moscow. My winter wardrobe appeared to be completely out of place. Oh well…
Welcome – Show Me Your Passport
The time to separate from my dear companions had come. They were Americans and consequently were ushered with a reasonable degree of decorum to face a rather simple border check-in. The Soviet riffraff on the other hand had to go through a cattle like procedure at the much feared passport control. Having waived good-bye and hoping to see them on the other side of the border divide, I joined the ranks of my compatriots entering into the dark, windy, unending corridors that led the lesser folk to face their fate. Since most of my dear compatriots had hardly a foggiest idea about the host language, they tended to tread very carefully, trying to decipher the direction signs that were displayed in nothing but English. You are in America – forget about your Russian, Polish or Swahili!
Some in my group were clearly not prepared and surely dazed after the eighteen-hour flight. The local border control folks were clearly not disposed to wait. The airport was huge and the flow of humanity clamouring to enter the coveted gates was even larger. Waiting was a luxury they could not afford. Starting at the first turn we were met by a seemingly unceasing battery of clerks shouting out commands – as if to cattle entering abattoir. A chill shot through my body – this was not Ireland. Many hesitated. Clerk tolerance was not forthcoming. Instead, they kept shouting louder and louder “Move Ahead!”, “Left!” and “Right!” It was becoming deafening and I desperately needed some air plugs. Most of these obliging civil servants must have been always taught that since the English is the only language in existence then the only difference between let’s say Serbian or German was the volume one had to use. I sort of understood this dynamic pretty quickly while many less fortunate linguists did not. They marched stultified by the gratuitous shouts, abrupt commands and herded by ever-present barriers. Adding low lighting and starkly tiled walls to the mix made the scene almost surreal – the first roll call in America.
Eventually the uncomfortable tunnel experience ended and we were ushered into the passport control hall. The flow of humanity disgorging inside required rapid and very efficient line management – the shouts became louder and more persistent. Here we commingled with multitudes of other non-native hordes attempting to cope with life after lengthy international flights. The Caucasian race was a minority as our group was dwarfed by multitudes of Asians and Africans. Most of these people did not speak English just like Russians hence the guards tended to scream another tone higher to make sure that all managed to fill out their customs declarations. My English was at high demand to help some less fortunate souls. This provided some diversion while waiting for my turn at the dreaded passport control booth. Even though I had a perfectly legal visitor’s visa, my chances of passing were still less than 100% since the passport control clerks are entitled to make final determinations regarding entry. Here came my turn.
Not to excite anyone’s suspicions I proceeded to answer the guard’s questions in sufficiently bad English. This would likely lessen their worries of my overstaying – precisely contrary to my intentions. You see when you immigrate they want your English at its best, when you come as a visitor too much enthusiasm for the mother tongue could cause problems. My fibbing did not hurt and, to my ultimate relief, I was waved through. I felt like I had just climbed a very high mountain!
Well, I was just about to discover a whole new mountain range yonder. I really just climbed a small local hill before embarking on an Everest expedition. It could wait of course a while longer but for now I was full of excitement mixed trepidation, nervousness and unrealistic expectations. I was very happy to collect my simple luggage intact and meet my travel companions by the exit to the reception area. Rudy was to quickly proceed to a domestic terminal to catch a flight to Chicago while Jeff was expecting to spend some time with his friends John and Jennifer. I met this nice bodybuilding couple at the last international tournament in St. Petersburg just two months ago. They were friendly and engaging types who were happy to partake in the last glimpses of the sinking empire ravenously touring Moscow and St. Petersburg. I was very happy to oblige as a friendly tourist guide.
They had been waiting for at least a couple of hours due to the delay of the flight in Gander. They were expecting to hang out in Jeff and Rudy’s company. My emergence in the brightly-lit hall evoked some shrilling commotion “Boris! (my nickname to some) What are you doing here?” Their surprise and amazement at the apparent coincidence hardly knew any bounds. I could not believe my luck either. I felt like walking on water!
After a couple of hours of spending time with my friends the time had come to part ways – Jeff to Washington, John and Jennifer to the Garden State and I to some unknown address in Queens. Failing to find my friend Dorin’s number in the phone book and feeling sorry for my travelled-out appearance, John and Jennifer graciously gave me a ride in the their beat-up Datsun that appeared to be a gilded queen’s carriage of my dreams – I really needed some sleep...
Queens – Royal Paradise
The heart of Queens was my destination. Having been sufficiently enlightened on the likely make up of the neighbourhood, I was still slightly jolted by its jungle like appearance. From the garbage covered Van Wyck to no better landscape along the Lincoln and Queens boulevards. Despite the promising name and the fantastically warm weather spell all around looked a bit grim – sort of brownish to be exact, as streets were predominantly lined up with low square residential buildings of red brick, one block after another. On occasion, this predictable architectural ensemble was interspersed with strip malls boasting all sorts of offerings dealing with fast food, fast laundry, cheap phone cards and cheap vacation travel. A huge concrete three-story structure boasted some scenic relief by having a chain-fenced gravel football field. The sign “High School” and hundreds of kids playing on the foreground betrayed the purpose of the prominent edifice. Street corners appeared to be especially busy with ear popping sounds of boom boxes straining to contain the ever-pervasive and high octane rap music that was immensely enjoyed by colourful crowds. These exhibited not only propensity to large amounts of neck-hanging jewellery and strange baggy pants but also revealed the highly confusing ethnic cauldron that I got myself in. To my exhausted Russian eyes, much used to exceedingly white crowds, these scenes appeared to be highly amusing and slightly strange especially considering that less than twenty hours ago I was “basking” in the minus thirty Moscow blizzard. Once we swerved into somewhat quieter environs of side streets, the scenery did not really change much except for occasional rows of brown brick townhouses with tiny and mostly badly kept yards bristling with tufts of yellow grass and dried up flower pots. After all, this was just the middle of February and the pragmatic locals did not seem to mind a bit of season-induced disorder.
Dorin’s address turned up to be very vividly etched on the front entrance of a building fronting a busy street prone to already familiar boom-boxes and gold chains. The place itself was a five-story red brick affair that a fantastic looking foyer – clean windows revealed attractive marble floors and freshly painted walls of nearly palatial quality. Having just left dark, unpainted, chipped with bullet-like holes, and pungent garbage halls of my alma mater, this appeared to be an absolutely jaw-dropping luxury. Dorin must have scored in this paradise truly fit for a Queen...
Toock-Toock
Despite being rather familiar with American culture, I was still much a product of the communications-deprived Soviet regime. And since phones at home tended to be less reliable and hence less convenient, just showing up at somebody’s door without a call happened to be a much simpler option for many a traveller including yours truly. So when getting ready to arrive in the village that is called New York City, I just assumed the ease of taking the always available public transit right to my friend’s door without missing all that much. A phone call ahead was just an option that I did not choose. The lucky encounter with the American acquaintances turned out to have saved me much time, anxiety, hassle and a subway fare of precious $1.25. However, as we were approaching the heart of Queens, I slowly started realizing the folly of my original plan. Now at the apartment door, I was faced with much more delicate task of firming up a place to stay for at least a couple of weeks with people who could have been expecting appearance of Dalai Lama with no less certainty. Feeling a little stupid and awfully tired I pressed the buzzer… Dorin and her husband Misha were just settling down for a very American, peaceful and surely unsuspecting evening meal in front of their TV, when the buzzer rang. Their amazement knew now bounds and their faces, especially Misha’s, betrayed some “slight” discomfort that still lingers to this day. I only need to bring up the famous notion of an unexpected “toock toock” (Russian “knock, knock”) to elicit at least smile in the grimmest of times. No doubt, the event was permanently etched in our memories. After a quick look at my suitcases and tired jet lagged smile, they realised the inevitability of the unwelcome prospect. My settlement in their living room for some duration looked absolutely inevitable. Being the folks of our stalk they took it in a habitually humorous stride – laughter was really the only option remaining. The happiness of finally moving away from living with her parents and uncle in a larger but much more communal apartment turned out to be short lived, at least for a time.
My lack of any papers apart from a tourist visa, a mere few hundred dollars in my pocket and dearth of any solid plans made introduction of any choices in the matter superfluous. Having been installed, in the brightly lit by the outside lights and susceptible to all pervasive sounds of the street rap, living room I was happy to occupy the spacious couch while my gracious hosts retired for the evening to get ready for yet another day of the professional grind. Misha was a newly ascending computer programmer while Dorin worked as an ESL teacher. Luckily, these folks went to bed early so I did not have to live with habitual discomfort of guests who do not share their host’s passion for late night TV while coveting the most essential part of this deeply elucidating cultural exercise – the couch.
First Impressions
My lazy morning was hardly interrupted by the regular routine of Misha departing early for his first professional US job in the neighbouring state of Connecticut – one hour one-way commute, 35K per year and the apparent need for ever more money to acquire ever slicker suits – was all she wrote. Dorin’s job in the Russian Brooklyn enclave of Brighton Beach was just as a long subway affair that paid rather well for relatively easy task of dealing with stubbornly unilingual aging Russian immigrants. By ten o’clock I was left to my own devises. The first thing I desperately wanted to do was to clear my head after the life-changing transatlantic flight. The weather on this mid February morning was exceptional, it was around 15C and sunny – just a paradise. I was delighted by the feeling of the coming spring, and this despite an apparent local predisposition toward everything concrete – concrete sidewalks, concrete walls and concrete work attitude of folk departing for yet another day of capitalist grind. I also had a concrete need to get something going – my pocket book did not qualify me as a bona fide tourist while my tourist visa did not seem to favour any inclinations to get some kind of work in the midst of this tough economic climate of the early nineties. My education and fluency in English seemed to be the only assets. Was it going to be enough?
I really needed to get myself into a university or college quick and on the full scholarship no less. Given my “obvious” wit and charm coupled with “undeniable” academic abilities – the rational and friendly Americans would be only too happy to oblige. A solid scholarship and all expenses paid room and board were just within a short reach. After all it was I who had suffered under the evils of communism and general stupidity for so long. I had paid my dues and was ready for my rewards. But first things first and a refreshing morning run would just do the trick.
Preferring some spontaneity in this undertaking, I took off along the first street facing the main entrance until I felt compelled to turn around. Along the way, my route took me by seemingly unchangeable tree-less landscape. The utility reigned all around. Any unnecessary beatitudes were cleverly substituted by much more useful things - roads, sidewalks and apartments as far as the eye could see. A car dealership that catered almost exclusively to Koreans given the signs and apparent ethnicity of the salesmen occupied one of the commercial spaces. These need to reaffirm their humanity in their native tongue buoyed my spirits. “Despite having been in the place for just a few hours, my English would beat any them” I thought and felt happy in a demented sort of way.
Well, it was getting better with every passing minute as I now was enjoying extra sweet air that floated all around in a cloud of promise. Suddenly, as though struck by lightning, I realised that the source of the sweet smelling air was unleaded gasoline! You see, the leaded and harsh Soviet variety usually tends to put one in a comatose state in a rather crude and efficient fashion. The fashion so fitting accompanied by vividly toxic bluish engulfing fumes abundantly spat out of just about any Soviet vehicle. In the States the process was much less painful and immeasurably sweeter. Here, a well marketed and brightly packaged version imposed a slower acting form of the same poison on proud consumers. These first smells of unleaded gas are still swirling in my ever less discerning memory cells. Apart from the sweet fumes I also noticed an extensive car wash operation just around the corner from Dorin’s. The bunch of young, vigorous and strikingly illegal foreigners were rubbing the heck out of yet another car emerging from its obligatory shower. If these dudes could find work, my chances looked pretty good, so I thought…boosted once again by boundless energy of bright future bordering on insanity.
Yury Factor
Back at home, I decided to call a friend of mine who also happened to be in New York on a temporary and seemingly purposeful business. Besides sharing the immediate geography I owed some of my life learning to this colourful individual of the Moscow movie fame – Yury. Yury was one of the three partners who worked the Soviet movie scene during the last breathing gasps of the Soviet Union. Together with Volodya and David Winters from Hollywood they managed to wring quite a bit of old roubles out of the dying state machine pushing cheap action movies on unsuspecting consumers. Much in this fertile field was accomplished with the translating help of yours truly. A rather extensive account of this, at times racy, saga is offered by the “Movies for Roubles” segment of the larger collection of my personal lore. The current account should be treated just as a slight addendum to the already well-covered and certainly opulent personality of Yury. Being one of those perpetually overweight guys whose body just refuses to lose weight regardless of any possible approaches – medical or otherwise – Yury eventually decided to enjoy himself with abandon. What is the life for anyway? Unlike a myriad of his less happy counterparts who still clang to the myths of fitness, wellness and perpetual youth, Jury was determined to remain happy and never looked back. The decision was crucial as it allowed his creative juices flow rather freely outward, from the vast and deep reaches of his effulgent personality. Now unrestrained and confident, his personal and business successes did not have to wait long. In the turbulent and profitable early nineties, he not only indulged in his passion for movie dollars, but also managed to move into other, perhaps less glamorous but certainly no less profitable, businesses. His affairs tended to take him far and wide stretching him somewhat thin – but believe me, there were still plenty left wherever he went.
In one such undertaking he found a continual source of reasonable income by importing a bunch of mundane items such as toilet paper, good cigarettes (the ones that kill you slowly - just like the unleaded gasoline) and exotic booze from the satiated West to the brimming with new confidence East. This position of a middleman pushed our expansive friend precisely in the geographic middle – Warsaw. It was close to his suppliers, it was close to his buyers, it was certainly close to the newly found splendours of the West – sky scrapers, casinos and beautiful women. But as all well organised affairs, this one became rather boring after a while. To bring some new excitement in their lives, Jury and his partner (business partner) Sasha tried their luck in more exotic and decidedly more remote destinations. Stuffed with cash and confidence they moved on to the ultimate conquering grounds – New York City. Here our paths crossed once again.
Yury and his buddy were staying with one of their local acquaintances in the Brooklyn’s gated enclave at the very end of Coney Island – a community at the end of peninsula. Being a relatively short drive away from Queens the place looked to be just next door on a regular map. On the transit map however, it was years away, as I had to take the snaking F line. An hour and a half trip held some promise of discovery. The cheap thrill at $1.25 proved very interesting indeed. At first we crossed the East river into Manhattan then nudged along to the south before diving into the East River tunnel for the second time to cross into Brooklyn. It was mysterious. I knew I was riding under the most impressive place in the Universe and yet the maze of dark and uneventful tunnels made it nearly impossible to catch on a vibe. From Roosevelt Boulevard to the 42nd street, I could have been in Rio de Janeiro for all I could tell. Only once on the elevated tracks in Brooklyn, I finally was able to assess the surrounding landscape. First I looked back and for the first time saw the craggy and awe-inspiring heights of the colossus with its countless sky-scrapers just floating in the sky like antennas on a huge alien ship. The city’s emphatically grey outlines engulfed in the slight fog made the experience almost surreal. This was certainly the place the rest of the world called New York, the racing past local scenery under the train tracks was decidedly less than breath-taking but still very informative as to the meaning of life here. At first, the train went by rows upon rows of tombstones that lined the both sides of the tracks. It went on for blocks. Mercifully, the morbid reminders of lives lived eventually melted into the uniformly boring landscape of brownstone apartments, townhouses occasionally ameliorated by small parks that popped up here and there to make the visual side of life slightly more palatable. Brooklyn seemed to share in the lesser role of poor relatives together with Queens and Bronx; the poor relatives who live in the close and awkward proximity to the glitzy and supremely confident prodigy of the family - Manhattan. I could hardly wait to take my first steps amongst its glass and steel giants. For now I headed in the opposite direction.
Eventually, the long ride along indistinguishable streets took a sharp turn at the Brighton Beach Avenue – the most famous place for Soviet immigrants hailing from everywhere in old Union and especially Odessa. This southern Ukrainian city by the Black See seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of Soviet Jews willing to re-settle here, by the Atlantic Ocean. Just swap one beach for another. Immigration and subway tracks eventually turned the once famed beach from a quite and respectable neighbourhood for retirees into a cauldron of commerce, vice and foreign culture that pervaded every nook and cranny. This all has happened just in a matter of a couple decades. Nothing stood in the way of the Eastern menace. Russian language pushed its English counterpart to the fringes, fur coats turned from a Faux Pas into glitz, vodka figured as a drink of choice and tightly packed and over-the-belt hanging stomachs crowned with heavy infusions of chest hair served as paragons of manly fitness. By the time of my appearance the transformation was complete and irreversible, as the local lore took on distinctly dry undertones of the old Odessa humour. Now known to anyone hailing from the USSR, Brighton Beach is a butt of many a joke and a story – laughed at by many and envied by all. My first view of the Brighton Beach Avenue from the train window confirmed my expectations with abundance – I easily spotted some bright Russian neon signs, busy leather clad crowds and rows of fir coats racing by behind the shop windows as if trying to catch me in the latest sale furry.
Being a tightly packed city populated by millions, New York boasts some of the most obvious, glaring and yet very neighbourly contrasts. Some of poorest neighbourhoods can very easily mingle with some of the most exclusive, strong ethnic areas could board right on the most diverse, while commercial properties frequently burgeon right next to the relative tranquility of their residential counterparts etc. Brighton Beach and the adjacent projects of the Coney Island peninsula presented one of those juxtapositions – rather startling to the already overloaded newcomer. In the matter of seconds after leaving the Brighton Beach Avenue station we crossed into the no men zone between heavily xenophobic Russians and decidedly poorer African American neighbours who occupied vast housing projects lining up the other side of the street. The separation appeared to be better observed than the DMZ between South and Northern Korea, with the exception of large guns. The opposing sidewalks were deserted …
The only connecting bridge between the worlds, apart from the subway line, was the famed boardwalk that spanned the beach strip between two neighbourhoods with a major attraction in between – Coney Island amusement park. The latter seemed to be the only possible point of contact for two civilisations. With its huge fairs wheel the park was the focal point on my approach to the final stop. Plunged into the mid-winter slumber, it was a grim, rusty and clunking giant, flapping in the gusty shore breeze, hardly a reminder of its much more festive summer self. The nearby streets were essentially abandoned and everything in sight was shut down waiting for warmer weather and better economics.
Yury, whom I have not seen in a couple of months, pulled up to give me a ride in an ageing but still very stylish and fittingly opulent dark Cadillac. Instead of driving toward the friendlier environs of the Brighton Beach, we sped up in the opposite direction right along the rows of grim looking projects, all the way to end of the peninsula. The gated community of less than a hundred private residences beckoned at the end of the road. Remote and tucked away in one of the quietest parts of the city, the place looked to be a true gem in the rough, much like famed West Bank Jewish settlements amidst the desolation of the economically depressed Palestinian neighbourhoods. Instead of well armed and brash border guards, the fenced enclave managed with just a couple of regular benign looking security guards. Once behind the fence, the world suddenly looked much brighter and breathed with optimism.
Yury’s acquaintance Nicolai occupied a rather spacious four-bedroom affair with hard wood floors and a large kitchen, just few steps from the sandy waterfront. Already under the impressive spell of the modest $700 per month one-bedroom in Queens, this was a truly amazing testimony to living conditions of some – so much space, unimaginable finish and the nearby beach. I could hardly talk for at least few minutes. My shock was short-lived however, as my translating services appeared to be in some demand here. You see, Nicolai despite his residence in the USA of some duration, appeared to be in at least some need of English lessons. And since Yury hardly ever ventured past the Polish border, the task of ironing some details of their current deals suddenly fell on me.
Their Polish business did not require much attention at the moment, so our fearless adventurers swore to use their North American time productively. A couple of weeks prior they stepped on the tail of a truly gargantuan deal. Forget about cigarettes and booze, time had come to plunge in the black gold business – oil. As the majority of this business had been well and profitably run by some of the most powerful corporations in the world since the times of Standard Oil and JP Morgan, any ability to attain a foothold in the well-protected field was in question even at the best of times, unless your last name is Bush of course. However, below the surface there appeared to be some gems such as Iranian oil shipments that ran into some trouble with the folks at CIA after the great Ayatollah Khomeini got to the pump. Undeterred by potential entry difficulties associated with such valuable and yet semi-legal (at best) stuff, my friends were on the top of things while negotiating some aspects of the deal with some shady and much accented fellow in Montreal. This was the guy they desperately desired to follow up with my help since Nicolai was reluctant to offer his phone translating services. In the course of the conversation I realised that the numbers in question could make anybody an instant millionaire. Much of sweet and warming feelings longing for vast riches were descending on my poor unsuspecting soul at neck breaking rate - “Not so fast, it cannot be simple. They had to be an antidote. Reason, that’s it! Just think about it.” Something was amiss – sort of like a civilized version of the “Nigerian” letter – I thought that some caution might be in order. My friends did not seem to notice the pungent smell of doubt however.
The air in the land of the free was having quite an effect on many digging along the money trails. Every shovel full produced a knob, a hill, a mountain, a pyramid…The reason and accountability were waylaid in favour of unbridled enthusiasm. Something intoxicating was definitely in the air. To top it all my friends did not betray any lack of logistical, financial or legal capacity to digest the sweet Iranian crude. My services were well rewarded with a nice dinner, free phone call to Canada (my first contact with Tracy on the American soil), free ride back to the subway and $20 dollar bill to boot – not bad for the first day!
A Piece of Pyramid
Here I feel compelled to delve a bit into the hypothesis of the “Nigerian letter” business that is so attractive just about anywhere. The Nigerian Letter of course is a swindle that starts with a promise of some considerable amount of easy money in exchange for a small favour in the form of a down payment that could range from few hundred to many thousands of dollars. The inescapable attraction of riches coupled with exotic nature of the purported exclusivity and a tinge of adventure to boot prove irresistible to many despite a very ephemeral nature of the underlying proposals. Somewhere between such blatant mode of thievery and traditional large legitimate businesses lies a vast area of opportunities that tempt so many. The birth place of upward mobility itself, the United States of America, is probably the most fertile soil for some to profit from these grey business opportunities. Just attend any Amway convention or dive into some “money making schemes” so easily attainable everywhere. Just call the number on the screen of any infomercial running on the late night TV. But what if you are not that gullible?
If you eschew the listed retail opportunities in preference to a plethora of “firsthand” deals then try circling around lesser known and exceedingly grey, charcoal really, business ventures – foreign exchange and options trading, uranium from the steppes of Kyrghistan and oil from under the noses of Mullahs. These kinds of offers are definitely more popular to those who are too sceptical for ventures of the Amway ilk. Amway explores general societal ills; here you are invited to untangle very particular strands of greed and fortune – very tempting. Why settle for pre-set persuasion techniques that erase the very uniqueness of your personality. Try the opposite.
Many imagine New York City to be somewhat of a brat in the peaceful and surprisingly cohesive family of America. They figure that having seen New York does not qualify as having seen any of the true America. Others view New York as an absolutely indispensable part of American lore, the one that, if unseen, creates a material gap in understanding of the last great empire. Before we repeat the cycle once again that is.
Everyone has his set of arguments in this debate. Some are logical and lucid, others confused and convoluted. However, in any case this debate persists and isn’t about to die down any time soon. Succumbing to temptation, I cannot resist. Having visited much of the American geography, to me the Big Apple is the most American slice of the whole pie. This is not only thanks to its pivotal role in numerous turns of the American saga or its immense riches mingled with amazing diversity. Adaptability is the word that defines it best. New York is superbly adept in pushing whatever typical “American” trait may be to the most extreme forms. These traits condense and wedge into the very fabric of life here. They create unimpeachable strongholds of various societal microcosms that make up the great country in the tiniest spans of space and time, making New York one small and potent hands-on display of the great civilization. Forget the New Jersey Turnpike; it does not need to exist as the rest of the states. New York is all one needs, with enough luck, course.
The reality of New York is just the reality of America. Here, it is so easy to conjure up neatly compacted images of just about anything one needs to rest his thoughts on. So many competitive visions survive here side by side; here the most glorious achievements and despicable ills can be easily caught in the same glance. It is not jarringly foreign, it is essential. New York survives the life contrasts like no other, it thrives. At times, the very presence of these juxtapositions distracts as to make them unrecognizable. And yet nothing is out of place confirming New York to be the very kernel of the American essence. Although frequently compressed to the point of unfamiliarity, it preserves all important substance; the substance that is sometimes so wrung out of fluff that you feel like you need a magnifying glass to spot even the most obvious strands of truth, whatever they might be.
Pyramid City
One such inconspicuous truth is that the city is covered in pyramids, not those of the original perfectors hailing from the banks of the Nile. No indeed, these ones are born of individual rather than common ambition. Can it be sustained in the long run, I do not know. Egyptians are still in the lead; after all they managed for nearly three thousand year, can we? One has to admire their much more pragmatic approach to the myths of societal mobility. Sure, they did not have the nukes or even a simple steam engine. But these obvious privations did not stop their determination, collective determination. Logical creatures knew their place in life and simply succumbed to fate by building pyramid dreams exclusively for their rulers instead of wasting their personal pride on individual undertakings. And voila, today we marvel at their collective creations. New York, on the other hand, has forgotten some of these wisdoms and instead decided that everyone can have his own pyramid of successful and self-aggrandizing existence. What is frequently forgotten however is that any pyramid requires much more corpulent bottom in order to carry the peaks that grace the sunset skies. The obvious laws of geometry dictate that the precarious successes of few ought to be born by many. Alas, this truth is frequently lost on folks breathing in the carbon friendly airs of the great city.
Here, the pyramidal expectations lurk everywhere. It is not just people; it is anything and everything. Stockbrokers compete for commissions, neighbourhoods for class and the mayor for votes. For decades now, everything has been trying to build their own pyramids at neighbour’s expense. And yet one hasn’t been able to summon enough to match even the most pitiful creations on the banks of the mighty Nile even with all that Wall Street money. Everybody wants to be in charge and nobody thirsts for even slightest degree of subjugation. Where is the presumed melting pot, has it been stolen? The posh Upper East Side looks askew at its twin sister on the Upper West and outright scorns its poor cousin with a strangely Dutch sobriquet of Harlem. The selfish emotions do not limit themselves to the Isle of Manhattan, they reach beyond the five boroughs and thrash their way into sleepier suburbs of New Jersey, Connecticut and far beyond. The virtue of ambition has long swallowed any sparks of collectivism. There is no Forum or Acropolis here, its most famous square is just an intersection of two narrow and tree-less streets, its green spaces, outside of the aberration known as Central Park, hardly invite tranquillity and contemplation. Just about all speaks to compact conveniences of individual egos, ceding anything common to the stale wreck yard of all things foreign and thus useless. It could hardly be otherwise, in the midst of millions trying to erect their own personal pyramids in worship of upward mobility, success and fortune – what would you expect? Even the magnificent Park is just a tool, a kind of no-man-land where the competitors can duke it out to crowds’ delight.
Cruelty and indifference abound. Do not be deceived when first coming upon this city; at first the whole world seems to have collided here to throw one big party – all seems really joyous and full of life. All possible races, languages and cultures invade its streets, tenements and penthouses, all at once, in an unceasing cacophony of sounds, smells and crisp dollar bills. But wait until the evening and this illusion of perfect harmony just melts away into the patchwork of disparate parts with some disowning others in the most treacherous fashion of the old Brutus fame. The ritzy middle of Fifth Avenue does not give a rip about the distant cousins on the West Side; and while barely acknowledging its less regal southern parts it outright refuses to feel anything remotely warm past the 110th. All divided in strictly individual pieces of the great puzzle. It is really easy to get lost in this party that is really no party at all but just a meeting place for individualistic, disjointed and self-absorbed egos looking for gratifying success and good time at the expense of others lest you fail to build your own pyramid. If it does not stick out, even ever so slightly, above others, you have failed.
Truly, New York is a very colourful and thought provoking environment. I bet a gifted psychologist could make a world-renowned career just dwelling on and dissecting this ever-escaping and slippery subject of pyramid building in New York City. Alas, since my academic background and credentials sorely lack in the architectural department, I’d better stay away from generalities in favour of recounting my personal pyramid building experiences.
One Way Ticket
My trip started during the bizarre days of the Communist coup in the cool days of the summer of 1991. I will skip the pertinent portion of the specifics of my life saga that is covered in the “Movies for Roubles” segment of my glories. Sorry for making so painful for everyone…
Anyway, having come into possession of a super valuable American visa, the next step was to get a ticket – round trip of course with the second leg hiding under one humongous “?”. The ticket hunting has never been an easy task for just about any “out of the bear clutches” trip – short or long. Getting a ticket to America seemed to be a monumental task that involved numerous trips to the local Aeroflot ticket office to grovel and small talk with people whom I came to know nearly as well as my own family. With time on my visa ticking I was getting ever more desperate. I even travelled to Kiev to get an audience with a deputy Minster in charge of travel. All was in vain – these tickets were harder to come by than the visa itself.
This saga went on for at least three or four months – I was getting tired and my visa given for a six month window was getting closer and closer to expiration. The prospect to trying my luck once again with the folks at the American Embassy did not seem all that appetising but almost inevitable.
God had another plan, as on one cold December morning I struck gold when my favourite ticket agent managed to locate a single seat on Moscow - New York for February 18, 1992 – just four days before the visa was set to expire. Once reserved, the ticket had to be purchased within a couple of weeks for a tidy rouble sum that was an equivalent of approximately USD$500. Now the seemingly reasonable price for a transatlantic round-trip was a true fortune for an average Soviet getting along on mere $20 per month. I would never have been able to afford it had I not worked on various translating projects that paid hard currency. The next trick was to convert my dollar earnings into this rouble fluff since the actual ticket was still quoted in roubles. Alas, a simple black market transaction did not promise to be all that simple this time. The new and bold post-Soviet states could not wait for capitalism any longer… The “misery” of the centralised economic management abruptly ended just few days ago accompanied by sudden abolition of price controls on everything from milk and butter to automobiles. Now, nothing stood in the way of frigid and indiscernible markets, as they blew their arctic spell in our face. To say the least, the situation was tense everywhere including the local black market where its regular types nervously fidgeted in the January cold - the foreign exchange trade had just exploded as depreciation of roubles and other newly born currencies was accelerating with every passing minute it seemed. One had to act shrewdly and nimbly…
From pulling anywhere from 15 to 20 roubles just past summer, the mighty greenback commanded the rates of about 100 roubles by the end of November, and by early January of 1992 it was 1,000 to 1 and kept climbing higher. The already meagre savings were quickly turning into cheap wall paper for millions and one had to time all steps just right when dealing in currencies those days. Miss by a day and you could easily end up holding the proverbial bag. Aeroflot did not want to suffer either and kept changing its ticket rates just about daily.
Finally, I had to pay. With the Aeroflot price fixed for the next 24 hours time came for bag action. One literally had to bring a backpack to haul the price of the blasted ticket that arrived in exchange for twenty five neatly folded twenty dollar bills. You see, Soviets were not up on adding zeroes just yet and counting 60,000 roubles in fifty rouble bills took at least two hours – the best lesson in arithmetic I’d had in years! On the way home from Aeroflot I kept thanking God while licking my discoloured by rouble counting fingers and patting the treasured tickets firmly wedged in my chest pocket. The timing of departure, in hindsight of course, was perfect as it spared me of having to live through the 180,000 to 1 exchange rates of three years later. One needed wheel-borrows then.
Experiencing significant health problems in the last couple of months coming up to the V-day I had to summon my best to cope with preparations and every bit of help was welcome. Mother and Misha were the key supporters, of course. And this was despite him dealing with the birth of his twins and ever more precarious domestic situation vis-à-vis his first wife who was the mother of the said children. Misha, flushed with some early market successes, even surprised me with the whole compartment on Dnepropetrovsk – Moscow train, all to myself just to help with sleeping my last full night on the home ground. I could not be happier, falling asleep in the peaceful cadence of train travel. I needed rest as my stay in freezing Moscow was to be a short one – just hours. Before any sign of the next day, my friend Vladimir drove me to the nearly deserted Sheremetyevo airport nearly covered in speedily moving snowdrifts of a brutal sub-zero Russian winter. I could hardly wait to leave. My flight was one of the earliest that morning and the usually teeming with people place looked like a ghost town. The larger my surprise could not been when the first two people I discovered in the cavernous departure hall were my American bodybuilding friends – Jeff and Rudy. It was a true miracle – thank you Jesus!
Jeff and Rudy
I had known these guys from my translating gigs at several annual international bodybuilding events organised in part by my expansive friend Gennady. His towering statute and huge Arnold like biceps did not save him from being a typical Soviet, hence my translating help was always welcome and I got a chance to take part in at least three instalments of these tournaments – Moscow, St. Petersburg and Dnepropetrovsk. Then Americans were only too happy to bring a decent team that would typically win everything unless stopped by some phenomenal Germans and an odd overfed with steroids Russian. I was only delighted to observe the ripples of foreign interactions. I even got a chance to meet modestly famous people – a bonus. During my last gig in St. Petersburg I even met Ronnie Coleman who has been now crowned Mr. Olympia for eight years running! He was slightly smaller then, of course, but already in possession of a well-sized ego and gall since he kept disavowing taking any steroids. Needless to say, language barriers did not matter and many were amused. I guess Ronnie is the last one laughing…
While Gennady and his cohorts handled the logistics on the Soviet side, Jeff Brennon was the key organising force on the American end of things. Jeff’s slight stature topped off with generous strands of completely grey hair was slightly deceiving, as he pulled real weight in the US bodybuilding community. He organised and partially financed a number of eastward campaigns where his savvy of a very successful business operator came exceedingly handy. Very personable and perpetually smiling, he made many friends in all sorts of places. Rudy was one of such friends who made his Russian debut at my last tournament in St. Petersburg. This German bear of a man from Illinois was a much better power lifter than a bodybuilder since his natural wide waisted physique did not lend itself terribly well to Speedo-clad performances; and yet he persevered and had some moderate success at a regional level in home. He was a very friendly and sympathetic type who felt exceedingly sorry for us, the Soviet lot. Consequently, he brought a whole bunch of valuable stuff to bestow on less happy folk here – jeans, shirts and a shining Chicago Blackhawks jacket. After striking a good relationship with yours truly, the most his benevolent garde-robe ended up in my suitcase with the much-coveted jacket included. I really scored on that trip I have to admit. Nevertheless, in the end we all went home and did not hear from one another until the fateful day of my New York bound departure that miraculously coincided with Jeff and Rudy’s plans to return home after a short, organised on a whim, trip to savagely frigid Russia. This was going to be one of their last Russian trips, as previously very cheap adventures were getting to be decidedly more expensive and less pleasant with every passing day of skyrocketing prices and burgeoning popular discontent.
Fly Away
The odds of meeting these two guys on the same flight on the way to New York could not have been better than one in a million, and yet God favoured my undertaking in the most profound way, as I was to find out only short time thereafter. In addition, my eighteen-hour flight promised to be a much-ameliorated experience since I could enjoy their light-hearted company - exactly what I needed to keep off niggling worries of the unknown.
Our first stop on the way to the Promised Land took us to the green and grassy knolls of Ireland. After leaving the biting blizzard just three hours prior, I could not believe my eyes when the plane first broke through the grey clouds. Suddenly our senses were completely immersed in the bright kaleidoscope of amazing scenery with undulating emerald hills graced by countless sheep that generously dotted the landscape. With the economic and social chaos that reigned back home, this tranquillising scene appeared to have just stepped out of a fairy tale. Our one-hour Shannon stop was just a one-hour refuelling deal – no chance of getting outside. And yet the West beckoned even only through the tinted airport windows. Even pavement, strange tiny cars with steering on the wrong side and cheerful well-dressed people: the sight was simply wondrous. In the lounge, peace, order and prosperity reigned just as well. I was only happy to share these with Jeff and Rudy who treated me to a round of soft drinks otherwise unattainable to my unburdened pockets. The funny local accents and warm smiles made me want to just stay there and stare at all that sheep for eternity. Alas, the state of my passport, fully replenished aircraft and the Land of Promise were calling to riskier and potentially more rewarding undertakings. Leaving my sheep behind, we swooshed up into the sky heading to Gander, Newfoundland.
My first glimpses of Canada were hardly different from my last ones of Moscow – Gander was just buried in feet of snow brought by the storm that seemed to have raged for days. Unlike the evergreen Ireland, I failed to notice much of anything other than snow, beer and yet more snow. A scheduled one-hour stop turned into a three-hour sojourn due to the naughty weather conditions. Otherwise all that is left in my memory is setting fatigue, Labatt beer counter favoured exclusively by the male part of humanity and a pretty girl manning the bar with a sullen face in need of sunrays.
Finally, after another two hours we were basking in the full of sunshine - New York. I could hardly believe the difference that just a short flight could make. The first holes in the racing by clouds revealed the ground bereft of any snow and sun rays playfully dancing in the numerous swamps. No sheep or tranquility, the placed was laced with large cars and freeways. Upon landing it took us at least 20 minutes to find our designated birth at the terminal. JFK was by far the biggest airport I had ever seen – the ground was teeming with activity. All technical people working on the tarmac appeared to be completely unaware that it was the middle of February. Most of them wore just light jackets, some even sported shorts and T-shirts – total insanity considering that New York was supposed to be just slightly warmer than frigid Moscow. My winter wardrobe appeared to be completely out of place. Oh well…
Welcome – Show Me Your Passport
The time to separate from my dear companions had come. They were Americans and consequently were ushered with a reasonable degree of decorum to face a rather simple border check-in. The Soviet riffraff on the other hand had to go through a cattle like procedure at the much feared passport control. Having waived good-bye and hoping to see them on the other side of the border divide, I joined the ranks of my compatriots entering into the dark, windy, unending corridors that led the lesser folk to face their fate. Since most of my dear compatriots had hardly a foggiest idea about the host language, they tended to tread very carefully, trying to decipher the direction signs that were displayed in nothing but English. You are in America – forget about your Russian, Polish or Swahili!
Some in my group were clearly not prepared and surely dazed after the eighteen-hour flight. The local border control folks were clearly not disposed to wait. The airport was huge and the flow of humanity clamouring to enter the coveted gates was even larger. Waiting was a luxury they could not afford. Starting at the first turn we were met by a seemingly unceasing battery of clerks shouting out commands – as if to cattle entering abattoir. A chill shot through my body – this was not Ireland. Many hesitated. Clerk tolerance was not forthcoming. Instead, they kept shouting louder and louder “Move Ahead!”, “Left!” and “Right!” It was becoming deafening and I desperately needed some air plugs. Most of these obliging civil servants must have been always taught that since the English is the only language in existence then the only difference between let’s say Serbian or German was the volume one had to use. I sort of understood this dynamic pretty quickly while many less fortunate linguists did not. They marched stultified by the gratuitous shouts, abrupt commands and herded by ever-present barriers. Adding low lighting and starkly tiled walls to the mix made the scene almost surreal – the first roll call in America.
Eventually the uncomfortable tunnel experience ended and we were ushered into the passport control hall. The flow of humanity disgorging inside required rapid and very efficient line management – the shouts became louder and more persistent. Here we commingled with multitudes of other non-native hordes attempting to cope with life after lengthy international flights. The Caucasian race was a minority as our group was dwarfed by multitudes of Asians and Africans. Most of these people did not speak English just like Russians hence the guards tended to scream another tone higher to make sure that all managed to fill out their customs declarations. My English was at high demand to help some less fortunate souls. This provided some diversion while waiting for my turn at the dreaded passport control booth. Even though I had a perfectly legal visitor’s visa, my chances of passing were still less than 100% since the passport control clerks are entitled to make final determinations regarding entry. Here came my turn.
Not to excite anyone’s suspicions I proceeded to answer the guard’s questions in sufficiently bad English. This would likely lessen their worries of my overstaying – precisely contrary to my intentions. You see when you immigrate they want your English at its best, when you come as a visitor too much enthusiasm for the mother tongue could cause problems. My fibbing did not hurt and, to my ultimate relief, I was waved through. I felt like I had just climbed a very high mountain!
Well, I was just about to discover a whole new mountain range yonder. I really just climbed a small local hill before embarking on an Everest expedition. It could wait of course a while longer but for now I was full of excitement mixed trepidation, nervousness and unrealistic expectations. I was very happy to collect my simple luggage intact and meet my travel companions by the exit to the reception area. Rudy was to quickly proceed to a domestic terminal to catch a flight to Chicago while Jeff was expecting to spend some time with his friends John and Jennifer. I met this nice bodybuilding couple at the last international tournament in St. Petersburg just two months ago. They were friendly and engaging types who were happy to partake in the last glimpses of the sinking empire ravenously touring Moscow and St. Petersburg. I was very happy to oblige as a friendly tourist guide.
They had been waiting for at least a couple of hours due to the delay of the flight in Gander. They were expecting to hang out in Jeff and Rudy’s company. My emergence in the brightly-lit hall evoked some shrilling commotion “Boris! (my nickname to some) What are you doing here?” Their surprise and amazement at the apparent coincidence hardly knew any bounds. I could not believe my luck either. I felt like walking on water!
After a couple of hours of spending time with my friends the time had come to part ways – Jeff to Washington, John and Jennifer to the Garden State and I to some unknown address in Queens. Failing to find my friend Dorin’s number in the phone book and feeling sorry for my travelled-out appearance, John and Jennifer graciously gave me a ride in the their beat-up Datsun that appeared to be a gilded queen’s carriage of my dreams – I really needed some sleep...
Queens – Royal Paradise
The heart of Queens was my destination. Having been sufficiently enlightened on the likely make up of the neighbourhood, I was still slightly jolted by its jungle like appearance. From the garbage covered Van Wyck to no better landscape along the Lincoln and Queens boulevards. Despite the promising name and the fantastically warm weather spell all around looked a bit grim – sort of brownish to be exact, as streets were predominantly lined up with low square residential buildings of red brick, one block after another. On occasion, this predictable architectural ensemble was interspersed with strip malls boasting all sorts of offerings dealing with fast food, fast laundry, cheap phone cards and cheap vacation travel. A huge concrete three-story structure boasted some scenic relief by having a chain-fenced gravel football field. The sign “High School” and hundreds of kids playing on the foreground betrayed the purpose of the prominent edifice. Street corners appeared to be especially busy with ear popping sounds of boom boxes straining to contain the ever-pervasive and high octane rap music that was immensely enjoyed by colourful crowds. These exhibited not only propensity to large amounts of neck-hanging jewellery and strange baggy pants but also revealed the highly confusing ethnic cauldron that I got myself in. To my exhausted Russian eyes, much used to exceedingly white crowds, these scenes appeared to be highly amusing and slightly strange especially considering that less than twenty hours ago I was “basking” in the minus thirty Moscow blizzard. Once we swerved into somewhat quieter environs of side streets, the scenery did not really change much except for occasional rows of brown brick townhouses with tiny and mostly badly kept yards bristling with tufts of yellow grass and dried up flower pots. After all, this was just the middle of February and the pragmatic locals did not seem to mind a bit of season-induced disorder.
Dorin’s address turned up to be very vividly etched on the front entrance of a building fronting a busy street prone to already familiar boom-boxes and gold chains. The place itself was a five-story red brick affair that a fantastic looking foyer – clean windows revealed attractive marble floors and freshly painted walls of nearly palatial quality. Having just left dark, unpainted, chipped with bullet-like holes, and pungent garbage halls of my alma mater, this appeared to be an absolutely jaw-dropping luxury. Dorin must have scored in this paradise truly fit for a Queen...
Toock-Toock
Despite being rather familiar with American culture, I was still much a product of the communications-deprived Soviet regime. And since phones at home tended to be less reliable and hence less convenient, just showing up at somebody’s door without a call happened to be a much simpler option for many a traveller including yours truly. So when getting ready to arrive in the village that is called New York City, I just assumed the ease of taking the always available public transit right to my friend’s door without missing all that much. A phone call ahead was just an option that I did not choose. The lucky encounter with the American acquaintances turned out to have saved me much time, anxiety, hassle and a subway fare of precious $1.25. However, as we were approaching the heart of Queens, I slowly started realizing the folly of my original plan. Now at the apartment door, I was faced with much more delicate task of firming up a place to stay for at least a couple of weeks with people who could have been expecting appearance of Dalai Lama with no less certainty. Feeling a little stupid and awfully tired I pressed the buzzer… Dorin and her husband Misha were just settling down for a very American, peaceful and surely unsuspecting evening meal in front of their TV, when the buzzer rang. Their amazement knew now bounds and their faces, especially Misha’s, betrayed some “slight” discomfort that still lingers to this day. I only need to bring up the famous notion of an unexpected “toock toock” (Russian “knock, knock”) to elicit at least smile in the grimmest of times. No doubt, the event was permanently etched in our memories. After a quick look at my suitcases and tired jet lagged smile, they realised the inevitability of the unwelcome prospect. My settlement in their living room for some duration looked absolutely inevitable. Being the folks of our stalk they took it in a habitually humorous stride – laughter was really the only option remaining. The happiness of finally moving away from living with her parents and uncle in a larger but much more communal apartment turned out to be short lived, at least for a time.
My lack of any papers apart from a tourist visa, a mere few hundred dollars in my pocket and dearth of any solid plans made introduction of any choices in the matter superfluous. Having been installed, in the brightly lit by the outside lights and susceptible to all pervasive sounds of the street rap, living room I was happy to occupy the spacious couch while my gracious hosts retired for the evening to get ready for yet another day of the professional grind. Misha was a newly ascending computer programmer while Dorin worked as an ESL teacher. Luckily, these folks went to bed early so I did not have to live with habitual discomfort of guests who do not share their host’s passion for late night TV while coveting the most essential part of this deeply elucidating cultural exercise – the couch.
First Impressions
My lazy morning was hardly interrupted by the regular routine of Misha departing early for his first professional US job in the neighbouring state of Connecticut – one hour one-way commute, 35K per year and the apparent need for ever more money to acquire ever slicker suits – was all she wrote. Dorin’s job in the Russian Brooklyn enclave of Brighton Beach was just as a long subway affair that paid rather well for relatively easy task of dealing with stubbornly unilingual aging Russian immigrants. By ten o’clock I was left to my own devises. The first thing I desperately wanted to do was to clear my head after the life-changing transatlantic flight. The weather on this mid February morning was exceptional, it was around 15C and sunny – just a paradise. I was delighted by the feeling of the coming spring, and this despite an apparent local predisposition toward everything concrete – concrete sidewalks, concrete walls and concrete work attitude of folk departing for yet another day of capitalist grind. I also had a concrete need to get something going – my pocket book did not qualify me as a bona fide tourist while my tourist visa did not seem to favour any inclinations to get some kind of work in the midst of this tough economic climate of the early nineties. My education and fluency in English seemed to be the only assets. Was it going to be enough?
I really needed to get myself into a university or college quick and on the full scholarship no less. Given my “obvious” wit and charm coupled with “undeniable” academic abilities – the rational and friendly Americans would be only too happy to oblige. A solid scholarship and all expenses paid room and board were just within a short reach. After all it was I who had suffered under the evils of communism and general stupidity for so long. I had paid my dues and was ready for my rewards. But first things first and a refreshing morning run would just do the trick.
Preferring some spontaneity in this undertaking, I took off along the first street facing the main entrance until I felt compelled to turn around. Along the way, my route took me by seemingly unchangeable tree-less landscape. The utility reigned all around. Any unnecessary beatitudes were cleverly substituted by much more useful things - roads, sidewalks and apartments as far as the eye could see. A car dealership that catered almost exclusively to Koreans given the signs and apparent ethnicity of the salesmen occupied one of the commercial spaces. These need to reaffirm their humanity in their native tongue buoyed my spirits. “Despite having been in the place for just a few hours, my English would beat any them” I thought and felt happy in a demented sort of way.
Well, it was getting better with every passing minute as I now was enjoying extra sweet air that floated all around in a cloud of promise. Suddenly, as though struck by lightning, I realised that the source of the sweet smelling air was unleaded gasoline! You see, the leaded and harsh Soviet variety usually tends to put one in a comatose state in a rather crude and efficient fashion. The fashion so fitting accompanied by vividly toxic bluish engulfing fumes abundantly spat out of just about any Soviet vehicle. In the States the process was much less painful and immeasurably sweeter. Here, a well marketed and brightly packaged version imposed a slower acting form of the same poison on proud consumers. These first smells of unleaded gas are still swirling in my ever less discerning memory cells. Apart from the sweet fumes I also noticed an extensive car wash operation just around the corner from Dorin’s. The bunch of young, vigorous and strikingly illegal foreigners were rubbing the heck out of yet another car emerging from its obligatory shower. If these dudes could find work, my chances looked pretty good, so I thought…boosted once again by boundless energy of bright future bordering on insanity.
Yury Factor
Back at home, I decided to call a friend of mine who also happened to be in New York on a temporary and seemingly purposeful business. Besides sharing the immediate geography I owed some of my life learning to this colourful individual of the Moscow movie fame – Yury. Yury was one of the three partners who worked the Soviet movie scene during the last breathing gasps of the Soviet Union. Together with Volodya and David Winters from Hollywood they managed to wring quite a bit of old roubles out of the dying state machine pushing cheap action movies on unsuspecting consumers. Much in this fertile field was accomplished with the translating help of yours truly. A rather extensive account of this, at times racy, saga is offered by the “Movies for Roubles” segment of the larger collection of my personal lore. The current account should be treated just as a slight addendum to the already well-covered and certainly opulent personality of Yury. Being one of those perpetually overweight guys whose body just refuses to lose weight regardless of any possible approaches – medical or otherwise – Yury eventually decided to enjoy himself with abandon. What is the life for anyway? Unlike a myriad of his less happy counterparts who still clang to the myths of fitness, wellness and perpetual youth, Jury was determined to remain happy and never looked back. The decision was crucial as it allowed his creative juices flow rather freely outward, from the vast and deep reaches of his effulgent personality. Now unrestrained and confident, his personal and business successes did not have to wait long. In the turbulent and profitable early nineties, he not only indulged in his passion for movie dollars, but also managed to move into other, perhaps less glamorous but certainly no less profitable, businesses. His affairs tended to take him far and wide stretching him somewhat thin – but believe me, there were still plenty left wherever he went.
In one such undertaking he found a continual source of reasonable income by importing a bunch of mundane items such as toilet paper, good cigarettes (the ones that kill you slowly - just like the unleaded gasoline) and exotic booze from the satiated West to the brimming with new confidence East. This position of a middleman pushed our expansive friend precisely in the geographic middle – Warsaw. It was close to his suppliers, it was close to his buyers, it was certainly close to the newly found splendours of the West – sky scrapers, casinos and beautiful women. But as all well organised affairs, this one became rather boring after a while. To bring some new excitement in their lives, Jury and his partner (business partner) Sasha tried their luck in more exotic and decidedly more remote destinations. Stuffed with cash and confidence they moved on to the ultimate conquering grounds – New York City. Here our paths crossed once again.
Yury and his buddy were staying with one of their local acquaintances in the Brooklyn’s gated enclave at the very end of Coney Island – a community at the end of peninsula. Being a relatively short drive away from Queens the place looked to be just next door on a regular map. On the transit map however, it was years away, as I had to take the snaking F line. An hour and a half trip held some promise of discovery. The cheap thrill at $1.25 proved very interesting indeed. At first we crossed the East river into Manhattan then nudged along to the south before diving into the East River tunnel for the second time to cross into Brooklyn. It was mysterious. I knew I was riding under the most impressive place in the Universe and yet the maze of dark and uneventful tunnels made it nearly impossible to catch on a vibe. From Roosevelt Boulevard to the 42nd street, I could have been in Rio de Janeiro for all I could tell. Only once on the elevated tracks in Brooklyn, I finally was able to assess the surrounding landscape. First I looked back and for the first time saw the craggy and awe-inspiring heights of the colossus with its countless sky-scrapers just floating in the sky like antennas on a huge alien ship. The city’s emphatically grey outlines engulfed in the slight fog made the experience almost surreal. This was certainly the place the rest of the world called New York, the racing past local scenery under the train tracks was decidedly less than breath-taking but still very informative as to the meaning of life here. At first, the train went by rows upon rows of tombstones that lined the both sides of the tracks. It went on for blocks. Mercifully, the morbid reminders of lives lived eventually melted into the uniformly boring landscape of brownstone apartments, townhouses occasionally ameliorated by small parks that popped up here and there to make the visual side of life slightly more palatable. Brooklyn seemed to share in the lesser role of poor relatives together with Queens and Bronx; the poor relatives who live in the close and awkward proximity to the glitzy and supremely confident prodigy of the family - Manhattan. I could hardly wait to take my first steps amongst its glass and steel giants. For now I headed in the opposite direction.
Eventually, the long ride along indistinguishable streets took a sharp turn at the Brighton Beach Avenue – the most famous place for Soviet immigrants hailing from everywhere in old Union and especially Odessa. This southern Ukrainian city by the Black See seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of Soviet Jews willing to re-settle here, by the Atlantic Ocean. Just swap one beach for another. Immigration and subway tracks eventually turned the once famed beach from a quite and respectable neighbourhood for retirees into a cauldron of commerce, vice and foreign culture that pervaded every nook and cranny. This all has happened just in a matter of a couple decades. Nothing stood in the way of the Eastern menace. Russian language pushed its English counterpart to the fringes, fur coats turned from a Faux Pas into glitz, vodka figured as a drink of choice and tightly packed and over-the-belt hanging stomachs crowned with heavy infusions of chest hair served as paragons of manly fitness. By the time of my appearance the transformation was complete and irreversible, as the local lore took on distinctly dry undertones of the old Odessa humour. Now known to anyone hailing from the USSR, Brighton Beach is a butt of many a joke and a story – laughed at by many and envied by all. My first view of the Brighton Beach Avenue from the train window confirmed my expectations with abundance – I easily spotted some bright Russian neon signs, busy leather clad crowds and rows of fir coats racing by behind the shop windows as if trying to catch me in the latest sale furry.
Being a tightly packed city populated by millions, New York boasts some of the most obvious, glaring and yet very neighbourly contrasts. Some of poorest neighbourhoods can very easily mingle with some of the most exclusive, strong ethnic areas could board right on the most diverse, while commercial properties frequently burgeon right next to the relative tranquility of their residential counterparts etc. Brighton Beach and the adjacent projects of the Coney Island peninsula presented one of those juxtapositions – rather startling to the already overloaded newcomer. In the matter of seconds after leaving the Brighton Beach Avenue station we crossed into the no men zone between heavily xenophobic Russians and decidedly poorer African American neighbours who occupied vast housing projects lining up the other side of the street. The separation appeared to be better observed than the DMZ between South and Northern Korea, with the exception of large guns. The opposing sidewalks were deserted …
The only connecting bridge between the worlds, apart from the subway line, was the famed boardwalk that spanned the beach strip between two neighbourhoods with a major attraction in between – Coney Island amusement park. The latter seemed to be the only possible point of contact for two civilisations. With its huge fairs wheel the park was the focal point on my approach to the final stop. Plunged into the mid-winter slumber, it was a grim, rusty and clunking giant, flapping in the gusty shore breeze, hardly a reminder of its much more festive summer self. The nearby streets were essentially abandoned and everything in sight was shut down waiting for warmer weather and better economics.
Yury, whom I have not seen in a couple of months, pulled up to give me a ride in an ageing but still very stylish and fittingly opulent dark Cadillac. Instead of driving toward the friendlier environs of the Brighton Beach, we sped up in the opposite direction right along the rows of grim looking projects, all the way to end of the peninsula. The gated community of less than a hundred private residences beckoned at the end of the road. Remote and tucked away in one of the quietest parts of the city, the place looked to be a true gem in the rough, much like famed West Bank Jewish settlements amidst the desolation of the economically depressed Palestinian neighbourhoods. Instead of well armed and brash border guards, the fenced enclave managed with just a couple of regular benign looking security guards. Once behind the fence, the world suddenly looked much brighter and breathed with optimism.
Yury’s acquaintance Nicolai occupied a rather spacious four-bedroom affair with hard wood floors and a large kitchen, just few steps from the sandy waterfront. Already under the impressive spell of the modest $700 per month one-bedroom in Queens, this was a truly amazing testimony to living conditions of some – so much space, unimaginable finish and the nearby beach. I could hardly talk for at least few minutes. My shock was short-lived however, as my translating services appeared to be in some demand here. You see, Nicolai despite his residence in the USA of some duration, appeared to be in at least some need of English lessons. And since Yury hardly ever ventured past the Polish border, the task of ironing some details of their current deals suddenly fell on me.
Their Polish business did not require much attention at the moment, so our fearless adventurers swore to use their North American time productively. A couple of weeks prior they stepped on the tail of a truly gargantuan deal. Forget about cigarettes and booze, time had come to plunge in the black gold business – oil. As the majority of this business had been well and profitably run by some of the most powerful corporations in the world since the times of Standard Oil and JP Morgan, any ability to attain a foothold in the well-protected field was in question even at the best of times, unless your last name is Bush of course. However, below the surface there appeared to be some gems such as Iranian oil shipments that ran into some trouble with the folks at CIA after the great Ayatollah Khomeini got to the pump. Undeterred by potential entry difficulties associated with such valuable and yet semi-legal (at best) stuff, my friends were on the top of things while negotiating some aspects of the deal with some shady and much accented fellow in Montreal. This was the guy they desperately desired to follow up with my help since Nicolai was reluctant to offer his phone translating services. In the course of the conversation I realised that the numbers in question could make anybody an instant millionaire. Much of sweet and warming feelings longing for vast riches were descending on my poor unsuspecting soul at neck breaking rate - “Not so fast, it cannot be simple. They had to be an antidote. Reason, that’s it! Just think about it.” Something was amiss – sort of like a civilized version of the “Nigerian” letter – I thought that some caution might be in order. My friends did not seem to notice the pungent smell of doubt however.
The air in the land of the free was having quite an effect on many digging along the money trails. Every shovel full produced a knob, a hill, a mountain, a pyramid…The reason and accountability were waylaid in favour of unbridled enthusiasm. Something intoxicating was definitely in the air. To top it all my friends did not betray any lack of logistical, financial or legal capacity to digest the sweet Iranian crude. My services were well rewarded with a nice dinner, free phone call to Canada (my first contact with Tracy on the American soil), free ride back to the subway and $20 dollar bill to boot – not bad for the first day!
A Piece of Pyramid
Here I feel compelled to delve a bit into the hypothesis of the “Nigerian letter” business that is so attractive just about anywhere. The Nigerian Letter of course is a swindle that starts with a promise of some considerable amount of easy money in exchange for a small favour in the form of a down payment that could range from few hundred to many thousands of dollars. The inescapable attraction of riches coupled with exotic nature of the purported exclusivity and a tinge of adventure to boot prove irresistible to many despite a very ephemeral nature of the underlying proposals. Somewhere between such blatant mode of thievery and traditional large legitimate businesses lies a vast area of opportunities that tempt so many. The birth place of upward mobility itself, the United States of America, is probably the most fertile soil for some to profit from these grey business opportunities. Just attend any Amway convention or dive into some “money making schemes” so easily attainable everywhere. Just call the number on the screen of any infomercial running on the late night TV. But what if you are not that gullible?
If you eschew the listed retail opportunities in preference to a plethora of “firsthand” deals then try circling around lesser known and exceedingly grey, charcoal really, business ventures – foreign exchange and options trading, uranium from the steppes of Kyrghistan and oil from under the noses of Mullahs. These kinds of offers are definitely more popular to those who are too sceptical for ventures of the Amway ilk. Amway explores general societal ills; here you are invited to untangle very particular strands of greed and fortune – very tempting. Why settle for pre-set persuasion techniques that erase the very uniqueness of your personality. Try the opposite.
Forget about your meagre means and total obscurity. Donald Trump and Bill Gates are not the only ones who can make a deal. Your profound visions are short on specifics, you have many acquaintances but few friends, and you can do anything but accomplish nothing. In other words it is a total waste of time ninety percent of the time – but it is attractive, it inebriates. So much so that it is even hard to keep your feet on the ground. In the USA, like no other place in the world, one runs into charcoal regularly, just open the paper. You are promised huge returns for upfront investment of time and energy – all in detriment to the current living standards. Bur forget about the current hardships, in the end, very soon end, you too will receive a glittering and yet personable stone edifice with a pointy top!
There were a few of these to share later but for now it is suffice to say that my erstwhile and moderately successful business friends from Russia readily fell under the spell of the overall scheme of happiness despite all their previous experiences and apparent savvy. This is not to say that the Middle Eastern dude in Montreal was lying to them. What is more likely is that he was himself yet another victim in the long chain of ephemeral business opportunities, perhaps under a simple premise of his uncle working as a second assistant to a fourth deputy in the Iranian oil ministry. This “six degrees of separation” crap is certainly curious and electrifying stuff unless one tries to act on it. Suddenly, the “never-lying” science of statistics erects a huge wall of impossibility. It is like some impudent bastard stealing all your pyramidal supplies overnight while you were sleeping. Oh well, there is always another Vegas out there – order some more – soap, books, tapes or bricks. Anything not to toil for a wage…
Reality Bites
Back on the subway, I not only enjoyed the lights of Manhattan melting into the evening sky but also had a meaningful conversation with a fellow human being from Pakistan who was going home after a long day working for some Russian business in the Brighton Beach area. Since Russians are much less communal in their feelings toward their compatriots as compared to others the best priced labour wins regardless of the point of origin. Pakistan, after years of coups and mujahadeen craziness provided an ample supply of supple labour.
My new friend Mohamed had lived in New York for almost three years after sneaking into the country with a tourist visa – very much a situation of mine of course. He was still illegal but was working on a refugee status hoping for an outright amnesty that was announced from time to time in order to lighten the immigration backlog. His support system was rather strong among closely knit Pakistani community. He shared an apartment with at least two of his cousins possessing varying degrees of legality and worked for cash. Pakistani needed cash and Russians payroll hated taxes – all worked for the better. After hearing my story of wanting to stay by enrolling in a place of higher learning, he was not too keen on my plan but did recommend applying for a political asylum and perhaps even getting some fake papers. “Just to get one’s foot in the door working in some minimum wage fast-food joint” was his advice. Slightly dispirited I still Iranian oil on my mind. My conscience was light and ready for purchase. It was not polluted by Oliver North or 1979 hostage crises and money did not have any colour but green.
The weekend was coming up and my worries took a welcome two-day recess. Dorin and Misha, having arrived in the States by more traditional and fully documented refugee route, were not all that up to speed regarding things illicit. Instead in their settled state they preferred dreaming of far future as opposed to be worrying about the next piece of bread. So they took me down to the land of their dreams – Long Island. The weather was just perfect – warm and sunny. They took me along the most prized parts of their future, to the land were houses looked like castles, cars were overtly powerful and the vistas of the Sound took your breath away. We just took me around enjoying sights of beautiful neighbourhoods, cute gardens and well-groomed public places. Ungratefully I drove them crazy by whistling tunes from TV commercials that beset my musically challenged brain like locust sucking on the fresh corn harvest. Here TV was a sure way to escape the reality, not like dour Soviet news that left little to light-hearted pestering and inspiration.
Monday ominously advanced and required some serious action. First of all, I had to figure out my next living and surviving scheme. The one-bedroom apartment was not going to be perpetually friendly – not more than two weeks before the situation might distinctly tighten. The job market was not all that great and to get anything illegal, although widespread, was not that easy since I had to know the right people and they were not running towards me with open arms any time soon. On the top of the mess there was a need to think through the bigger immigration picture – basically I was in a whole heap of trouble. Dreams of dirty oily pools would have to wait for now.
Back on the flight to New York, Rudy tentatively offered me a seasonal job in his landscaping business at $5 per hour, under the table of course. He had some experience working with Mexican help for a few years now, so he knew the ropes and did not care as long I buggered off by July – he did not want to attract undue attention should I want to stay for the whole season. While a great offer considering my situation, the work was not going to start for another five to six weeks. Before then, other than two weeks at Dorin’s, the easiest option for lodging was to go and visit my New England friends. But the prospect of cold and snowy vistas of the original colonies somehow did look ripe for the picking just yet. Instead, I asked whether John and Jennifer whether they would mind sharing in my company for two or three weeks. Hearing that Rudy had offered me a job, they must have figured that the risk of harbouring an undocumented Soviet was quite low. I had a place to stay till a trip to Chicago in five weeks. Great! God was looking after me – no doubt about that – hallelujah!
College Hunting in Manhattan
In the meanwhile, eventually with some firm plans in my pocket I decided to try my luck with higher learning. I heard Americans valued our thirty and very academic brains. It would not hurt to try. Perusing through some local Russian papers I noticed few advertisements for college enrolment. “They must be desperately in the need of students” I thought, old school had hard time letting go. The “paying students” aspect somehow avoided for a time. Feeling particularly lucky I thought that my obvious academic and personal credentials qualified me for a sure free ride. My naiveté was yet to be tested as I placed a call to the New York Institute of Technology.
The friendly person with a distinct New York accent on the other end of the line was exceedingly happy to hear about my nascent interest in his respectable establishment. The appointment was made for the following day, which I met with a tooth brush, bar of soap and a generous spray of perfume – my destiny was awaiting. The New York Institute of Technology turned out to be a technical school that mostly issued associate degrees and diplomas. The place occupied some prime property right behind the Madison Square Garden, but for a time the significance of the venue was lost on his cluelessness. Low and numerous warren-like halls dinged with typical commotion of any busy school with hundreds of young people decisively marching in and out of the building with undoubtedly things of importance to do.
Although the start of the next semester was not to happen for another month or so, the admissions department was overflowing with new clientele crammed in the receptions area so thick that you could almost stack them up. Despite the onslaught my candidacy was quickly picked out by a plump, short and friendly admissions type named John who seemed incapable of stopping his barrage of accolades sprayed at my highness. Little by little he regained his professional composure and got down to some nuts and bolts. The filling of the paperwork was a piece of cake not counting a hardly noticeable cloud of concern passing over my new champion’s effulgent visage. My immigration status was not the most pleasant thing he has heard that day. But not to be discouraged, he persevered in this thankless task of a junior salesman by ushering me to the room where they ran admissions tests. An hour later I might have actually set or at least matched their local record with no mistakes in my mathematical wake. Other studious looking characters in the room clearly could not match for my academic prowess. The future of an air conditioning specialist looked bright and shiny. Why air conditioning you might ask, well, remember this was not NYU and they were not producing philosophy majors.
And yet the stellar success squarely crashed into the iceberg of the US immigration despite the extensive thought process that saw John and a couple of his co-workers extensively shake and nod their heads signing their sympathy and desperation of yet another one lost. Nodding and shaking was all in futility. Even a visit to the all-understanding and friendly school director produced essentially zilch not counting some remote Russian contacts in the New York Society of Engineers. My proclivity for huge words and extensive sentences had so far produced not much than a simple “No”.
Future Engineering
Dismayed by diminishing prospects of becoming an air conditioning repairman, I had to entertain my immediate future through some other activities. Huge, glass and steel, skyscrapers right at the school’s doorstep presented a perfect sightseeing opportunity. I had to confess I had never seen buildings of this size and in this quantity. It was certainly mesmerising and served as relief of my immediate agony of momentary dashed expectations. The sightseeing was free and fit my budgetary needs perfectly not counting on some shoe wear and tear. I wandered around midtown for a couple of hours playing a tourist – this activity was at least in accordance with the stamp in my passport.
On closer inspection, Midtown turned out to be extremely crowded, busy and slightly threatening. At first I tried to take an easy stroll right along the 34th street. The easy part turned out to be almost impossible, as the folks in New York appeared of one mind when in came to occupying precious space on the sidewalk – get going or get lost - were the only options. In all other cases you were liable to be steam-rolled and spat out of the civilisation. Spat out right to the doorways and subway grates that were heavily occupied by the folk refusing to join in the rat race. Most of them sported faces in need of washing, shoes in need of mending and clumps of hair in need of cutting. At first I thought of them as a sort of some neurotic Broadway personalities in a protest mode. But then it struck me – they were the homeless of this city…
Having grown up in the “egalitarian” Soviet societal grid I was not all that prepared for this. In my old frame of reference most of us were poor, wretched and housed, the last being the key word. Housing of some kind had always been an entitlement at home with true costs and resulting subsidies born by the state and yet nobody fussed. Having just enough, sometimes at four to five to a room – was our slogan. Our benevolent leaders hid the ugly reality of the monetary; here people faced economics head on, just like an offensive lineman facing a blitz on an icy Thanksgiving weekend in Green Bay. Here some occupied palaces while others could not afford a single square inch of rentable space. And that’s in the richest worldly realm. I felt like crawling back in my old cocoon. Oh yea, they took that away too with those bloody shock reforms, there is nothing to return to. Forward was the only way to go.
Given my lack of experience in dealing with such a situation, it put me on my guard. What should I do? Well, if I wanted to fit in this society I had to follow the majority and stop asking questions. I still strongly believed in the American dream and the first disappointing glimpses of reality on the ground were not about to prevail. I joined the “get going” majority with abandon – my personal situation was so screwed that my sole pre-occupation was with the number one, it had to be. Later folks with dreadlocks!
I now remember my first brushes with local curiosities in a nostalgic and tranquil manner, but it surely was not quite the reality that I felt. This city thrived on chaos and self-preservation instincts that had to be learned and fast. Barely minutes into the melee, I was almost squished to death in some sales stampede just outside of Macy’s. I squished through. A cab took a quick aim on a perfectly red, for the cab that was, light. I zipped through. Almost taken for a sandwich and eaten alive when daring to inspect, a tad too close, some local food fare through a lavish window display of bagels, Montreal smoked meats and colourful servers in yarmulkes. I managed to escape with my hearts covered in drips of ketchup. The latter encounter was rather remarkable, as Jews in this city made sure that they were definitely not taken for Arabs or Turks. At home I was happy to pass for a Georgian or an Armenian – just to avoid anti-Semitic sentiments in my high school days. It was all reverse here.
Some places like the diamond row at the 47th street were almost exclusively Jewish. While walking along this extremely bright and glitzy quarter, I was amazed at the incredible array of jewels, diamonds and just sheer general opulence. Almost all of the shopkeepers were dressed in black as prescribed for any serious Orthodox Jew. Despite the common ethnicity, the competition was fierce, as every place threatened to imminently “go out of business” employed strong and compelling language such as “clearance”, “rock bottom” and “below wholesale”. Each store also peppered their immediate surroundings with thousands upon thousands of advertising leaflets shoved in every face that dared to show on the sidewalk. Although my profound indifference to jewels and empty wallet drove me past this colourful scene with speed, I did notice that the principle customers here frequently sported religious wear of yet another kind – kiffiyeh, long flowing white robes and other attributes of people with means - Saudis and other similar folks. The commerce was above all – money talked while Middle East negotiators dithered and stalled. Man, any problem could go away if just enough money is thrown into the mix.
While quickly learning new lessons of life I even made few meek attempts at employment, a difficult task at best in the uncertain economic times under the Bush, Sr. The lack of interest in my candidacy was prevalent. This trial balloon failed and new paths of activity had to be sought. At least, I tried and seasoned.
Rabbi Schmul
The land of opportunity appreciated drive, talent and entrepreneurship. But most of all it liked proper documents; hence the next logical step was to find out what was feasible and expedient. While the original settlers of the Mayflower fame eschewed any kind of immigration formality, their erstwhile descendants were knee deep into it. Any formal barrier, of course, could be satisfied given a proper amount of paper arguments. No argument has ever been more powerful in the land of the free than the lack of apparent freedom in other locales. America has been built on refugees, and refugees they took. Most of the Soviet immigration to the US in fact has been done on the basis of refugee claims. Since being a refugee for economic reasons is an official Faux Pas, everyone is this stream has always made political claims instead. While some of the earlier immigrants of the 60s and 70s were indeed a part of the famous “refusniks”, the overwhelming majority of Soviet immigrants have always been just pure and unrepressed seekers of better life, period. However, since the need for migratory decorum had to be preserved, all of these people had to concoct their own phoney stories of political persecution and intimidation.
To add insult to injury, an ability to find a suitable relative in the US to make a family reunification claim was in fact the main reason for positive selection. The sob stories of Lyublanka Prison were just used to fill in the tales for the officialdom – just a smoke screen for the real policy regarding Soviet immigration. Misha and Dorin were the perfect example. While having much more privileged existence than most in the USSR, they quickly turned into refugees when presented with a chance to immigrate. The inviting relatives were perfect guarantors even though they had never met them before. The rest was just a matter of mechanics and some limited creativity in compiling the annals of political persecution and intrigue. While this worked very well for them, it was very inconvenient for me due to the complete lack of caring relatives on this side of the ocean.
Entering the US on a tourist visa and plead political refugee status on your own was of course another route. This option was open only to the souls that managed to squeeze through the US embassy in the late eighties however. My arrival in 1992 was a tad late for this ruse. The communism had collapsed, the snow of long winter was thawing and our two countries did not appear to be at each other throats for the first time in generations. The real life was quick, abrupt and ruthless. The accompanying political apparatus was slow and unyielding. In other words, in the new brave days of changing Soviet reality, Americans did not know exactly what to do. They were certainly clamping down on gratuitous granting of refugee status but still took refugee claims. The gold rush away from the new age economics in the frozen East had begun and the Americans braced.
The slow American approach to gratuitous refugee claims increased one’s chances to stay by hook and by a crook. This was a welcome prospect. In addition, they automatically gave you a work permit allowing you to work just about anywhere in the US. This tenuous piece of paper was not likely to get a high paying job on Wall Street, but washing dishes in a restaurant was not going to be problematic.
Alas, I was totally unprepared for the Byzantine arrangements of the US immigration scheme (much to my discredit). Availing of some professional help sounded promising. And since I could not possibly afford anyone with any combination of letters after their name, I resorted to where the help was the cheapest. A quick phone response to Rabbi Schmul’s inconspicuous ad in the local Russian press secured an appointment on the following day. The meeting brought me into one of the most ethnically segregated and bizarre Brooklyn neighbourhoods – Boro Park. Getting off at my subway stop in the midst of usual stone and concrete, I was immediately surrounded by everything black. Black hats, black coats and suits, black whiskers and beards – just about everyone around was a proud member of the Hassidic orthodox clan - Lubavitch. Very interesting group whose leader rabbi Scheyerson shared an amazing commonality with yours truly – we were born in the same place – Dnepropetrovsk, Ukraine. Obviously, the commonality did not reach that far given my clean shaven face and blue jeans cascading onto a set of bright white Nike sneakers - welcome.
Undeterred, I proceeded to enter the humble offices of Rabbi Schmul, the place tucked right in the middle of this fascinating neighbourhood that boasted Yiddish as the street language of choice. Many of signs tended to have Yiddish script next to English, and Kosher was the most popular word here. Rabbi Schmul, shuffling along somewhere in his sixties, carried his weighty with slightly stooped posture and lush silvery beard. He clearly fit well with the rest of the folks here with his black hat, black suit and white shirt partially concealing chicken hair of his snarly old long hands and thin scholarly neck. Given the advanced stages of my English, Rabbi was happy not to engage his Russian speaking secretary for translation of my morbid tales. In the spirit of time, we got right to business, as he swiped out a ready to be filled out refugee form right out of a huge stack of paper that seemed to form an integral part of his décor that mostly consisted of wood by-products – holy books, immigration forms, more forms and books – you get the point.
His generosity reluctantly acquiesced to reducing his “regular” fee schedule and charging me only $500 with $200 upfront. The rest was due upon the receipt of the work permit – my poor finances must have been apparent to him – after all, it was such generosity. Once setting down, I proceeded to fill out the form with a distinct minimum of Rabbi’s involvement. When coming upon the difficult bit dealing with “persecutions” and “hardships”, I plunged right in, concocting some fresh stories that had some aspects of truth associated with the life of my unfortunate and luckless father. I felt the imprint of his misfortunes heavily pressing my pen further into the valley of no return. The respectable and almost decadent status of a free-willing tourist was crumbling into a pitiful supplicant image of a stateless refugee. I endured, after just an hour the transformation was complete indeed, with Rabbi being the principle winner – who else gets paid $500 for watching someone else’s poetic struggle minus some postage of course. In other words, I could have done everything myself for exactly $0 not counting some incidental expenses such as finger prints and photographs usually obtainable at about $20.
Unfortunately for my pocket and extremely lucky for my psyche I did not have to find out about this much later in the process. You see, typically the wily book worms like Rabbi had to spend much more of his and secretary’s time assisting desperate Russian seekers of luck. In this case, all he had to do was mailing, not counting a trip to the bank deposit window. The trick was simple, once mailed by registered mail all one had to do to get a work permit was to show up at the Immigration offices with a registered receipt dating three months back. Adding to the ridiculousness of the situation, I could have written the whole thing in Swahili for all that mattered since these files were typically never opened and summarily rejected some years down the road. Unfortunately, English fluency and higher education did not prove to be a remedy against swindles and quacks whom America is very well-known for. Building a pyramid alone is a thankless task – engaging some help sometimes becomes necessary. Rabbi’s pyramid was clearly taller than many a surrounding one. By the way if you entertain an idea of hiring a lawyer for a similar exercise anywhere else – the chances are: you will be helping someone else in erection of a higher edifice without much improving your own chances.
Entrusting this all knowledgeable and spiritually attired servant with my things carnal, I inhaled some crisp February air in temporary relief. The promised work permit was in the works – the post office works that was and I was free to entertain some simpler tasks such as furthering my student career before having to move in with John and Jennifer in New Jersey. The land of milk and sausage at Dorin’s promised to be flowing for at least few more days, so I could indulge in attending various institutes of much higher learning when compared with the humble New York Institute of Technology. What was I doing there anyway?
Columbia University - City on the Hill
The extensive subway system in New York is really fantastic and can deliver you to many places of fame, renown and infamy in a matter of minutes. Getting to Columbia University appeared to be a piece of cake – as it was seemingly located next to a number of different routes. Loath to waste my time for connections, I decided to take the shortest route that promised to drop me off just a couple of blocks away from the Gothic like beatitudes of the Ivy League Alma Mater.
The dark, ominous and well graffittied walls of the station did not deviate all that much from other stations that had already graced my critical eye spoiled by museum like surroundings of the Moscow Metro. The sights above struck me a bit disconcerting though, as a goodly number of surrounding buildings greeted me with gaping glass-less holes instead of windows and curtains. Few steps on – hrrr. Almost instantly my feet got entangled in one of many a garbage heap fluidly drifting around at every whim of gusty winter winds. It felt far away from the elevated and learned halls of my destination. In addition, unlike anywhere in Midtown where everybody is proud of being indifferent and efficient, the people here were taking a very deep interest in my persona. I was getting stares from all around. I felt like an alien. Well, I was in fact an alien – the only white face for blocks around. The planet: Central Harlem. Closest Planet: Columbia University in West Harlem. Physical distance: five blocks. Travel time: light years.
Briefly recovering from the initial shock of my discovery, I mounted my space ship to zoom up to Planet Columbia via the gloomy and certainly threatening Morning Side Park – the site of numerous criminal reports. Once on the top of the hill I knew two things – taking a right train in New York could mean difference between life and death, and that not all borders required barbed wire. The serenity of the campus, unspoiled by din of multitudes mulling around in search of ever elusive knowledge, did present much more palatable and classy picture when compared to the air conditioning college but the result was even less encouraging. To impress people here one needed not only papers but also brains. Since I was not as sure on the latter account, I decided to tuck the high flying dreams of grey towers and framed graduation certificates further to the back of my tool set – for now at least.
The only thing to do in the meanwhile was to take one of the graduate school entrance exams – GMAT, GRE or LSAT. Since old rusty looking bridges and other infrastructure of the city still recovering from doom and gloom of the 1970s did not induce all that much confidence in the construction trade, I decided to stay away from the GRE. The legal profession looked extremely promising despite the apparently onerous LSAT. But hourly billings looked still less enticing than the real future, of course, the future that dealt directly with money. And what could do better than a Wall Street career? The surest ticket to this train was at the MBA window with GMAT as its doorman. That was where I would go next.
New Jersey – Land Across Time
My move to New Jersey on a sunny and beautiful early spring day could not have come at better time. My affairs in noisy and overcrowded New York were finished for time being, and my soul required a break worthy of real solitude promised by the Garden State. Picked up by John and Jennifer somewhere around the Garment District, I happily settled in the back seat, ready for new adventures. That did not wait all that long, as their little Dutsun plunged right into the foreboding surroundings of Lincoln Tunnel. Surprisingly, the scenery on the other side looked very much like that already tasted in the likes of Brooklyn and Queens. Concrete of highways, bricks of row houses and gasoline scented air displaced just about the whole of my observation capacity. I desperately scanned the sidelines for some semblance of famed gardens to be disappointed time and again by the artificial jungle called New Jersey Turnpike. In fact it got progressively worse as we passed the nearly lunar landscape that surrounded huge billowing refineries positioned right to the derelict looking bridges and other industrial structures of handicapped aesthetics. I felt grasps of serendipity squeezing fresh air right out of my lungs; I needed some oxygen and fast.
Mercifully, we managed to swerve off the giant freeway cataracts into much more gentle undulating landscapes around East Orange. Trees and grass appeared once more to soothe my battered psyche. The live was taking on much more palatable turn as we entered the manicured and almost surreal suburbia. The town of Maplewood was just a part of the latter that surrounded the huge sucking employment machine that was New York City. It was close enough to the famed Metropolis to ensure expensive and well-groomed real estate. And yet it was far enough to enjoy much better quality of life, fresher air and less crime. The place brandished not only a myriad of good-looking cute housing developments, but also boasted nicely kept-up parks, clean sidewalks and pleasing to the eye downtown core. Everything in the air rang serenity and calm. At a price of course, as John and Jennifer were enjoying their two story three bedroom deal at about $1,000USD per month. This was an astronomic amount for me and hardly affordable one for them.
This was the first time I was able to truly appreciate the place that pets occupy in a typical suburban American home. You see, most of my growing years were spent in the crammed apartment surroundings; surroundings that were hardly conducive to breed gold fish let alone cats and dogs. These beasts here even had their own special foods, clothing and anything else one would ever want. In fact, many things appeared to be upside down here – in Soviet Union there were many homeless pets but not many homeless people, here it was quite the reverse. Well we digress as my pet handling experience was hardly enough to encounter a whole set of at least five cats and a big dog. Terrifying, even though one of them was called Sasha. The beasts though were seemingly happy to take care of their new charge especially the dog whose drooling and friendly demeanour assured another good friend and companion.
As mentioned, John and Jennifer were an interesting couple who shared a mutual passion for things of size and definition – body building. Both in the tail end of their respective amateur careers of reasonable success (Jennifer placed once fifth in the US Amateur Championship), they were now thinking more about their future with impending marriage and perhaps more responsibilities. For now, Jennifer worked as a waitress in the local fine dining establishment while John was re-starting his commercial real estate career after some hiatus of unknown nature. While her income afforded them some base earnings, John’s earnings usually fluctuated somewhere between zero and infinity, with zero being the predominant number. The moribund real estate business of the early 90s did not seem to be impressed by his oversized biceps. And yet he remained rather optimistic about his professional future. He was nearing his forties optimistically. Regardless of past failures and present hardships, a typical American is always optimistic in the long run, it is sort of a national trait – just listen to any congressional testimony of the much revered Alan Greenspan on the state of economy. While Russians are all dead in the long run, Americans are all rich instead. John was hardly an exception.
John and Jennifer surely tried to have a clearer perspective on life than most. They surely did not treat work as the end-all, as Jennifer was working toward a professional physiotherapy designation. The rest of the time was spent in the gym. The routine was long and frequent. I happily tagged alone hardly ever having to pay anything, much to my delight. These guys knew just about all oversized people in the fifty mile radius. Many of their friends actually ran their own steel laden establishments. Since John and Jennifer were in with the local body building elite, they could go just about anywhere for virtually free. Some of these places were more than upscale with large selections of cardio equipment, machines and of course free weights. Some simpler ones consisted of just few small rooms that typically stacked with mounds of metal and much else. The funny thing was that the more upscale the establishment was the smaller was average bicep size while less glamorous work out caverns brimmed with everything big. I much preferred the former; despite missing some of the joys of a good cardio work-out I surely was happy to observe some of the body building elite from just a few feet. In one neighbourhood place I witnessed few work-outs by a dude, whose name escapes me, as he was getting ready for the real deal – Mr. Olympia. This guy was just absolutely phenomenal. His biceps could easily compete with anyone’s thighs in size. The definition on his legs was so incredible that I found myself mesmerised by deep ripples apparent even through his thick work-out pants. He worked out with his partner whose feminine attributes were not all that spoiled by her voluminous frame and long flowing blond hair. Surely I did not mourn an opportunity to culturally submerge…
The hard and regular work-out routine was not the only thing - food and rest were just as essential. As a result, I followed routines of my hosts in this department as well. I could hardly complain as the healthy tuna based diet and plenty of rest was all I needed to deal with some of my health issues. Just after a few days in the fresher suburban air, with tuna swimming in my stomach and my head on the pillow for at least eight to ten hours per day I was feeling positive effects. I was feeling my best in months. With mobility was somewhat limited I stuck around the house a lot, cleaning the yard, feeding the pets and walking around observing the local affluence. TV of course became my friend and I watched a ton of baseball. At first a mind-boggling set of rules was difficult to understand, but after a few days I was nearly a pro at it.
Sometimes John took me on his business outings that usually involved good deal of driving around the northern parts of the state, visiting a lot of real estate folks and eating bunch of finger food – another novelty I really did not have any trouble getting used to it. I think that John liked parading his newly found Russian friend who managed to exhibit some decent English despite being in the country for only a couple weeks. I felt like a new monkey in the circus, everyone was interested in meeting me and exchanging a couple of words to boot. I tried my best using the long word vocabulary. “Auspices” and “recalcitrant” were effortlessly rolling off my tongue providing some amusement. But like with the rest of the monkeys in the circus I was largely useless when it came to pyramid building – hence I was quickly left alone to my own devices. The Yankees were an interesting lot – most seemed to be upbeat, expansive and friendly – however whenever it came to specifics, they usually retreated to their own private and nearly impenetrable shells. Back home it seemed much easier to figure out people you could rely on and ones you could not, here it looked to be a very different story. Even favours from the best of them seemed to have a clear expiration date.
Hands on the Pump
One day, a set of pronouncements from the Soviet prodigy proceeded to produce more than just a few unnoticeable ripples in the bucolic New Jersey. A call from Yury of the Iranian oil fame prompted the ensuing cascade. Yury was still in New York and looking to wrap up his oil business and move on to the well-trodden pasture of central Warsaw. The illusory nature of his undertaking may have been dawning on him but he sure did not let on. The gushing enthusiasm of slightly illegal oil profits was still bubbling out of his well. All he needed was someone interested in purchasing the slimy liquid in good amounts – good amounts of anything usually matter a lot, oil especially. The stuff might have been still sitting in Ayatollah’s hands, but the buyers were already urgently needed. He wondered if I knew of anyone needing more than a fill-up worth. John was the most plausible tycoon in waiting, in my eyes anyway.
Having related Yury’s proposition, John became highly elated at the prospect of at least quadrupling the amount of slaves building his own personal pyramid – things were really taking off! In fact, he might have something to spare and I might even start laying a foundation for my own personal monument. The prospects of the mesmerising heights was very tempting, as I started to spend much of my time imagining visions of breath-taking pyramid tops emerging through thick low lying fog of details. Who cares though when one has nothing but a hundred dollar bill in the wallet and really bright future ahead? I was getting dizzy…
John was all action pronto. A number of phone calls were made, meetings with credit worthy people set up and Yury summoned to the freedom of East New Jersey plains. The smell of oil might have been in the air for all, but the gas bill had to be his. The meeting between Yury and John went well – two men understood each other well as both appreciated substance – Yury around the girth and John around the biceps. The Sheraton in Meadowlands lent the meeting certain amount of solidity and ambiance. The tentative international agreement was reached and we parted not to be spoiled by lesser appearances of our respective four wheels – Yury parted in an old expansive Cadillac and John in his rugged Wrangler. Neither smelt of money, but both were full of it.
The next stop was to speak to one of the John’s buddies who was a local real estate tycoon ostensibly worth some real dough. Since rich folks even in America tend to be sober and calculating lot, his appearance was rather unimposing and devoid of ostentatious signs so common among Russian rich. I detected no sparkling Rolex nor thick gold chain nor shoes made out of a poor endangered crocodile. Instead, this simply dressed Italian fellow in his late forties was very friendly, positive and unassuming presiding behind a huge mahogany table stacked with paper rather than diamond studded paper knives and crystal ashtrays. Chart and honorary plagues took most of the wall, and the presidential looking glass door led to offices of his numerous subordinates who seemed very busy bidding the master’s business. All this lent the place air of invincible tranquility and assurance devoid of pomp and full of substance. Away from clutter and noise from behind the great glass divide, my long winded and grammatically correct structures were certainly impressive. Out Italian friend took it to heart and was ready to provide necessary backing should such oil was ever to find its way under the Verezzano Bridge. Delighted, I was about to hit the local market in search of a suitable mansion. This truly was the proverbial Eldorado, as my cut for doing very little was certainly growing by the minute.
Sitting and waiting for petro profits just to start pouring in one’s pocket might be a good idea but it is certainly not all that responsive to the current needs. So John and Jennifer continued going to work, while I bid my time hanging around the house trying to be useful munching on all pervasive tuna and rice crackers. Since my total earnings in the US up to this point totalled a single twenty bill doled out by Yury more than three weeks ago, my options were limited and I was not expecting an imminent visit from the IRS. Luckily Jennifer came through on one occasion when she took me to the local supermarket where she had a small part-time gig re-stocking shelves with hair combs, brushes and other similar junk. The gig, although small, paid handsomely and I was delighted to earn $50 for less than four hours of work. Things surely were looking up. Unfortunately next gig was not going to happen for at least another two weeks just the time when I was to travel to Chicago to work for Rudy.
Life in Plainville, Connecticut
On my last weekend in New Jersey, John and Jennifer decided to humour me with a trip to see her family. I was predictably excited. The circle of relative boredom and inactivity could not be treated any better than a refreshing trip furthering my exploratory inclinations. The destination was the state of Connecticut. I was excited not only to learn new geography and customs, but also to meet new people and figure out this interesting pyramid building phenomena. From the shores afar this American obsession seemed to be paying off in spades. The country was certainly the richest in the world in terms of national income, they tended to drive the biggest cars and live in the largest houses. The land peppered by the pyramids looked like a mighty forest of peaks from various viewpoints afforded by the placid waters of surrounding oceans. Once on the ground however, I saw that the land was not a permanent high plateau but rather interspersion of peaks and valleys with many a tiny pyramid hiding in the shadowy retreats, unobservable from distance. The biggest cars turned out to be sucking too much expensive gasoline and the largest houses burdened their owners with substantial mortgages – yet another notion frequently absent in more egalitarian parts of the world. However, being the recent and one of the most fervent converts to brash capitalist ideas, I persisted in my optimistic and sparkling outlook while taking in some lessons along the way. I still looked at the dark and remote valleys on the American landscape more as aberrations than standard fixtures. “These people on the bottom must be real losers and were not worth noticing” – was the familiar refrain commonly used by just about everyone who was delighted to identify themselves with the notion of middle class. The middle class that in reality frequently boasted negative net worth and lack of loose cash.
Surely John and Jennifer could have been not the most successful members of this exclusive club but their hard work and tireless dreams of riches were certainly admirable just like those of Dorin and Misha. The main theme of life was dreaming about the future. The only difficulties were timing and quantity. Men in the gutter might have been aspiring to a better meal next day, while people in Long Island castles looked to yet another jet setting trip to Paris.
Dreams nearly always score better than reality, they spark to action, optimism and zest for adventure. America thrives on it. The only problem, of course, is that each individual dream has expiration date. Unlike creatures of celestial rank our time on earth is somewhat limited hence all dreams must be fulfilled in pretty definite terms or else…Since most Americans hold the dream of retirement as the most sacred, one could safely assume that in order to test the validity of such expectations all you had to do was to meet some people standing near this important threshold of life. My trip to visit Jennifer’s family was one of those opportunities. Up to that point the only older folks I had met were John’s parents. They seemed to enjoy the comfort of their retirement, well surrounded by neat suburban gardens and lawns in the warmth of their spacious home that came with a maid. However, given their octogenarian year count, persistent physical pains and aches that commanded ever more of their attention the prospects were less than palatable. This was not reflective of what one expects to experience once happiness arrives right after 55.
Jennifer’s parents still in their mid fifties fit the profile of the elusive happiness much better. I can understand that some, like the risk taking types of John’s ilk, have a strictly binary chance - arrive or not arrive. Others, like Jennifer’s father - Mike, take more traditional route through the rigors of stability and routine on the way to state pension. It conceivably takes longer but it is a lot more predictable. Since Mike was about to embark on the boundless freedoms of retirement, I understandably expected to bite into one of the better pieces of the proverbial middle class apple pie.
The trip to Connecticut was not all that exciting except for my penchant for tormenting Jennifer’s dog who shared the back seat with me. I pulled her whiskers, stretched her face and tied her long ears behind her head – I still feel the chill of shame remembering my short lived career of a pet torturer. Once in Connecticut, we first dropped for a visit with Jennifer’s brother. Even though it was a late Sunday morning, we found this qualified and much employed engineer working in the local supermarket. There he spent his spare weekend time as a part-time clerk. I guessed it was necessary when you had two kids, a wife and a heavily mortgaged house. Like most of the people I had met so far he was a very friendly type who was also very enthusiastic to hear that I had once attended an engineering school (affinity is a very important part of American lore). He appeared to enjoy his stint at the vegetable aisle and promised to drop by later that day for dinner.
Eventually we got to our destination – a dark coloured split level with three-bedrooms up and a big pick-up truck in the driveway. Jennifer’s parents looked happy to see us although the conversation quickly switched to family topics that did not concern me all that much, and I proceeded chasing my favourite torture victim around the house. The house was full of people and their respective concerns. Jennifer’s youngest brother, Timothy, was a very upbeat twenty-year old who went to university full-time, worked part-time and occupied the entire basement adorned with a whole bunch of music paraphernalia. He breathed freedom and relaxation in some contrast to his rather reserved family. His older sister who shared one of the rooms upstairs was a sort of pretty although languid looking young woman. She had recently seen her first marriage go to pot, so spending time at home licking her wounds and paying for her huge brand new pick-up truck gracing the front driveway sounded like a reasonable idea. The parents despite sharing their partially East European origins (Polish I think) with me had little to say outside of the most necessary decorum. Her father’s grey looking countenance and dried up skin betrayed rather dour attitude - being a city clerk was not all that exciting after all, I figure The stay at home mom was heavily engrossed in the mounds of various knitting and sawing projects complemented by pottery classes that she gave a couple of times a week to earn some extra cash. Other than that she had little to opine on outside of discussing fluctuating fortunes of her younger daughter who had hard time dealing with her personal issues.
After the quick scan of the situation, I figured I had knocked on the wrong door – the suppressed attitude and worries of life engulfed yet another family in its tight embrace with hardly any hope of happiness – future or present. Forget the retirement package; they were already past the expiration date. Young Timothy elicited the only legitimate hope. The rest was downright depressing, as I attempted to amuse myself in casual conversation waiting for the long-promised dinner of turkey and cranberry sauce. Everything else was just uninspiring to say the least. Even the name of their town attested to the dreadful peals of ordinary – Plainville and I am not kidding!
I surely knew what turkey was but the promise of hereto unknown cranberry sauce was certainly intriguing. Eventually seated at the table I got a chance to look at the legendary creation first concocted at the time of Mayflower. Unfortunately I could hardly wait to shove the precious sauce to the far reaches of my plate once I took the first bite. I felt like an idiot. Waiting the whole day just to stuff something sweet in my mouth to chase succulent turkey – a huge disappointment for my Russian trained palate that never conflicted itself with the opposites. Mustard and pepper sure, but this sugary crap clearly belonged on the desert table and not on the plate of meat! The experience of this Pyrrhic victory left such a lasting remark on my psyche that I could hardly sleep the following night rolling between the terribly spaced orange cushions of the living room couch that belonged somewhere back in the sixties.
After virtually no rest, I was happy to leave the depressing environs in the company of Timothy who took me to check out his school – University of Connecticut. His friendliness and charm coupled with crowds of young, keen and always sanguine looking students was the best cure atoning for the past 24 hours. Like many universities, the youth, vigour and enthusiasm seemed to rule here. Swarms of students went to and fro, vigorously pursuing their future. Timothy took me to a couple of his classes with one of them in American history. Very interesting stuff, as the students were easy at grasping the finest details of their own history. Discussions revolved somewhere around the Boston Tea Party and its famous aftermath. The immediate physical proximity of the old revolutionary stomping grounds was bringing the stories alive like they just happened yesterday. I was impressed; the life of a student was definitely it. No dreary job wake up calls, no pressing bills thanks to student loans and all your time devoted to pure learning; forget about the boredom of practical applications. For now I could only marvel and dream, luckily my expiration date had not arrived yet…
Well, after this and few other minor outings, with oil riches firmly sealed off the US coast, I headed to the next most logical destination – Illinois. The live in and around New York was certainly exciting. However, immediate exigencies of existence tended to have their own requirements with unyielding determination. Simply, I needed money. The $5 per hour was waiting in the promising gangster land of Chicago thanks to Rudy’s munificence. The East Coast experience failed to fully reveal the ever victorious, invincible and dauntless face of America the people across the water expect. So heading to the heartland surely promised to reveal some further clues. Bring it on!
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