“Can I take a personal call?” Ana asked me at work one morning. 

“Of course.” 

When she returned ten minutes later, I could tell that she’d been crying. 

“Are you okay?” I whispered, trying not to make it seem like I was consoling my girlfriend at work. 

“No. Yes. It’s fine. I’ll tell you about it later.”

After our shift we had one of those dates that I used to dream about only months earlier. However, the situation wasn’t quite as picturesque as my fantasies had been. We sat at the counter in a coffee shop on 8th Avenue. I watched strangers walk by outside. Ana held back tears as she spoke. “She told me she was going to kick him out finally, but he always finds a way to sneak, like a slithering snake, and make his way back in. Again! Again he convinced her to give him another chance. I don’t know how. She feels bad for him, and I…” Her hands shook as she warmed them with her tea. “I can’t stand it.”

“Well, your mom’s a really good person.”

“Exactly, so she deserves better, right?”

“Absolutely.” 

That night, Ana was at my place when she received a frantic call from Luda. Konstantine had gotten hammered and she was refusing to let him into the apartment. He was screaming racist obscenities, something about the Mexican she’d been inviting over, and was threatening to throw Ana out. She could hear him banging the door over the phone. The rage in her eyes widened. 

“Throw me out? How can he threaten to throw me out?” She exclaimed. “We pay all of the rent since his bullshit injury!” She switched to Russian and gave her mom a scolding I hoped to never receive. I put my hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down. 

“Tell her to call the police,” I suggested. She held her finger up to pause me. I could hear Luda chirping as Ana pulled her phone a few inches from her ear and glared at it.

“Does she want us to come over there?”

“I don’t know,” she told me. “Do you want us to come over there?” she asked her mom in Russian. 

“Harasho. Harasho.” She hung up.

“She said she isn’t letting him in. She’s calling his friend to pick him up.”

“He has a friend?”

“Can you believe it? He’s like a ‘family friend.’ I don’t even know why anyone ever hangs out with that, that fucking… fucker!” She growled, red-eyed and tense. “I hope he just falls into the ocean and disappears.”

“Why doesn’t she just call the police?” I asked.  

“No way. My mom won’t call the police on him. That would just be more of a headache for her later. I mean, who do you think has to bail him out of the drunk tank? And then he’ll just raise more hell once she gets him out.”

“Jesus.”

Ana ran her hands tightly across her head and tugged at her hair. I put my arm all the way around her.   

“I bet it’s all gonna work out,” I reassured her while picturing Luda giving in and opening the door for him as we spoke. He’d shove her aside with a muscleless, menacing backhand windup before stumbling in to look for his crusty hash pipe and warm bag of wine in a box. 

“Do you think he’d ever hit your mom?”

“I would literally kill him. But no. He’s a total pussy. He would never touch her. Even when he drinks, which is always, he’s all bark. Talk, talk, talk,” she imitated her mom’s heavier accent. 

“Well, let’s hope you don’t have to kill anyone.” I unsuccessfully tried to lighten the mood as I imagined uppercutting Konstantine, his overgrown head flying backwards and cracking on the pavement behind him. “Do you wanna watch a movie?”

“Yes please.” 

I stood up to look through the few DVDs I had.

“Thank you for letting me stay over.”

I fuckin’ love you, I thought, but said, “Any time, Banana.” 

Luda had kept Konstantine out of the house for the entire night. She left for work early the next morning and called her daughter. We both had the day off, a convenient perk of being in charge of making the schedule. 

“I’m meeting my mom for breakfast in half an hour. Do you want to come?”

Familial crisis or not, I was and am always down to go get breakfast. Even if it’s three in the afternoon. Even if I just ate. I’ll make room. We met at Fabiane’s on Bedford. I salivated as fragrances of French toast and hollandaise floated over the sidewalk. 

“Do you care where you sit?” the hostess asked us.

“Wherever,” I answered quickly. I was a little quicker than Ana, who had a request.

“Can we take that table?” She pointed at the last one on the patio. No one was seated there, but it was covered in dirty plates, napkins and glasses. 

“Yes. Definitely. No problem. Just give us a few minutes to get it set up.” I soon learned to direct any questions regarding table preference to her, and to be patient as she deliberated carefully over the ideal seat for optimal meal enjoyment, even if that meant waiting longer to enjoy said meal. 

I watched the barista carefully pour a leaf pattern on a latte with steamed milk as we waited. Ana and Luda spoke in Russian. Ana was fired up. Luda sounded defensive and demure, like a child being scolded who only had a half-argument that she couldn’t quite express. I usually loved listening to them speak to each other in their native tongue and eventually learned a few key words and phrases, but most of what I understood came from their pitch and tempo. 

Our food arrived, allowing us enough silence for me to interject. “Look, Luda, I don’t know Konstantine, but the three of us do know that these situations you’re in are entirely his fault.” And also yours for putting up with it, you fuckin’ idiot. “And although I’ve only known the two of you for a short time, I really care about Ana, and about you, and I feel I can provide a slightly more subjective point of view.” I’d practiced this talk a few times. “Without me even thinking about Ana, I see you as someone who deserves so much better. He doesn’t deserve you. You should have someone who can take care of you.” That’s right, lean into that patriarchal stereotype so heavily ingrained in them. “Right now, you’re the one taking care of him. And for what? He does nothing to help you. He’s just a burden.” I waited for a response from either of them, but got nothing. “You’re beautiful and young and you work so hard. Everyone knows this. You have to understand how much that’s worth, especially living here, in New York. There are so many people. Any man would be lucky just to have a coffee with you.” They’d both been poking at their food as I spoke. Luda smiled at me with grateful, icy blue eyes. I cut the yolk on my poached egg and let it drip over the benedict. “And this doesn’t have to be something that influences your decision,” but I’m still gonna make it one, “because although I love coming over to your house to have dinner and drink tea and watch movies, I do not feel welcome with him around. Or comfortable. Or safe.”

“Mama. If you don’t make Konstantine leave, I’m moving out.” 

I hadn’t seen that one coming. I paused the forkful of food I was bringing to my mouth and looked at her, mildly shocked.

“Oh, and where will you go? You will just leave me to find my own place to live?” That was exactly the guilt-trip I would have expected my mother to respond with as well. Ana replied angrily as they continued bickering. I held her hand under the table. 

“Our rent’s not that high,” she negotiated. “You basically pay for all of his portion, and now that I’m almost done with school, I can work more and pay more.”  

I pictured myself moving in with them: waking up with Ana every day after holding her all night, going to the Brighton Beach boardwalk for sunset, and then making dinner and watching movies with her and her cat. I mentally divided their rent by three and went back to my breakfast as they kept speaking in Russian. 

Days later, Luda demanded a separation and began finding Konstantine his own apartment. She spoke to him on a daily basis, listening to his pitiful cries of loneliness and repentance, but more importantly reminding him not to come over. He stayed away, and after having been together for a little less than three months, Ana asked me to move in with them. 

“I think it would be helpful to save some money and then we can eventually get our own place.” Although I found it presumptuous for her to assume that we were going to live together eventually, she wasn’t wrong. I said yes. 

Our place was on the ground floor of a seven story, brick, turn-of-the-century apartment building that always smelled like potato dumplings. It was on Coney Island Boulevard, just a few hundred yards from the boardwalk and beach. Banners welcoming people to “Little Russia by the Sea” hung from light poles down Brighton Beach Avenue. Along with the city’s usual discount stores, electronic shops, and hair and nail salons, the neighborhood was full of Russian delis, sushi places, Georgian restaurants, Turkish food trucks, cheap night clubs and dirty bars. Storefronts shone Cyrillic script above babushkas in headscarves and dedushkas in tracksuits out on their daily walks. The tracks for the Q and B trains blanketed the avenue and swerved north through the width of Brooklyn towards Manhattan. 

The boardwalk was usually busy with people strolling and exercising, eating ice cream and fried food, or enjoying a night out at one of the cheesy, seaside show-and-dinner venues. The beach itself was a spacious strip of sand that stretched past the blinking lights of Coney Island. The ocean there disgusted me thoroughly. Babies in diapers, the severely overweight, hooligan children, litterbugs, all the grossest sorts would be splashing around the nearly motionless ocean. That sight, only once, was more than enough to keep me out of that water the entire time I lived in New York. 

The commute was long, but rent was cheaper than what I paid in Bushwick, and Luda fed me every chance she had, so besides having to smoke pot in the bathroom and blow it out the window, I had very little to complain about.

During that first winter that I lived in Brighton Beach, Ana and Luda went on a trip to Paris for a week. I hadn’t seen my high school friend Kevin in years so it was the perfect excuse to invite him to the city. 

The night he landed I was working an evening manager shift at Buddhist Bar. He took a seat in the lounge and sampled the fancy cocktail list until I was done. Afterwards, we went out with some coworkers and drank whiskey until the bars closed. When we got back to the apartment, Kevin took out a bottle of Glenmorangie from his suitcase.

“This was like thirty bucks at the duty free. I’ve only ever seen it for over fifty.” 

We each had a tax-free nightcap and passed out in excess as the sun started slowly coming up. 

Kevin woke me up at around nine in the morning.

“Hey dude, there’s someone at the door.” 

I focused on not throwing up on my way to get it. Through the peephole I saw a middle-aged stranger holding a clipboard. I opened the door and leaned my head on the wall. My eyes were bloodshot and barely open. The scotch was still banging on the front door in the center of my forehead, calling me an asshole and asking if anyone was home. 

“Good morning, sir. I am visiting our neighbors to make sure that you have completed your census for this year.”

Fuckin’ census? What the fuck? “Um, yeah. We filled ours in,” I lied. Fuck your census.

“Perfect. How many people live in your apartment?”

“Three. Listen, I really have to go.”

“Okay, well if you have time for…” 

I closed the door on him and ran to Luda’s bathroom, which was ten steps closer than the one that Ana and I shared. I put my face over the toilet and let neon-yellow bile and pieces of half-chewed gyro sludge up my chest. I sat in a cold shower for a few minutes after vomiting, then dried off and made myself throw up again. Kevin was back asleep on the couch. I drank some water, puked one more time, smoked a bowl, did not blow it out the window, and went back to a tumultuous attempt at sleeping. 

It was past five when I heard a loud bang on the door. The darkening sky made it hard to tell what time of day it was. My hangover was persistent. Fuckin’ scotch. 

The door pounded again. I got up. Kevin had just woken up from the knocks as well. Then another, louder bang. 

“What the hell? It better not be that fuckin’ census guy again.” I pictured him back with his census buddies, ready to confront me for shutting the door on him earlier. 

I opened the door without checking the peep hole, and it was instantly pushed against me like a violent wind was passing through. I tightened every muscle in my body when I saw Konstantine trying to force his way in while swinging the jagged piece of metal windowsill at me. 

He was four inches taller than me and forty pounds heavier. I held the door as long as I could. I shouted for Kevin to help. He’d been sitting on the couch in shock as he watched the encounter. Konstantine waved this cheap sword through the opening of the door again. As I leaned back to dodge it, the door opened fully. I ducked back into the apartment with the drunkard close behind me. Kevin was standing but had no idea what to do. Konstantine screamed for Luda in Russian and grabbed my shirt. I tried to get away and it ripped in half. It was the Beastie Boys t-shirt that I’d bought at my first concert when I was fourteen. I saw them on their Hello Nasty tour at the Great Western Forum. They played on a revolving stage. I was at the very front of the pit. It was life changing. I looked down at my torn souvenir. I was livid. 

I peeled the torn cotton off as I squirmed out of his grasp and darted to the living room. That ripped t-shirt he was holding was the last fuckin’ straw. He came out of the kitchen with a cleaver and approached me, stumbling slowly with twisted eyes, like he was about to butcher me.

Fuck that. I grabbed the nearly full bottle of scotch that we’d opened eleven hours earlier and swung, landing a full armed, direct shot to his temple. Aged whiskey, glass and blood did a slow dance around the room to a shattering sound and Konstantine’s low groan. The mirrored wall in the front of the apartment was a newly finished, abstract, impressionist work of art.

My subject had begun to topple as he held his face. A thick, red waterfall flowed down the side of his head, through his hands and onto the floor. Panicked, I ran into my room to get my phone and wallet. I still had half of the broken bottle in my hand. He was on his knees when I got back to the living room. I chucked the bottle at him but missed and hit the mirror. He turned towards me with a dizzy head bob and tried grabbing me, but missed by two feet, falling forward onto shards of glass and bloody puddles of booze. 

“Dude, we should get outta here,” I told Kev. He was packing up the few things he had out. I dialed the police as I walked backwards out of the apartment complex. My free hand was clenched and ready for round two if Konstantine ran out after me, but the fight was soon called a first-round TKO, decided by the NYPD. 

Kevin had stayed in the apartment for a few minutes, still confused as he gathered his things. By the time he came outside to meet me, I could hear the banging and crashing and shattering of our kitchen and living room. I really hoped the cat was ok. 

“Dude, he just kept showing me his ID, saying ‘I live here, I live here,’” Kevin told me as we waited outside for the police. He had no idea that I had taken that guy’s place in the apartment, just like I didn’t know that Luda had been speaking to him every day even months after he’d moved out. “He was bleeding everywhere and then asked me for a fuckin’ cigarette. I was just grabbing my bag, so I was like, ‘Here you go dude.’ And he just had blood all over himself. I seriously thought you were about to kill him. He took that shit like a fuckin’ polar bear.” 

Kev had his rollaway suitcase next to him and a smoke in his hand when the cops arrived. We could hear his psychotic screaming from the sidewalk. I told one officer what had happened as two others went inside. Soon after, another cop and a medic followed them. Konstantine came out with his hands behind his back. His fat cracked head was wrapped up in a thick, white and red-spotted bandage as they took him away.

“Fuck you, you fuckin’ piece of shit cocksucker. You don’t fucking live here anymore.” Spittle accompanied my expletives. “No one fuckin’ wants you here, bitch.” The officer I’d been talking to politely suggested that I calm down as I taunted my handcuffed foe.

I went back into the apartment with Kevin and laughed nervously at the mess. The kitchen was covered in a blood-soaked splattering of flour, sugar and cornstarch. Food from every kitchen cabinet was on the floor. The chandelier that he’d taken from his previous hotel job was shattered across the living room. He’d ripped our projector out of the ceiling. Picture frames were torn off the walls, replaced with smears of his blood. The cleaver he’d grabbed sat on the coffee table, covered in his red paw prints. I checked the bedrooms. Thankfully, he hadn’t gone in there. Kuza was meowing at me from under our bed but refused to come out. 

“Fuck this. We can clean up later. Let’s smoke a bowl,” I told Kevin.