A Hundred Introductions, Disgrace, and Somebody Else’s Ass

I was afraid of people. Not “shy.” Not “awkward.” Afraid. Like a kid who’s waiting for someone to start yelling any second. Because my parents yelled. When I was little, Mom shouted all the time, with or without a reason — she just didn’t know how to talk calmly. Basically, I was afraid of yelling. I’d start shaking, stuttering, and forget who I was. I felt like a total loser. Walking up to a stranger to get acquainted was simply Mission: Impossible. So I came up with this: every day I’d go up to ten strangers and talk to them. About anything, the point was just to talk. I thought everyone would tell me to get lost. I was nervous. I was even surprised myself that people were friendly — not once was anyone rude. That’s how I met an Argentinian who’d flown into Moscow for two days and dreamed of getting drunk on Russian vodka. But I don’t drink vodka, so at a café I ordered him tea from a samovar. I met a ninety-year-old granny in the Alexander Garden who told me about her Soviet youth — she turned out to be a former opera singer, and the two of us went to the theatre to hear an opera. So, slowly and gradually, I started feeling more confident talking to people.

I like the painter René Magritte, and I went to his exhibition. There I noticed a couple of girls taking pictures, so I walked up and offered to take a photo of them. That’s how I met Alyona — she looks like Marilyn Monroe and studies at uni. We started hanging out, walking, going to museums and cafés. Sometimes, when we met on the street, I’d give her a light slap on the butt and say, “Hi there, Alyonka the hottie.” Alyonka would laugh, she liked it, it was our little game. And this time too I spotted her from behind, took a run-up and slapped as usual! She turned around, and that’s when I realized it wasn’t Alyona… I’d got the wrong person — it was a different woman. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought you were a friend of mine,” I said, and hurried to get away, but my path was blocked by a heavyset guy with a big belly. “Alyona, who’s this? How does he know you?” he said, pretty aggressively. As luck would have it, she was an Alyona too! “I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Alyona answered. I apologized again and said it was just a ridiculous coincidence, I’m nearsighted and from a distance I couldn’t make out that it wasn’t my friend. But the guy wouldn’t let it go: “Why did you touch my wife? Alyona, don’t lie to me! What’s going on between you two?”

— You think I’m an idiot? — by now he was just screaming in my face.

— No, of course not, I don’t think it, I can see it, — I replied. — My Alyonka’s got a firm little butt, but I nearly broke my hand on your wife’s cast-iron ass.

— Why, you little scumbag! He leaned over me, yelling, but I just stood there calmly, looking at his twisted red face. For the first time in my life, probably, I wasn’t scared of a raised voice and kept my cool.

Things were heating up. One more second and he’d have hit me. I decided to make a French exit. And took off running. The guy tried to catch me, wheezing after me, but I run fast.

I used to think fear was forever. That it was my character. That it was me.

No. It’s Mom, who screamed. It’s the teacher who humiliated you. It’s the security guard giving you a sideways look. It’s what was put into you. And it can be taken out. I took it out. Piece by piece. Through a hundred introductions, through disgrace, through a slap on somebody else’s ass. And you?