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Moscow Babylon May 16, 2002
 
Dyev Endurance Journalism
By Mark Ames Browse author Email
 
Page 2 of 3
 
And what a horrible birthday she'd had! Her new boss, whom Olya described as "older and uglier than Gorbachev," sexually harassed her, then forced her to quit when she wouldn't put out. She had to pay for her own taxi ride home. One of her best friends told her she'd only come over and give her a gift if Olya was going to have a party -- in Russia, it's the birthday girl/boy who's responsible for throwing his own birthday party. Since Olya didn't plan one, her old friend refused to come over, keeping the gift for herself. Olya's father didn't even bother calling her.

And then there was me. Trying, really trying my damndest, to be nice.

"Let's go outside," I suggested. The indoors was bad -- I was trapped. Outdoors, at least, meant that physical contact would be limited.

We walked into a small park in front of my apartment. She suggested we have sex in the bushes; I pushed her off. She kissed me, grabbed my walnut -- I scooted away.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not in a good mood. I'm sorry. Let's get something to drink."

We went to Kult. Olya guzzled three cocktails in quick succession, and tried to sit on my leg. She held my hand and said, "Let's fuck in the bathroom." My revulsion had stripped my throat dry, leaving me speechless. I was practically in a trance. She tipped our table over and broke a glass -- the table rolled into the middle of the bar, right at peak time. She cackled and asked me to take her back with me so that we could "fuck."

I pushed her up Kult's steps, out onto the street, and took her to the American House of Cinema to watch a film, hoping I could buy some time. But it was sold out. So we walked across a bridge, caught a taxi, and went back to my apartment. Where she doubled up her efforts to hold me, kiss me, squeeze my walnut.

I popped Strange Brew into the VCR to calm my nerves. I tried, oh God I tried, to will her away.

"This movie is stupid," she said. Cursing my holiest of movies. Now readers should understand something: I live on the 20th floor, in a tower. I have the floor all to myself. Twenty floors, that's pretty high up. Big windows, big enough to fit a person through. And Olya said that she thought Strange Brew was stupid. And then she rolled on top of me, just when Doug and Bob were arguing over who was going to bring the glass of dog food flavored beer to their father.

"You want to kill me, don't you Mark?" she asked.

"No, why would you say..."

Olya kneeled over me, leaned down into my face, her hair falling forward. She was very, very close to my face. "You want to take a big rock and crush my head. Don't you?"

Okay! I admit it! Yes! Yes, I do! But not with a rock -- though that wouldn't be bad for a warm-up -- but with a very, very large power drill, the kind that tears up pavement! Yes, I'd like to use that on your face! A jack hammer! A tractor jack hammer, the kind that push the tractor wheels five feet off the pavement!

Wait, no-no-no, gotta be good, gotta be good! Birthday. Jail. Butirka.

"You want to kill me, I know. I can see it in your eyes, Mark."

Stop! Stop! Don't make me do it! Flintstones, meet the Flintstones/They're a modern stoneage fa-mi-ly!

"What did I do? Talk to me, Mark. Kiss me, just once. Can we make love?"

A dubba-doo time/A dubba-doo time!...Don't do the crime if you can't do the time, yeah!/Don't do it!...

The funny thing was that I was trying, really trying, to be nice. It wasn't easy. I'd long passed out of the realm of nice. I'd left nice hours ago. I was biting my lip, trembling, making high-pitched squeaky noises. Imagine having to take the worst pee of your life, then multiply that by a thousand. The torture was too much. Olya was pushing me to my limits, then beyond. She was a real pro.

"Go ahead, kill me, Mark. I want you to kill me. I don't want to live anymore."

Aaiiee. I stuffed my hands into my knees and clasped them there, then waddled over to the bathroom, where I sucked down two Imovanes. Sleep was my only way out of this mess. It was a race against time. In fifteen minutes the Imovanes would take the edge off my desire to power-drill her -- in thirty minutes, I'd be sleeping like a baby.


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Ames
Browse author
Email Mark Ames at editor@exile.ru.
 
 
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