St. Petersburg In Harlem: A Short Story

A Piece of St. Petersburg in Harlem

She’s different, is all I muttered as I sat on the 1 train on a painfully humid afternoon. I had been sulking for no other reason than not having the courage to talk to her that day. I had only awkwardly half smiled. She was captivating, yet peculiar; she talked with a mild Russian accent, all the while incorporating the slang commonly used by those who live uptown and in the Bronx. I made her acquaintance at my job at the time, a large clothing store smack dab in the middle of Times Square. This store in particular radiated the kind of environment that would drive any man insane, if it were not for the likes of beautiful woman trotting around aimlessly and occasionally needing my assistance. Her name
was Iphigenia and she carried this air of nobility around her, as if in some past life she had been the beloved queen of a czar or a raj, prone to ostentation; which they themselves, being of the utmost class of men, could only posses and desire the most sought after treasures the world had to offer. She had these immensely lustrous eyes; they always looked like those of a tiger on the prowl. I knew everyone else thought so too. They reminded me of the morning star and possessed the hue of the finest jade stones. I swear—one could get lost in those seas of green for an eternity. The world, however, is undeniably full of competition and if I were to somehow manage to retain her attention long enough; it would only be a matter of time before some ego-driven imbecile would certainly think him-self a chance of impressing her. My ingenuity, I thought, had to be on par with the likes of a blind beaver or a NASA guy or something crazy like that. Any attempt to talk to or court her was a blaring signal to all others, of who were many, infatuated by her looks, to try and out best my endeavor of manhood. After all, every man is a coward until they see another fool take that first step of courage. I would usually avoid woman of her caliber, as many young men with developing pride would. It is also safe to assume any rightfully confidant man would be susceptible to the crushing agony of even her slightest rejection and apprehension. Although my fluidity in talking to women was far from frivolous or fruitless—Iphigenia, almost instantaneously, made me as stupid and lame as a one could ever be. This was a heart wrenching and feverish kind of slow, where one paradoxically thinks at a million miles per hour but cannot find the right words to say, like at all, causing rather long and awkward pauses “Hi… I, err, um…”—all the while, as one's throat continuously gets drier and drier and one's confidence shrivels up faster than an earthworm in the smoldering sun. The muses undoubtedly had consistent laughs at my epic fuck ups. The train stations stretching from 96th street to the to the last stop, where I live, had been under repair for what now in hindsight felt like forever. This restoration of the line would wreak havoc on weekends and late nights for commuters trying to enjoy themselves after long and tiresome workdays. Despite it being half past noon, it being a Sunday above all else, the trains were horridly inconsistent—constantly stalling at every station, grinding gears left and right. The 1 train, in all its stillness, in combination with the dull lighting, which now flickered along with my ever-growing despair, only exacerbated my melancholy. The train had been stalled at the aboveground station in Harlem for about a quarter of an hour. The train doors remained wide open and the humidity from the outside seeping in could dead-ass drown a goldfish. The day, however, was still young; I thought a stroll would do me well, besides, I could walk faster than the metal Goliath could ever get me back home to the Bronx. As I now walked through the seemingly empty streets of Harlem, heading up towards 137th street, I began to recall a brief conversation I had with her over a lunch break, which we both happened to be on. She had been eating a bagel with a fillet of salmon on it; I remember thinking “Even the orangey fillet she’s eating is pretty” that’s how I knew I was loosing my shit. “Where could one get fresh salmon around Times Square?” I asked sharply—I had only ever eaten salmon once, on a Good Friday, some years ago. She causally answered “the deli, silly.” I had never thought to ask for salmon. Who the hell ever asks for salmon? We continued our discussion, and she was kind enough to disclose some personal details, much to my surprise.
She told me she was from St. Petersburg. I knew next to nothing of the city, I figured it just like Moscow, cold and impenetrable, even for histories greatest of men. Furthermore, she revealed that she and her family lived on 135th and Amsterdam, as it was the only place a family of four, with limited English skills, no connections, and no immediate jobs, could afford to live. I absorbed every word she spoke, as if her words were encrypted messages that would disappear forever, if not held onto and handled with great care and attention. The damn humidity kept breaking my train of
thought. As I now slowly threaded through the very neighborhood in which she lived, my mind once again wondered and I resumed to daydream and thought to sit on a bench, as walking became too uncomfortable. The humidity again, was thick; every breath felt as if one sunk deeper into a muggy ocean, I could taste the dirty Harlem air. I stared off into the distance for a while, hoping that I would spot a piece of St. Petersburg in Harlem. As I sat there, I began to really pity myself, thinking, what I would say if I did see her?
“Deep neurosis, bro”, spat the rational part of my conscious “Hey remember you told me you lived here! Ha…ha.” Natural selection was conspired to weed out dumbasses like me I began to think. As I took one last glance at the scene before me, the gray neighborhood with its high rises and brownstones, with all its quirks and grit and innumerable ally’s masterfully arranged, it all seemed to melt away into a cohesive and formidable entity. It now possessed a sense of oneness and grandeur, which no palace on earth could ever match. I tore the thought of a facilitated encounter from my mind, as if sacrificing a part of me. I stood up and continued on my walk back home as the sky darkened and a light drizzle began to pour, alleviating the humidity, but making that day ever more
insufferable.