Gary Shteyngart - Absurdistan

“Yeah, that’s the first rule of the house,” another snickered. I was known as a very generous tipper and would occasionally spring for an abortion. Although all the barmaids were from the Bronx, and uneducated, they treated me as something of an innocent child, as opposed to the rooftop girls from Accidental College, who deferred to me as a wise old European. My point is that poor people often have a wisdom and cunning all their own.

“Chill out, bitches,” the newcomer said to her colleagues as she slipped out of her jeans to reveal her tightly sheathed mons, packed like a six-shooter in a holster. “I like this guy.”

“I think she likes you,” Max whispered into my ear, pinpricks of his spit gently tickling my face. He put his palms on the bar and dropped his head into them. He often ended his lunch hour feeling unwell.

“Hi,” I said to the young woman.

“Hi yahself, jumbo,” she said. “You like these?” She lifted up her breasts with her thumbs, after which they somehow managed to rise on their own, like shy animals peeking out from behind a hedge. “These make you sweat, mister?”

“Very much,” I said. “But I’ve got pretty nice ones myself, miss.” I cupped my beauties and rubbed my nipples hard. The other barmaids laughed, as usual. “Get Misha behind the bar!” one of them shouted.

“Dang, mister, you funny!” the new barmaid said. She reached behind me and pulled down on my hair. “But when I’m behind the bar, boy-o, you keep your eyes on my titties. I don’t need no competition.”

“Ouch,” I said. She was hurting me. “I was only joking.”

She stopped pulling my hair but continued to hold on to it, her palm stroking the preliminary fold of my neck. Her breath was awful—sour milk, rubbing alcohol, cigarettes, post-industrial rot. But she was beautiful in an impoverished kind of way. She reminded me of a lovely olive-colored mannequin I had seen in a store vitrine. The way that mannequin was casually bent over a billiard table, cue in hand, suggested she knew a lot more about the sex act than any woman in Leningrad, even the trollops at the Red October Hotel. My new friend, likewise, looked like she was privy to all kinds of information. She had a large, pretty face set off by small brown mestizo eyes, her pallor a bit gray from sun and vitamin deficiency, and a globe of a belly that looked half pregnant (with processed foods, not with child) in an arousing way. Her breasts were ponderous. “You Jewish?” she asked me.

Max woke up immediately upon hearing “Jewish.” “What? What?” he said. “Whad’you say?”

“Yes, I am a secular Jew,” I said proudly.

“Knew it,” the girl said. “Totally a Jewish face.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute…” Max mumbled.

“Look at your pretty face,” the girl continued. “I love your little blue eyes, mister, and your big fat smile—oh, dip! If you lost some weight, you could be one of those fat movie stars.” She brought her hand around to touch my chin, and I bent down to kiss it, in contravention of the bar’s unspoken laws.

“My name is Misha,” I said.

“Desiree’s my bar name,” she said, “but I’ll tell you my real name.” She bent forward, her fast-food breath jolting me out of my antiseptic Accidental College existence and into the world of the living. “It’s Rouenna.”

“Hi, Rouenna,” I said.

She slapped me across the face. “At the bar you call me Desiree,” she hissed.

“I’m sorry, Desiree,” I said. I did not notice the pain, so taken was I by the prospect of knowing her real name. At that point a customer called her away to lick up salt and lime juice from her cleavage. I have not kept the image of how he squished his acne-covered nose in between her breasts, nor the slurping sounds he made, but I do remember how dignified she looked when she straightened up and wiped the resulting mess with a moist towelette.

“You Jewish boys need a little Manischewitz in between these?” she shouted to me and Max.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Max said.

“Oh, relax, pal,” Rouenna told Max. “I’ve been to, like, fifteen bar mitzvahs.”

“You’re Jewish?” Max said.

“Nah,” Rouenna said. “But I’ve got friends.”

“What are you, then?” Max demanded.

“Half Puerto Rican. And half German. And half Mexican and Irish. But I was raised mostly Dominican.”

“Catholic, then,” said Max, satisfied she wasn’t Jewish.

“We was Catholic, but then these Methodists came around and gave us food. So we were like—okay, we’re Methodists now.”

That theological discussion almost made me cry. In fact, I was crying quite readily and happily at that point, my tears dropping with fat thuds on my crotch, where the crushed purple insect was registering its presence. Half Puerto Rican. And half German. And half Mexican and Irish and everything else besides.

After her shift was over, I took her down the street to visit my outsize loft and, in ridiculous Russian fashion, immediately told her that I loved her.

I don’t think she heard me, but she was impressed by my lifestyle.

“Dang, jumbo,” Rouenna said, her husky voice bouncing off the hangar-sized living space. “I think I finally made it.” She looked around my small collection of artworks. “Why you got all these giant dicks around the house?”

“Those sculptures? Oh, I guess they’re all part of a Brancusian motif.”

“You a fudge-packer?”

“A what? Oh, no. Although homosexuals do number among my friends.”

“What did you just say?”

“Homosexuals—”

“Jesus Christ, man. Who are you?” She laughed and punched me full-on in the gut. “Just kidding,” she said. “I’m playing hard to get with you, is all.”

“Keep playing,” I said, smiling and rubbing my stomach. “I like to play.”

“Where ya sleep, jumbo? You mind if I keep calling you that?”

“At college they called me Snack Daddy. Here are stairs that go up to my bed.”

My bed was a kind of muscular Swedish plank that grudgingly accommodated my bulk à la carte but grunted pathetically when both Rouenna and I tumbled upon it. I wanted to explain to her yet again, though this time in detail, that I loved her, but she was immediately kissing me on the mouth and rubbing my breasts and bellies with both hands. She unbuckled my pants, letting out a gust of stale trapped air. She drew back and looked at me sadly. Oh, no, I thought. But all she said was “You sweet.”

“I am?” I lay down on the bed completely. I was sweating and jiggling obscenely.

“A heartbreaker,” she said.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’ve never even really been with a girl before. At college I only got a few hand jobs. And I’m twenty-five, almost.”

“You a nice, nice man, that’s what you are. You treat me like a queen. I’m gonna be your queen, that all right, Snack Daddy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Show me what you got for mommy.” She started to pull hard on the billowing square sail I used as underwear.

“No, please,” I said, holding on to my goods with both hands. “I have a problem.”

“Your boy too big for me?” Rouenna asked. “It’s never too big for mommy.” I tried to explain to her about the zealous Hasids and their low-paid proxies at the public hospital, the butchers of Crown Heights. Tell me, please, who in their right mind circumcises a fat eighteen-year-old man-child in an operating room reeking of mildew and fried rice?

I fought with all my mass, but Rouenna overpowered me. My underwear ripped in two. The crushed purple insect shyly drew its head back into its neck.

It would seem to the untrained eye that the khui ’s knob had been unscrewed from its proper position and then screwed back into place by incompetents so that now it listed at an angle of about thirty degrees to the right, while the knob and the khui proper were apparently held in place by nothing more than patches of skin and thread. Purple and red scars had created an entire system of mountain-ridge highways running from the scrotum to the tip, while the bottom had been so eviscerated by post-op infection that instead of being smooth, taut skin, it looked like a series of empty garbage bags fluttering in the wind. I suppose the crushed-insect comparison had worked best when my khui was still covered with blood on the operating table. Now my genitalia looked more like an abused iguana.