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every other man

The light outside the main entrance to our building has gone out again. The heavy metal door swings wide as I pull a hat down over my ears. In the darkness there are maybe twenty teenagers standing still. My boot scrapes across the ground, slowing down. Their hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, I look for a space to pass between them. A voice appears, saying hello in English, with an obvious accent. I am all instinct, sayingpivyet as I pass, not looking back, wondering who said this. There was a boy that was an extra in Blackbetty that lives in our building, but he is too young, too short for it to have been him.

I look back, navigating the puddles in the street. It does not make any sense.

N is with V, making their way home. I meet them, pulling V into my arms as she chatters about her day, about dry leaves and princesses, about her grandmother's apartment and what she ate there. We are going back home, and I try to explain the odd collection that stands outside. As we pass th…

small change (exceptions)


There are two buildings that rise up in the distance, when I go towards the hardware store. I imagine a modern-day Rapunzel might live in one of them. The sky is packed with clouds, but a strange one hovers above one of the towers, a lonely mushroom, a cloud fedora, a sore thumb.

There is a store here, Pyaterochka. The name brings to mind a little bird, maybe a sparrow. I used to go to a Pyaterochka that had little birds that flew around inside it, but it actually means "5", taken from the Russian word "pyat". In "little five" people wander the aisles, counting out rubles, with bags of potatoes, maybe a box of wine. I find myself scouring the neighborhood from time to time, looking for a special type of milk for V. It comes in tiny purple boxes, and appears as randomly and sparingly as butterflies. Today, I am in Pyaterochka and there are a few boxes. I check the expiration dates on them. Stores here will sell expired milk and meat without batting an eye.

The line to the register is a clumsy, lurching mess of road workers with tiny bottles of vodka and fat bags of sausages, a pregnant woman chattering on her phone, and old people. I inch forwards, with those purple boxes balanced on my hands. The cashier is fascinating. She has bleached blond hair, pulled up high and tight into a ponytail. There is a brutal red slick of lipstick painted across her face that goes way beyond where her lips end. Her eyes are small, darting at faces, her words sharp and quick. She plunks change down, opens plastic bags with an angry flourish. On her hands, are white leather gloves with the fingers cut off. There is something oddly trash and vaudeville about her. I could see her on the street in the East Village as easily as this backwards corner of the universe. The line slogs along. I wonder if I have small bills with me. Somehow I want to be on her good side. Slapping a thousand ruble bill on the counter when you are buying 150 rubles worth of milk is a major insult to the culture of cashiers here. They hoard small bills like the world will soon unravel into chaos without them. Or, there is a massive shortage of small change. Anything is possible here. Anything.

I arrive, and she stares at me saying nothing. The red lips move, as she says something to herself. The ponytail bounces around, as wisps of broken hair dance behind it. The fingers poking from those white leather gloves have giant nails on them, carefully painted in glittery swirls. I pay with a pair of hundred ruble bills.

Out in the street, I look up at the odd little cloud, the exception. It is still there.

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