Samovar

I was rearranging the Chekhov shelf when the shop door-chime jingled. I turned around and spied a young man entering, his eyes blinking in the low light. I watched him intently as he ordered tea at the espresso counter from Yegor, who wore his usual smirk while pouring tea for the newcomer. The man walked slowly about the cramped book shop. He circled oddly around different sections of the shop, eyes swiveling around, taking in all his surroundings. I noticed he would glance over his shoulder suspiciously every few minutes, as if demons lurked among the book shelves or behind the espresso counter. His routine became somewhat boring to me, and I shrugged and returned to work, placing Chekhov anthologies in their proper place. I put the strange man and his wanderings out of my mind. 

I was checking the alphabetization of the Chekhov section when I heard a man say in English, “Excuse me.” I turned around and saw the young man facing me, delicately holding his tea cup by it’s tiny porcelain handle.

“Can I help you?” I replied in Russian, glancing impatiently back at my pile of un-placed books.

“Yes, are you someone I can talk to about selling books here?” He replied in fluent Russian. I felt my eyebrows raise in suspicion. 

“You want to work here as a book seller?” I said. “I’m afraid we aren’t hiring now.”

“I’m sorry, I meant I would like you to sell my books here. I’m a poet.” He said, looking intently at me.

“Ah, I see...” I said, smirking slightly. This man did not have the air of a poet. He certainly didn’t have the physique. He was built like a boxer.

“I do war poetry” the man continued, as if answering a question. He gingerly raised the tea cup to his lips, not breaking his gaze from me.

“Are you a warrior then?” I asked sarcastically, my smile growing broader. I knelt down and started placing books back in their places. Anthologies here, short stories there.

“I served in the U.S. Marines. I was in Iraq all ten years. I was one of the first in. Last to be out.”

“And you write poetry! An interesting passion for a soldier.” I said, not looking up at him. I knew he was still staring at me, not rudely, but with calm conviction.

“It’s the only sane thing to do in Iraq. Fight or write poetry.” He said. I put the last book in it’s place, stood up and said.

“Come, sit over here with me.” I motioned graciously to an unoccupied table in the small cafe section of the old book store. He walked over and sat down slowly. He placed a small backpack on the table. I sat down opposite him. “Yegor Vlasich, bring this man another tea. And something for me, Americano, please.” I said loudly. Yegor grunted from behind the counter. The wail of espresso filled the cramped store. 

The young man waited in silence, looking around slowly at the shop. I followed his gaze to the old literature section with the weighty volumes of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. His head swiveled languidly to examine the contemporary literature section, which was dwarfed by the volume of older writing in the surrounding shelves. Old books of poetry and novella’s were stacked on top of each other on most of the shelving. Ancient engravings hung on the walls, faded and torn with age. I watched as he turned around to see the sagging espresso counter, with it’s contrasting massive jars of tea leaves and the shiny new espresso machine, sitting in sleek counterpoint to it’s surroundings. He gazed out the windows, which were warped with age, each surrounded with elaborate tracery. Eventually he turned to me. “How long has this book store been in business?”

“One hundred years.” I stated simply, letting it sink in a bit. “It has survived the communist revolution, two world wars, the fall of communism and a myriad other troubles. You can read the world’s upheavals in the books here like growth rings on an old tree. We have the communist manifesto, Mein Kampf, A Farewell to Arms, The Master and Margarita, Slaughterhouse Five. We have it all. All here in this old place.”

I sat back in my old wooden chair and breathed in the old musty smell of books and the sharp acidity of coffee. “You can smell it. One hundred years of knowledge. One hundred years of quiet conversations, spilled tea, old books opened and closed. Stories told and stories forgot.” The young man looked at me skeptically, then inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes. 

“I’m Thomas, by the way.” He said, eyes still closed. “Thomas Hart Lowell.” 

“Ivan Fyodorovich Vasnetsov.” I replied. Yegor walked over with my coffee and Thomas’ tea. He placed them down carefully in front of us. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything transcendental.” He muttered sardonically. 

“Nothing of the sort.” I said. I turned to Thomas. “So why should we sell your books? What’s your...pitch, as the Americans say.” He opened his eyes and reached into his backpack. He withdrew three small books, all unassuming and dully colored. He pushed them to my side of the table.

“I’ve published three collections of poems in America. They’re not selling especially well. I suppose war poetry is a kind of niche market back home.” He said.

“And why come to Russia to peddle your wares?” I asked.

“Because I admire the Russian soul. I believe your people will appreciate the voice of my work. I studied in Russia before leaving to Join the Marines, so I feel like I have a good understanding of your culture.” He said, and sipped his tea.

“Ah, yes. The Russian soul. You’ll find, Thomas, that the Russian soul is tired from conflict. What makes you think your war poetry will find a home here?” I asked. I took one of his books and flipped through it. Thomas took a long time to respond. I waited somewhat impatiently.

“Well...my poetry does not glorify war nor does it dwell on it entirely. It is war from my point of view, from the people’s point of view and that of the enemy.” He sat back in his sagging wooden chair and looked patiently at me. I read some of his poems in the ensuing silence. He was good. His work was subtle, rich, and moving, action filled yet slow and somber. It switched in tempo from funeral march to battle cry, contemplative to celebratory. I noticed my eyebrows were raising incrementally as I read. Eventually I snapped the book close. I sat, pondering, and eventually spoke.

“Did you know I was a warrior once too?” I said. I sipped my coffee. Thomas shook his head. I placed my coffee down gently on the stained old table. “Yes, I fought and killed. You’ve no doubt heard of the Soviet war in Afghanistan”

“Yes I’ve heard. America funded the Mujahideen. We helped defeat you.” He said quietly.

“Yes, you and other nations lined up to buy stinger missiles for the freedom fighters. You know I’ve seen a Mujahideen take down a Russian helicopter with one of those missiles? He grinned like an idiot right afterward. I was too slow to take him down before that. His little group of fighters was too well hid in the mountain rocks. So I snuck up on them with my squad and I shot him right in the heart.” I pointed at my chest. “Right here, in the heart. The seat of love and emotion. Blasted out by a hot bullet.” He looked away at the book shelves, embarrassed or contemplative. “I don’t blame you, Thomas. Your government feared us. They would do anything to stop our military. And now the Taliban are killing your troops and destroying your helicopters with the guns you bought them so eagerly.”

“Death comes full circle.” He said.

“There is no karma is war, my friend.” I said. “There is no justice. No reason”

        “Only poetry.” He said. We sipped our drinks in silence.

Painting by Aleksandr Mikhailovich

Space Man

       After hours of padding around his quiet house, Joel Browning sighed and walked into his study to write about astronauts. The study smelled of old musty books and stale coffee, just like his father. His father always used to smelled strange. He brought home fragrant book smells from his literary travels. He smelled of yellowing used books, old and frail. He smelled of coffee shops and intellectuals, cigarettes and long night talk. He smelled of heady new books, sharp and earthy. Joel sunk into his father’s old writer’s chair. He felt its worn creases like the scrawled lines of an ancient tome. He languidly spun around in the chair, like when he was a child, then stopped at his desk. His fathers desk, with all the ink spills and pen gouges now covered up with a jet black holo-mat. Joel flipped on the 3-D projectors and waited as his PC holographic interface booted up.  

The space above his desk flickered dimly with jittery shapes. It reminded him of static on the old TV he watched with his family. His father had a nostalgia for old-world technology, even as plasma screens became all the rage. Now look, dad! The future is here, hovering above the old desk in a brilliant light show. Just like the sci-fi movies we watched. The holo-screen coalesced into life and the virtual heads of the three Marx brothers appeared. They bobbed merrily, chanting, “Morning Joel! How are you today? Sleep well?”

“Fine, thanks.” he answered. “Bring up the word processing interface, and an image search.”

“Whatever you say Joel!” The smiling heads nodded as one, and disappeared, replaced by a floating blank page with blue editing icons hovering at it’s bottom. To Joel’s left an image search page flickered into existence. Joel remembered when he had to do this by hand, on the old desktop. He grabbed a transparent search icon and dragged it toward him, feeling it’s slight simulated weight. He tapped it, and a typing interface spread before him, unfolding gracefully into glowing keys. He typed in ‘astronaut’, and watched as his holo screen filled up with space wonder.

Joel thought of childhood dreams. Dreams of spaceflight. Dreams of feeling the heavy hand of G-force gripping him during takeoff. He switched over to the blank document and started writing.

Yuri Gordon fought for control of his landing craft. The planet’s atmosphere was thicker than he anticipated. Pressure dials spun frantic circles, and his ship danced a deadly jig in the alien stratosphere. He felt the air-scrubbers hiss, and he struggled for breath in the waning air.

  Joel’s hands hovered over the keyboard as he swallowed hard. He remembered his embarrassing denial from flight school. Something about asthma. Being short of breath. He wanted to fly. To go into space. So badly. Joel moved the astronaut images in front of him with a swiping gesture, and spread his hands to enlarge a picture of a man in a spacesuit outside a space station. He imagined himself there. Floating serene, the only sound a faint radio trickle. He started typing again.

Yuri reached above him to switch off the atmosphere alarms. He needed to focus. The window in front of him burned brilliant white with atmosphere. He felt the G’s pulling at him...

Joel closed his eyes and envisioned himself jostling about in the crash seat of a gleaming space ship. He could see the ablative plates peeling of the nose of his ship. He could hear the screaming alarms blaring fiery death in his ears. He could feel the chaotic rise and fall of his own chest, struggling for breath in his space suit. His lungs failing him in the thinning CO2 mixture. He thought about his father’s death. How on return from a business trip on a lunar mining colony, the shuttle carrying his father burned up on a failed reentry. He could imagine his father there, being shook violently about in his crash seat while the other passengers screamed, quietly looking at a worn, wallet picture of his family as the cabin’s atmosphere ignited.

Joel opened his eyes and found himself breathing raggedly. He looked down and noticed he was gripping the arms of his chair. He slowly let go and sat back, sinking into the old leather. He remembered the leathery smell of his father’s jacket as they huddled together in the dark in the stands at Cape Canaveral. He remembered his mother and younger sister there beside him, wrapped in a warm blanket, waiting excitedly for the first Mars Mission launch. Three ships to travel together to the red planet for men to step out and conquer yet another impossible land. And there was the low thud, the series of concussive quakes as the enormous rail gun launcher belched one, two, three points of light into the clear, dark sky. The crowd cheered ecstatically as all three ships hit their rocket boosters in unison and soared off into space. Joel smiled in his old chair, ran his hands down the leather wrinkles, and recalled what his father said to him then.

He saw his father smile in the warm, rocket glow of the Mars Mission ships, and say, “Joel, one day that will be you. My bright star, rising into space. A space man.” Joel could see it vividly. His father’s smile, the cheering crowd, and his mother and sister pointing excitedly at the rocket trails. He leaned forward in his leather chair and started typing again. He looked at a faded picture of his family on the study wall and said, “Look  dad, I’m already here. A space man.”

Collaborations with Talented Musicians

http://anarchydotgov.bandcamp.com/  is my friend's site. He goes by "Anarchy.gov" and is a talented musician. I'm proud to have worked with him on designing his site and album art, and I have to send a shout out to the crowd of other people who gave their merry input while I was "designing" the site. Truly it was a collaborative effort.

Chris Dogma, Canine

We call our dog Dogma. Christian Dogma. Usually we shorten it to Chris but whenever we want to make guests uneasy we use Chris’s formal name. Contrary to what you might think, the poor canine was named by my six-year-old brother, who, so far, has no grasp of formal Christian dogma and doesn’t realize the sweet, sweet irony of the dog’s name.

Dogma was christened after my little brother watched an episode of Thundercats. He loved the crusty, rotting, antagonist, Mum Ra, and thought he could use a similar naming scheme for our shiny new labradoodle puppy. He started with DogRa but the family thought that sounded too Mongolianoid so he suggested we call him Dogma. The name stuck like thrift store crazyglue, and the educated folks in the family still chuckle with insider joke satisfaction at every utterance of the dog’s name. 

One day, maybe two weeks ago, our pastor and his wife came over for pork dinner. While they were eating and excitedly discussing obscure theological minutiae with my parents, Christian Dogma jumped onto the table and gobbled up all their pork tenderloins.