Karolina Waclawiak: How to Get into the Twin Palms

Lev is waiting for me when I get home to my apartment. I think he is here for me because he’s on my street again, in the same clothes I saw him in before. I want to smell him. Smell his smell. See if he smells like an immigrant or if he has become Americanized, slathering deodorant under his arms to mask the musk and the sweat and that smell that I find so intoxicating. Onions mixed with cheap cologne.

Once I smell him I won’t have to ask how long he’s been here.

He won’t look at me. I’m pulling out the paper bags filled with sausages, tightly hidden behind white butcher paper to mask the smell. The prices are scrawled on the outside with black wax crayon. The fours and nines are curved differently. The twos have a different gait. As I linger I hear Lev clear his throat. I look up and attempt to act surprised. He asks me to watch his car, not let them ticket him this time and laughs at his own joke that I don’t get.

“What’s in there?” He points to my bag and I’m concerned that it’s too invasive.

“ Kabanosy and kapusta. ”

“Like a good Polish girl.” He smiles his smile at me, his sneer.

I like that I have some pull with him. That I am not just American. That I am closer to him.

That is my trick.

“Do you want some?” I ask.

He pats his stomach. “I have to go upstairs. A party.”

“What do they have up there?”

“Russians.”

I smile at him and start walking away. Tell him I will, in fact, watch his car.

He laughs and tells me, “No, it was joke. I get someone else to make sure it’s okay.”

And then I know he’s somebody. And then I know I want him even more.

In the morning, Lev’s car is still there. I wonder who he went home with. If one of the fur-coated ladies drove him home or if he went with them, to their homes, to their apartments. Where he lives. If they went further east. Toward Little Armenia, where the other Russians live or if he traveled to the valley where the New Russian families live. The ones who moved here in the early ’90s — the new flow.

A different man comes and moves Lev’s car. He is lanky and disheveled and I watch him as he creeps into the front seat and patiently pulls back and forth, trying to get out of the tight spot. He swerves out in one final, impatient turn and drives down the street and disappears. After he moves the car there is shuffling in the apartments across the street. The men from Odessa begin to open doors, water plants. Come alive. It is morning and they are starting the routine of their day. Doing their chores so their wives will permit them to sit in lawn chairs, on their balconies, and watch the cars move back and forth down the street. Our buildings are all squat, two-storied, with balconies. All somewhat the same, tan stucco or white stucco or beige, fading into one another. Nondescript and unobtrusive, always striving to be mildly pleasant and to blend into the California landscape. But our block was different, house plants sitting outside, brightly beaded curtains haphazardly attached to the railing with butcher twine, and faded lace curtains in the windows. We were still ethnic here. When people walked by, they would point at the windows and say things like, “Why are they drying their clothes outside? Aren’t they afraid they’ll get stolen?” No one’s ever did. Not with Boris hanging out his window everyday, watching everyone go by.

I sit on my balcony and watch people get out of their cars and walk to the small shops on Fairfax and think things like, I was never a good girl, good enough to come back to. And, I want to be more permissive, unlike the wives on my street.

I can’t though. I know myself.

I DIDN’T SEE LEV FOR A FEW WEEKS AFTERthat and I anticipated his return daily. Dreamt up our possible interactions. I learned new words in Russian. Things like: Vsë tip-tóp! And kátit in case he asked me how I was doing. Did they really mean, “It’s all good”? I wasn’t sure.

WHILE I WAITED FOR LEV TO RETURN I WENTback to calling bingo numbers at the Protection of the Holy Virgin Russian Orthodox church. It was in Hollywood. I drove there and took Hollywood Boulevard to Argyle and stopped at the 7-Eleven nearby and always got a Cherry Coke. It was a long night there on Fridays and sometimes there were no breaks in between games. I also got a bag of Fritos. I hadn’t had any in a while and it seemed right. They were the spicy kind. I thought the ladies would miss me but they didn’t really. Someone else had started calling the numbers, a woman I knew. She only wore t-shirts with animals on them. Wolves, bears, sometimes dolphins. She wasn’t happy about giving up her place to me. But I was the veteran here. I called the numbers slower and the old people had gotten used to the lilt in my voice. When they called me and told me the other woman wasn’t working out, that I was the only person who could handle the ladies, I strong-armed the Holy Virgin into giving me $50 a game. I climbed onto the stage of the multi-purpose room and sat down next to the large illuminated sign covered in numbers lined across and bingo spelled out accordingly. I sat behind a box full of roiling bingo balls and watched the air pressure inside the box throw the numbered balls into a tornado. The tables were long and full of women. Mostly widows needing to get out, to forget that their husbands were dead and gone because they still had many, many years left to live. They had photos of their men as their lucky charms. Petite picture frames nestled next to small, childish objects. Plastic birds, broken timepieces, toy cars made by Mattel. They lined them up along the top edge of the bingo tables and spread the cards out in front of them. I began calling.

B 12.

And then another and then another. And then I heard the complaining beginning. The curled bouffants bobbing up and down. Pecking at the numbers with their ink blotters.

I was going too fast. They were grumbling and pecking and finally one called out, “What are you doing? You’re going to fast! Have some mercy.”

I slowed down. N 36. I drawled out the 6. I took a sip of Cherry Coke. My first of the night.

After Rosa Schwartzburg called “Bingo!” I called a break. There was a shuffling of cards. Dirty looks aimed at Rosa. She had not stopped her winning streak. Ten dollars and a Twizzler. Single stick. Not a pack. She was diabetic. I didn’t understand the Holy Virgin sometimes. All these women were diabetic. Still with the Twizzlers every week. I walked down to the concession table and saw éclairs, hot dogs, and bags of potato chips. The low rent kind. A hot dog was $1.25. A hot dog with relish was $1.75. I found that to be outrageous. I ate it with mustard for $1.25. The ladies crowded around the table, calling out their orders. Frank, behind the table, couldn’t keep up. His stomach brushed up against the chocolate on the top of the éclairs and stripped some off. No one noticed but me. The edges of the éclairs were now smeared and missing chocolate. I wanted one to top off the hot dog but I saw bits of Frank’s shirt fuzz captured in the remaining chocolate and just couldn’t do it. He smiled at me and winked. He thought I didn’t notice, or maybe did and he wanted me to keep quiet about it. Once you got the ladies going there was no stopping them. I ran the numbers and he ran the stand and we were in this together. This Friday night at the Holy Virgin. Mary pushed up against me. She was wearing a Leonardo DiCaprio t-shirt. His face stretched large over her gigantic breasts.

“You’re calling the numbers too fast,” she said.

“I know. I heard all of you. I slowed down.”

She scowled at me. “You don’t have to be rude about it. Where have you been?”