The Girl From Moscow’s Birthday

Last night was the Saturday preceding Moscow Girl’s birthday, which is actually on Monday. We can’t go drinking on Monday night. So she was out drinking with us last night. We bought her dinner and all of her drinks. After dinner, she decided to get one of her pussy lips pierced. The piercer was a close friend of hers, and he didn’t charge, though she offered to pay. Another one of her friends happened to be at the piercing place. Nice guy, great conversation. He was a giant of a man. Maybe an inch or two taller than me, and easily 60 pounds heavier. I stood out in the waiting area with him while my wife went back to watch the piercing. He and I talked about philosophy and other very cerebral things. He’s a remarkably sharp guy. With Moscow Girl’s freshly pierced lip, we went to the bar next door, and the giant bought us all a round of shots. I don’t think this girl ever has to pay for anything. She always offers to pay her share, and that offer is always declined by whoever is holding the check. This particular occasion happened to be her birthday, but this seems to happen whenever we go out with her. She’s got friends everywhere. Everybody digs her. She’s doomed to ride for free. It’s amazing, but makes enough sense. She’s sweet and dark and enchanting, but a little cold. Just warm enough to keep you coming back.

The Girl From Moscow Drinks Bourbon

We were out with the Girl From Moscow. A mediocre band was playing and she was dancing upon a riser toward the back of the crowd. She was a much better thing to watch than the band. She’s dark and beautiful. She motioned for a drink. She’s into vodka. Previously I’d explained to her that vodka sucks. You see, the better quality the vodka is, the less character it has. Vodka’s strongest virtue is its anonymity. The ideal vodka is tasteless, and mixes well with anything. Bourbon, on the other hand, has character in spades. Good bourbon should taste like caramel, be smooth and sweet, and go down like fire. It should knock you out like a shot to the head. The devil drinks bourbon, and I’ll drink it with him when I die. I convinced the Girl From Moscow to try Maker’s Mark instead of her weird vodka that I can’t pronounce or spell, which she assures me is very good and comes from some eastern European country that I can’t recall. As the Maker’s passed her lips, it immediately came back out. Quickly and forcefully she spits it back into the glass from whence it came. She looked utterly terrified of what sat in the glass in her hand, and I got a look dirtier than the thoughts I was having of her.

The Girl From Moscow

She’s from Moscow, and not impressed with me or anything that I have to say. That makes enough sense. Very likely she’s seen lots of things much more intense than me. She’s a very difficult woman to read. She’s not volunteering much, and it’s taking a great deal of restraint not to turn this into an interview on her experiences in the USSR. She was there for the fucking coup. That naked fact makes her a historically and culturally relevant person. But that’s not what we’re all here for. That’s just a pleasant surprise. That’s bonus content and peripheral distraction. Her boyfriend seems nice. We all know we’re not getting anywhere, fast. I’m doing a great deal more talking than I generally care to, and it’s awkward trying to carry the conversation. I don’t know that we’ll ever make it to the cool part, at least not tonight. Everybody’s going to have to drink more. That’ll help. We might have to take another crack at this in a few nights. Try a new approach. Who knows? They’re new to this, and you can’t rush people. I’m sure we’ll get there.

An Ordinary Crucifixion – No. 5

Yesterday I saw a girl in a motorized wheelchair on Penn Avenue. She looked like she was in her late teens. She had a very pretty face. Her hair was perfectly long, straight, and brown. She had great big Hollywood-looking sunglasses, well-applied make-up, and a great big smile. Everything below that smile was pretty deformed. Well-dressed, just not well built. Not very many people have that much soul. Immediately upon catching sight of her, my politeness reflex struck me. I looked away. It’s not nice to stare. However, in that moment, I realized that I wasn’t staring. I was admiring. As I thought more about it, it occurred to me that she was likely proud of the way that she looked that day, and wanted people to notice her. Through my ignorant reflex of thoughtless politeness, I had contributed to a larger, heartless cultural misconception. By the time I had realized this, she had already passed with her friends, and I was already an asshole.

The Black Guy and the Fat Italian with the Ridiculous Handlebar Moustache

On my way home from work, I drove past an accident on West Carson Street, at the intersection right on the edge of McKees Rocks. I didn’t see it happen, but I did arrive moments later, and could easily infer how it had happened with the quick look that I stole as I drove past. There was a PT Cruiser driven by a black woman with her husband or boyfriend seated in the passenger seat. She had a giant, complicated, immaculate haircut and fingernails like neon-colored daggers that I could see clearly from my car. He had a shaved head and a well-groomed mustache. They both appeared to be in their mid to late 30s and were dressed very nondescriptly. No aspect of their personage seemed at all dangerous or should have elicited fear in any way. They had just been rear-ended by a fat Italian guy in a Pontiac. He was bald, had a ridiculous handlebar mustache, and was wearing a polo shirt. It looked like he was in his 40s, though it was hard to say exactly. Likely, the PT Cruiser stopped quickly at the light, and the Pontiac didn’t follow suit quickly enough. There was no visible damage. They must not have collided too hard. No damage…at least not at a glance, and really…nobody’s fault. You still need to exchange insurance information, though. At least get out and confirm that everybody is okay and offer a phone number. The Italian guy didn’t want to get out of his car. The woman was being pretty calm, and just seemed irritated, but her husband/boyfriend was livid and standing outside the vehicle, yelling intensely. The Italian guy was yelling back with equal intensity, albeit from inside his car. The last part I saw was the woman getting out and approaching the Pontiac. She probably had plans for being more diplomatic than either of the two men. Good for her. Women can be great that way. The whole thing kind of reminded me of Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing, only set in Pittsburgh and without all the cool music. I can only imagine if/how the conflict ever got resolved. Traffic in that lane was beginning to back up.