A Goddamn Moskal

At one point in his life things were clear, he didn’t mind the occasional mishap or recoils from daily occurrences. But lately, things just seemed hazy, as if a thick cloud of smoke had descended on him, a blurred film edged into his retina. And like most people on a downer he sought protection where the loudmouths preached. In a dim smoky room he sat silent by the bar, one foot rhythmically banging its paled oak finish. Atop his head, a bowler hat hung precariously from one side, resting on his bent ear. Laughter bellowed from a nearby corner, friends celebrating what little they could. The bartender seemed long past caring for the well being of the bar, and with a look dull as dishwater, stacked glasses behind the bar. Time to time having a break in order to fill up empty glasses. A silent humming across the other end of counter caught the attention of both bartender and customer. The bowler-sporting man turned towards it and observed with caution. There was an eerie tone underneath what sounded like a marching song, as the stranger hummed. In appreciation of the song, the bartender went up to him and poured him a shot of vodka on the house. He raised the glass in appreciation and carefully sipped it. The observing drunkard defied his fright and stumbled over to him, sitting down by his side, eyes still fixed on his face.

“What is that thing you’re humming, friend? I’m sure I remember it from somewhere…”

The man kept humming, and came back to reality once the song finished with an audible bass hum.

“This particular piece is called ‘what is it that we march for’. It’s an old favourite among the few I can remember.”

“Yeah, I think I can remember something like that. When I was in the army in my youth, we used to make fun of all the march songs they taught us, exchanged some of the words for some smutty ones and stuff like that, our nco’s always had us in for capital punishment and we were content with it every time! Are you in the army now, or has that time passed?”

“I was in Pechalna, attached to a purging unit.”

“Ah hell, must’ve been rough.”

“Personally, I found it pretty satisfying, it offered an outlet, and I excelled at it.”

“Huh, I guess we all have our niché, I suppose.”

“Looking back on that whole experience, two years in the mud and the rain. In the end I couldn’t remember why we were doing it. In preparation before deployment I convinced myself of our cause and why we were going where we were going and all that. But in the end, it felt like we were just there on our own accord.”

“We all do, at some point friend. We lose sight of things and, in time, realize why we do what we do. Wish that wasn’t the case, I try to stay motivated but, I just keep coming back to the same old fork in the road.”

“I’d say it’s more like the destitute realization that you’ve arrived somewhere irreversible, as if standing in a declining path and the only way is down, because you know you can’t return, you can look back, but you’ll never go back. When you take the time to realize how much you never did and how little you’ve accomplished. All those days repeating over and over, until it’s time to say your goodbyes.”

“I guess there is a certain truth in what you are saying, but I like to think there is always slip roads close by, where you can divert and, begin a-new, so to speak. A few months ago I lost my wife in a car accident, never got to know why it happened, but I don’t think I’d be able to cope with it any better knowing. Bottom line is, she’s gone, right? And lord knows I’ve had a rough couple of months, but the overbearing fact is; life goes on doesn’t it? No matter how much crap you are forced to endure. You’ll just keep on.”

The man stared blankly into the counter as if he’d stumbled over some terrifying realization. A few seconds passed before he raised his glass slowly and took a swig.

“The endurance of man, is not dependant on his ability to handle trauma. I would much rather claim that endurance comes from the act of disconnecting yourself to your surroundings, as harsh as that might seem. It stems from, and proves itself once you come to grips with the value of arrogance.”

“Are you claiming I simply do not care?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily state that, but perhaps there is some truth in it. I have known few people capable of handling such trauma with the ease you express.”

“My ease is merely a product of my drinking. Should I stay sober, I wouldn’t cope.”

“Everything is incredibly fragile, wouldn’t you agree?”

“That’s something we can agree on, yes. Strange how decades of work can disintegrate in seconds. Fifty-six years of living, feeling and experiencing, gone in a second, in a goddamn accident. She always talked about how we should record our thoughts someday, you know, write it down and all that. I always just felt like she was nagging me about it. I bought a notebook recently, most of what I manage to get on paper is simple drivel, but I assume that’s everybody’s biography. And considering it was her idea, it feels like I’m insulting her with every stroke of the pen. Bartender, could I get something stronger?”

The bartender approached, picked up the drunkards empty glass and had a sniff. She gave him a worrying look and reached for a bottle stacked high on the rear wall.

“Do you have children, old man?”
Artiom asked.

“Old man…? Don’t let my appearances deceive you. I wager we’re about the same age you and I, I’ve just been forced to endure too much stress, I hear that’s what ages you. Yes, I have three wonderful kids, two, I’m sorry I keep forgetting. Two boys, one’s in the army, the other one works on an offshore oil-rig. How about you?”

“None from my side. You said three to begin with, was that just a slip up, or did something happen?”

“She died from pneumonia when she was little.”

Silence ensued as the man raised his glass, even though he seemed disdained by the taste, his face contorting into a frown, he took a big chug.

“Things haven’t been as easy as I’d hoped for. Me and the missus were in our late teens when it happened. She was supposed to go stay with my grandparents, because we didn’t have the money or room to house her at the time. Anyway, we left her with them and… one day they were out for the day, buying groceries or something like that. Caroline was left at home, fireplace went out and, couple of hours later the house was a few degrees below and she just got too cold. Died a few weeks later.”

“How old was she?”

“One year and two months.”

“How did you cope?”

“I’m not sure I did. Neither me or the missus were keen on actually keeping on living after it happened. But a couple of years later, Barja and Brynjie were born. I remember the missus was so protective of them, even though they got up to all sorts of mischief growing up. She never smiled much after Caroline, only when the boys were near…”

The man seemed visibly shaken by his past and had to firm himself with another drink.

“Sounds like you’ve endured much through your life.”

“Yeah.”

The man had stumbled into his previous disposition, and with a blank stare, sat quiet.

“In Pechalna, I met this family. Father and a mother and their four children. The father was foolish, and seemed not appreciative of the life he lived. The mother was a lovely, beautiful lady. Even though I don’t enjoy the company of children I managed to be on good terms with theirs. Nothing much had happened in the area for a couple of weeks until things started going out of motion. Our camp was bombarded by enemy artillery, not the most accurate guns in the world, you can imagine. Anyway, I was out for the day and heard reports on the radio, naturally I ran back as quickly as I could. I wanted to make sure this family wouldn’t come to harm, naturally. In hindsight, I’m not sure how I would have managed to repel a rain of shells. Well anyway, long story short a round struck their house and they died, well that’s not strictly true, the father was executed at a local market, some colleagues told me.”

Artioms mind wandered off, it strayed into thoughts of Anita. Poor girl, he thought without even the slightest hint of empathy showing. His view of things was seen almost solely from an objective standpoint. It had to be that way, hadn’t it been so, the slightest embrace of empathy or sadness would leave him a broken, disgusting creature.

“Life is two thirds a field of shit, and the last part just soggy field with the occasional change of socks.”

The drunkard belowed, falling into a fit of hopeless laughter shortly thereafter.

“It may so be, but today, we change our socks.”

Artiom joked, before raising his glass and proposing a toast. They drank for about two hours before Artiom started feeling loose in his footing. The drunkard merrily kept downing drink after drink until he was just conscious enough to formulate the simplest of responses or questions. His head bobbed from side to side and even though his eyes stared into Artioms, it seemed as though he saw through him, looking at nothing. Their glossy surface gave the impression he had two glass eyes, he seemed so distant, Artiom wasn’t sure he was anymore conscious than a dead man.

“It’s getting a bit late, wouldn’t you agree?”

Artiom prompted, hoping the drunk, in his stupor would agree blindly.

“I, I… I think you are completely, and… absolutely… right on the mark with that, observation…!”

He burped and swept the remains of his pint. He stood up with impressive energy, although his hands were shaking profusely as they rested on the table, struggling to keep him upright.

“Let me.. jus’ get my coat…”

“Let me assist you.”

“You… you’re a real, real good guy, you know that, friend…?”

Artiom gave him a smiling nod and let him rest his arm over his shoulder as they headed off. The man stood wagging on his own infront the coat hanger and pondered over which was his.

“Ah, of… of course, ‘s behind this… I thi… nk. Goddamn, this… is ‘eavy as a… a table!”

“That would be mine, thank you.”

Artiom took his jacket and watched the drunkards shocked gaze.

“You got… your whole pensi… pension fund in there?”

He giggled to himself, and grabbed his own. When they walked out the door, the drunkard shivered and cursed to himself in the freezing cold. Artiom seemed less bothered and politely asked the man if they should take the car. The man seemed sceptical, remembering his wife and her accident.

“I… don- don’t think… that’s a… a good… idea… to be honest with you. I’m far… too pissed to… even hold the… the wheel.”

“Let’s strike a middle ground, I’ll steer and you’ll handle the pedals? I fear you’ll catch frostbite with those boots on your feet. I’ll instruct you all the way, don’t you worry.”

The man stood pondering for a good couple of seconds before agreeing to Artioms proposal. They sat down in the small green sedan and began rolling out into the road. Aside from slipping on the clutch from time to time, he seemed awfully confident behind the wheel given his state of mind. As though he had his fair share of experience with with terrible decisions. Artiom had a firm grip around the wheel and he carefully monitored the drunkards feet. They swayed between all three pedals, clutch, brake and throttle, as if he was tap dancing between them.

“We’ll be home… in, in no time… at all. Whe… where… did you say you… lived again?”

“I’ll direct you, don’t worry.”

“Righ… right then!”

The man seemed almost on the verge of passing out, how he managed to handle driving was admirable to say the least. With careful instructions, Artiom directed him from one crossing to another, until they reached a long straight. Artiom gently let go of the wheel and beckoned the drunkard to simply keep it straight. Inside his coat he took out a leather helmet, and strapped to his head, before resuming his grip around the wheel.

“Wha… the hell… are you, you wearing?”

The man exclaimed, too jaded to understand what Artiom was up too. As they approached the intersection up ahead, Artiom looked worryingly at the watch on his wrist, right before laying his hand on the drunkards knee and pressing it down as much as he could. The car picked up speed rapidly and veered from side to side along the snowy straight. Bestolen of all motor functions and all rational thought, the drunkard thought none of it.

“You’re a good man.”

Artiom told the drunk, before opening the door and throwing himself out and unto the snowy sidewalk. He must’ve misjudged the speed at which they were going, for when he landed, he slid and rolled along, stopped at last by a lamp-post that smashed into his side. He gasped for air, lying curled into a ball at the bottom of the steel pole. He heard a crash from the intersection, followed by the sound of brakes failing, and after a few seconds, the echoing sound of a truck-horn, quickly descending into a loud bang and the sounds of metal under tremendous pressure. And after a few chaotic seconds; silence. A haunting silence abrupted by someone swearing, and calling out for help.
Up on his feet, Artiom dusted off the snow and saw the smoking wreck of Anita's car, squeezed in between the drunkards smashed sedan and a truck that had plowed them both into the intersection. The truckdriver hasting to Anitas aid, most likely thraught with guilt of the accident. Artiom thought about the times he had met Anita back in Pechalna, that all seemed so distant now, her face looked not the same, her voice was tough and demanding, her eyes resembled those of a veterans. Did she know her family’s fate, he thought to himself. Whether or not she did, it wasn’t relevant anymore. Expecting himself to be thrust into agony after having killed the only person left whom he knew with a somewhat joyous attitude. He was surprised; he felt nothing. A sterile, objective conscious consumed all doubt he had regarding his victims. They were nothing more than a few words in tomorrows paper. He inspected his padded jacket, as if to make sure it withheld the commotion. Took of his padded leather helm and began his long walk back to his apartment. The snow fell heavy and fading out in the far distant was a scream, and approaching sirens, muffled voices and then, as he passed the next corner, complete, serene silence.