Patti and I have been working on what we affectionately refer to as ‘the screenplay’ pretty much since we first started going out in 1993. It all started with a headline in the Seattle Times about something called the Russian Mafia. We just thought that was so hilarious, and we would lay in the dark in bed at night and riff ourselves to sleep, building the story.
We’d put it away for years at a time before dusting it off and working on it a little more. It’s never been finished, of course— but it has evolved over the years and of course the Russian Mafia has grown into an absolutely real thing with a true Whatcom County presence that at times isn’t all that fucking funny.
I published Chapter 1 in my best-selling chapbook [sic] in 2014. Printed below is Chapter 2.
Linda McLeod was doing what she was normally doing on a summer weekday afternoon—puttering in the kitchen, waiting for the boys to get home. There was a ring of the doorbell, then almost immediately a knock. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she crossed the living room toward the front door, and before she could get there the bell rang again. She opened the front door to reveal a cluster of serious men on the porch. A locked, glass storm door separated them. No one spoke. It is customary in America for the knocker-on of a door to speak first when the knocker-on is a stranger to the knockee.
“…may I help you?” Linda finally asked.
“We are come to greet Androv,” said the serious man near the front, finally.
“I’m sorry, Andy’s not home from school yet,” said host mom, relieved to a degree. “You do mean Andy Rolofskin? He doesn’t usually get home until 5-or-so.” Silence. “Are you friends of Andy’s from school?”
“We are friends of Andy from school before,” said the serious spokesman. More silence.
“Well, he’s not home yet,” hostmom said a little slower and a little louder. “He doesn’t usually arrive home, here, until 5 o’clock pm. It’s only 3:30 now.” She pointed to her watch and looked past the group to the street and noted no unfamiliar cars on it or in the driveway. “Are you in Andy’s 97 class?”
Silence.
“Do you take classes at Highline?”
Silence.
“Community College?”
“We are classes with Andy at Arkanzass countered the spokesman. “Before today.”
“In Arkansas?” said hostmom, perplexed. “I didn’t know Andy ever attended classes in Arkansas. I thought he came straight here from Novosibirsk.”
Silence. Then “I am Andy is brother,” from another of the group, standing in the middle of the pack.
“Andy’s brother?” asked hostmom, standing on tiptoes to see who was speaking.
“Yes. I am Andy’s brother.”
“Andy has mentioned a number of brothers and sisters from back home,” hostmom said as brother was ushered to the front. “What is your name?”
“My name is Peter,” said Peter, Andy’s brother.
“Oh, you’re Peter!” Hostmom was eager to make any connection with this awkward group. “As I recall, you have two other brothers. Are they with you?” she asked regarding the rest of the group.
Silence.
“The brothers of Andy and Peter,” said the original spokesman, now sharing the mic with Peter “are Andre and Slobin. They do not come to America.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” said hostmom, unlocking the door. The confirmation of Peter as Andy’s brother by way of identifying the other two brothers has put her at ease enough to invite them in to await Andy’s arrival from school. It is obvious they have no intention of doing anything other. “Please come in and make yourselves comfortable,” she said as the gang filed past.
Peter cut spokesman off at the threshold with a condescending glance, and was first inside the house. He flashed an exaggerated and toothless grin at hostmom—the first facial expression of any kind displayed by the visitors—climbing the stairs from the split entry to the living room and proceeding directly to the Easyboy. Spokesman was next, followed by the balance of the crew, seven in all— dressed in acid-washed denim and black leather loafers— scrambling for the best available seating like teenagers who’d been waiting in line to see a rock concert. Each carried a large military-style duffle bag over his shoulder and kept it at his feet as he settled in the living room. The last in, bearded and heaviest of the bunch, stopped abruptly in front of the coffee table, surveying the room. The recliner, the matching wing chairs and the sofa were all full, leaving no available seating. Silence.
“Let me get you a kitchen chair,” offered hostmom, catching herself staring, dumbfounded, at this collection of grimy refugees and their belongings settling in her living room. She went to the dining room to get a chair and heard behind her the Russian buzzing begin immediately. She paused at the table, listening for inflections. They must be Andy’s brothers and friends, how else would they have known the names of the other two brothers? Beyond that, she assumed nothing. They obviously hadn’t ever been to Arkansas. She picked up a chair in each hand and walked casually back into the living room.
“Here you are,” she said to #7, who was still standing, staring at his comfortably seated comrades. She set the chair down opposite the couch and positioned her own between there and the front door. “So, what brings you boys to Federal Way?” she asked.
“We have come to greet to Andy,” Peter and spokesman said in unison, and a glare is exchanged between them. “It has been many times since we have greeted him before,” spokesman said.
“Do you live here in Washington?” asked hostmom.
“Yes, we live here Washington,” answered spokesman.
Silence.
“Would you like something to drink?” asked hostmom, finally.
“Yes, Coca Cola,” said a younger member, sitting on the far end of the sofa. He wears a small gold hoop in his left ear.
“Alright. Everyone?” she asked, panning around the room.
Nods.
She went into the kitchen and the buzzing began again immediately. She looked at the clock—3:46. It was going to be a long hour. She considered phoning her husband at work, but decided to wait until it wasn’t quite so conspicuous, as if her adversaries were anything but. She pulled down a serving tray from a high cupboard and got eight tall glasses from a lower one, filling each one with ice from the dispenser in the door of the stainless steel refrigerator. Pausing to listen again to the conversation in the other room, she went back into the living room where the talking ceased abruptly. She placed the tray down on the coffee table and set out eight coasters from a case before unloading the glasses from the tray.
“I have to go out to the garage to get the sodas,” she said, alternating her eyecontact between Peter and spokesman, and then glanced at the earringed youngster on the couch. He smiled broadly at her acknowledgement as she turned and headed toward the garage.
“Thank you,” said Peter once she had already left the room, and she paused, unsure of how to respond to this first expression of etiquette.
“You’re welcome,” she said, poking her head back around the corner with her fakiest American housewife smile, and then proceeded down the hallway to the garage door. Once in the garage, she wondered if she were in any danger. They seemed very nervous. The ‘leaders’ would make occasional eye contact, but the others looked quickly away when her gaze landed on them. They were definitely connected to Andy in some way, but they were not like him at all. They weren’t warm or clean. They smelled like smoke and were all in need of shaving. Andy was sweet and innocent. These fellows were shifty.
She pulled a 12-pack of Cherry Coke up from the bottom shelf and walked back up the steps into the house. Cherry Coke was Andy’s favorite, and it was the only kind of soda they kept. There was an elevated argument going on in Russian in the living room now, and she stopped in her tracks when she heard it. If only she’d listened more carefully when Andy had tried to teach them some Russian words! She turned to look at herself in the mirror hanging at the end of the hall, and decided that everything was going to be fine— that she just needed to march in there and take control of this situation. She took a deep breath and strode down the hall into the living room.
“I hope you boys don’t mind Cherry Coke,” she said as the argument screeched to a halt. “It’s Andy’s favorite, but I imagine you already know that...”
Silence.
Hostmom set the box of cans down on the coffee table and neatly tore open the seal. She began handing out sodas, but instead of passing the can down to the more remote members of the group, each Russian she handed a can to simply popped the top and began guzzling the soda from the can. Eventually she passed out seven Cherry Cokes and put the rest of the box beneath the coffee table. She popped open a can for herself, poured it into one of the iced glasses and sat down in her chair.
“Thank you,” said Peter, again.
“You’re welcome, Peter,” she said.
“THANK YOU,” came the reply from the group.
Hostmom smiled.
“So, when is the last time you boys have actually seen Andy?” she asked.
“We not have seen Androv for many long times,” said spokesman, crushing his empty aluminum can in his hands and setting it down gently on the coaster in front of him. “We are in neighbor’s hood, so we come here to greet him. What is it time?”
Hostmom stared at him a moment, not understanding the question. Presently it occurred to her.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said with a nervous laugh, turning to look at the clock above the sink in kitchen. “It’s almost 4 o’clock.”
Silence.
“Will you fellas excuse me a moment?” hostmom asked. “I have to phone my husband at work and ask him to stop and get some things at the store on the way home. He gets off in just a few minutes and he’s only a couple of minutes’ drive from here.”
“Thank you,” said the earringed one on the couch as she excused herself and walked back down the hallway to the primary bedroom, locking the door behind her. She picked up the phone and pressed the number one on the autodial.
“Hello Kimberly,” said hostmom into the phone, after a pause. “It’s Linda. Is Martin available? Oh? No, dear, no message, I’m sure he’s on his way home, then.” She hung up the phone and lingered in the bedroom a moment before exiting. Halfway down the hallway she heard her husband’s voice.
“…so you’re Peter,” he said slowly and loudly. “It’s nice to meet you, Peter, we’ve heard a lot about you! Where is Mrs. Mcleod?”
Hostmom entered presently and crossed the room to her husband, relieved that he was home early. "Hello Dear," she said sweetly as they exchanged a quick kiss. She took his arm and turned to regard the group.
“I see you’ve met Andy’s brother and his friends,” she announced. “Actually, I think we’ve yet to all be formally introduced. I am Linda Mcleod, and this is my husband Martin. Our daughters Cynthia and Terri are away at college, so we decided to open some of our extra space to a foreign student. Andy is our second guest, and we’re very fond of him.” Silence from the Russians. “We know Peter—what are the rest of your names?”
“I am Vlademir,” said Vlademir, the spokesman. “He is Mikel. He is Ivan. He is Sasha. He is Mikel. He is Nikita.” he said, pointing at each comrade as he named him. “And he is Peter.” The eyes of each rose to meet those of the Mcleods as he was introduced, then returned to staring at the coffee table or at their duffle bags. Deafening silence.
“Well, what brings you boys to Seattle?” asked Mr. Mcleod finally, catching on to why his wife was gripping his arm so tightly. “Does Andy know you’re here? He hasn’t mentioned that he’s expecting you. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you, especially if it’s a surprise...”
“Andy expects that we come, yes,” said Vlademir. “He will be smiling in greeting us when he arrives to us. At which time does he home from the schooling?”
“Oh, he usually beats me home,” said Mr. Mcleod, “but I’m a little early today. He ought to be pulling in any time. I don’t think he works at the copy center today, does he dear?”
“No, honey, he only works on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” answered Mrs. Mcleod. “Andy has a workstudy job at the copy center on campus,” she explained to the group. “He really likes it.” Silence. “Would anyone like another Cherry Coke?”
She got the open box of cans out from under the coffee table and handed one to Peter, Vlademir, Ivan and the nearest Mikel. “Dear, would you help me get some more Cherry Cokes out of the garage?” she said to her husband.
“Sure honey,” answered Mr. Mcleod, taking the cue. “Will you excuse us, fellas?” and he followed her down the hallway and out into the garage.
“Jesus CHRIST, am I glad to see you!” said Mrs, throwing her arms around her husband.
“How long have they been here?” whispered Mr, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Less than an hour,” she answered. "They just showed up on the porch. Did you see any strange cars down the street? I think they came on foot!”
“I didn’t see any unusual cars,” he said. “Did they say what they were doing here?”
“No. They haven’t said ten words since they got here,” she said. “Obviously there isn’t as much English between them as Andy had when he got here. They said they’d studied with him in Arkansas.”
“Arkansas?!” he repeated. “Andy’s never been to Arkansas. I had to submit copies of his passport when I filed the 753G form for rent compensation. He’d never been anywhere before he landed in Vancouver the week before we picked him up at the college.”
“There’s definitely something about them I don’t trust,” she said, staring. “I am so glad you’re home.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of this with Andy tonight after they leave,” he said, picking up another half-case of Cherry Coke. They went back inside and Mr opened the box of sodas and handed one each to Sasha, Nikita and the other Mikel. The others had already finished their second pops, and empty cans littered the coffee table. Mr Mcleod was bent down putting empty cans in the open carton, and Mrs Mcleod was setting the glasses of melted ice back onto the tray when the screen door sprang open and in walked Andy.