Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

But what will be, will be. I reached into my pocket, took out one of the pills, and held it on my palm. I inspected it for a couple of seconds, then popped it into my mouth and swallowed it. I gave it another moment’s thought, then gulped down a second one for good measure. Based on my body weight, I usually need a double dose of anything.

Done. Now all I had to do was wait for the rush. Or some other, less pleasant effect. I leaned back and closed my eyes, tilting my face up into the feeble sunlight.

I’d only tuned out for maybe a minute or so. But I came to with a jolt. I’m not sure whether what I felt had anything to do with the pills; I might just have dozed off for a moment. One way or another, when I opened my eyes…

…Nothing out of the ordinary.

The gulf water came in little waves that lapped at my feet. Seagulls circled overhead and filled the air with their shrill cries. The northern sun bathed me in warm rays; a cool sea breeze brought fresh air.

I thought, “All is well. Why all the gloom and doom? I’m still young; my whole life is ahead of me. And what I have isn’t all that bad! A steady, well-paying job in an office, some potential for professional advancement. A literary debut. That’s nothing to sneeze at: I’m alive, healthy, and free—all the prerequisites for true Russian happiness. It’s nothing to sneeze at. True success. So chin up. Maintain a positive attitude, and good things will come your way. Right. You know all this already. That demented idea of quitting your job, of selling the pills, it’s pointless. No good can come of it. Just get right back in that car and make a beeline for the office. Blame traffic for the delay. Take the box straight to Cold Plus and hand it over, and everything will be fine. Perfect. It’s just… the potatoes—potatoes everywhere! Viktor Stepanovich is right, we’re ordering too many.”

Lo, before my very eyes: pallets laden with frozen potatoes, row upon row of them, filling the walk-ins and piling up in the warehouse aisles. And when I got into my car, the interior was packed with boxes of potatoes as well, solid stacks of them rising from the back seat to the roof.

But I blinked, and the vision dissipated.

There was just that one box of pills, right where I’d left it on the back seat. It had an unsteady look to it, though; its outlines were blurry and it was sort of hovering a couple of inches above the seat.

It was bound to happen: There I was, standing, waiting for the elevator, all sweaty, the top buttons of my shirt undone, my tie draped over my shoulder, holding that stupid box in my hands, with my face twisted into an idiotic grin (where did that smile come from?). And sure enough, there she was again: the Goddess of Spring, Sex, Fertility, and Related Stuff.

“Making a delivery?” she asked, smiling back at me.

“Yes yes,” I said. “I’m the idea delivery man. I travel from ear to ear through the hallways of the mind, spreading profound thoughts.”

Hardly my best witty banter. But the goddess seemed to appreciate my little word game. She even gave a little wave—see you!—on her way out of the elevator.

Now I have to talk to you about sex.

It’s page 65 already, we’re well into the plot, but not a word yet about sex. People might start to wonder about me.

I declare, being of sound mind and body: I Maximus Semipyatnitsky, am neither a pederast nor a metrosexual (is there a difference?), nor indeed am I into cyber-sex or chat-sex or whatever other perversions. Your basic normal guy. At least I used to be, before I went to work at Cold Plus.

I even have a girlfriend. Had, rather. Not all that long ago.

She packed her things and went home to her mom’s.

To be more precise, she packed my things and threw me out. Because she’d been living in the apartment before I came into the picture; her mother had given us a break on the rent because we were family.

It was really hard for her. I mean the girl, not her mother. Though maybe it was hard for her mom too, how should I know? But it’s more likely she was relieved. Anyway, to hell with her, the mom, serves her right for sticking her nose in. (Forgive me, Lord.)

The girl, I mean. She even cried. “Mack!” she wailed. She was the only one who was allowed to call me that. My name is Maximus, and no one—you hear me?—no one has the right to use nicknames with me: Maxim! Maxi! Max! I’m a human being, not a dog. But she called me Mack, and I let her do it.

So she says, “Mack, Pops, I love you so much, I really do.”

Hear that? She loves me, said so herself.

“Mack, I love you. But I can’t go on this way.”

“Why not?”

“I need sex, wild sex every day, ideally four times a day, every single day, not once every two weeks after some three-hour fight! I can’t go on this way! We both know it. Would it really be better if I started cheating on you, picking up men in clubs, sleeping with guys my girlfriends introduce me to at birthday parties and shish-kebob weekends at the dacha, or screwing some guy from work? I moved in with you so we could have more sex. I mean with each other, you idiot, because I love you, I still do, but I’ll get over it. I thought that if we lived together, nothing would keep us from having sex all the time. I was dreaming of the day! But it turned out just the opposite. First we had sex every day, even when I had my period, then we abstained during my period, and then on Mondays, because Mondays are tough, right? Then the only time left was the weekends, you get so worn out at work. Now even weekends are too much for you. But I’m only twenty-four. I’m still young, I need sex—it’s perfectly normal. So good-bye, Mack! So long, don’t say anything, not a word, just go, it’ll be easier for both of us that way. Just go, Mack!”

Now there’s no one to call me Mack anymore.

On the second floor of the Mega Mart I saw a booth where you could order a T-shirt with any slogan you want written across the front, and I spent a long time trying to make up my mind. There were some great options, all in English: “ I Hate Love and Sex ,” hm-m-m… too direct, don’t you think? “ Sex is boring me to death ”—interesting, but too long. “ Sex sucks ”—just the thing! How come no one ever thought of it before?

Of course, ultimately, I ordered something completely different. Now I have a T-shirt with “Jesus hates me” written across the chest in bold black letters. And if I walk past, and you happen to look at my back, you’ll see: “U2.”

The world is full of ugliness. Yes, this world is ugly. Disgusting, nasty, foul. And of all the creatures populating this sickening world, the most disgusting and nasty are the human beings.

Take any group of people. Will you see a lot of beautiful, classical, or even just generally nice-looking faces? No way. We are surrounded by freaks. Fat, irregular, clumsy, or gaunt, with gray and sallow faces, their cosmetics—cheap or high end—peeling off like old plaster. Crooked, cross-eyed, wrinkled, pimpled, disgusting, revolting creatures.

Take anyone! Aunt Valya? A creature from a nightmare! Uncle Styopa, the wino next door? I’ve seen better looking turds. Those prostitutes on the next block? One look and you’re impotent for life. Coworkers? Where on earth does our company do its recruiting? The formaldehyde room at the Museum of Natural History?

People don’t look at all the way people should. The Winter Garden has statues of creatures that look like people. Some of them are supposedly gods, though we have it on good authority that there are no gods, that sculptors in antiquity used their own friends, neighbors, and acquaintances as models. A centurion served as a model for Mars, the god of war, and a streetwalker posed for a statue of Aphrodite. That’s what people were like back then. Look at the classical sculptures and you’ll get an idea of what ordinary people looked like a mere couple thousand years ago.