Why are there three locks on the bathroom door, I wonder, wetting the tips of my fingers so that anyone listening will think I washed my hands.
N is sitting, working.
“Cigarette?” I ask.
He nods. We head outside. It is raining. I look up.
“What the hell is this. It has hailed twice, the sun has come out three times, it’s rained four times and now it is sunny, and raining.”
N shrugs. “It’s St. Petersburg.”
“It’s bullshit,” I grumble, lighting my cigarette. N is staring at a glove sitting on the table, wet. It is pink, a child’s glove.
“That’s been here for a week,” he muses. I look at the glove, it is dirty.
“Why do they have three locks on their bathroom door?” I ask. N looks at the glove, then at me.
“Why can’t we solve my mystery before yours?” He asks.
I look at the glove.
“Maybe she was kidnapped,” I say. N frowns.
“That’s dark.”
“Yeah, so about the bathroom door. I–”
“What if some kid left it as a cry for help?”
I look at the glove. It stops raining. N goes over and pokes it.
“Is it pointing anywhere in particular?” I ask, walking up beside him.
He shakes his head.
“Okay, so it’s just a glove. Now, the door.”
He looks at me and rolls his eyes. “Russians don’t knock, they just open.”
I shudder. “I know that all too well. But I haven’t experienced a habit of kicking in doors.”
N snubs out his cigarette.
“Do you ever think we might ask the wrong questions about life?”
I think about it. I look at the glove.
“No.”
I flick my cigarette on the ground. N rolls his eyes. We go inside. Back to work. A bit later the bartender brings us some chips. N asks her a few things in Russian. They chat. She nods and leaves. I pull out my headphones. He is frowning.
“What?”
“Hm, well, you had me thinking. I asked about the bathroom door.”
I move to the edge of my seat.
“And?”
“I guess some kid was in there and some guy came and broke the door down. Took her out and dragged her from the bar.”
“No shit? Dude, we live in a story, or play, I just know it.”
N gives me a long look. He laughs.
“No. I just ordered another beer,” he says, not bothering to suppress a grin.
I glare at him. “You’re a bad man.”
He shrugs and goes back to work.
Flash-365 
We were all sitting at the bar of the Polish Club. A few Russians walked in. We ignored them.
I spoke to John, who is also, at times, called Butch, but I call him John. Carol calls him Butch. Don’t ask me; I have no idea why.
One of the Russians speaks. “Looks like every Tom, Dick and Harry is here.”
Of course Tom says “Jestem Tom! ”
And then Carol speaks up for Butch and calls out “To jest Butch, idzie przez Johna do swoich przyjaciół”
One of the Russians replied “We didn’t mention John or Butch.”
Carol replied “Well you are not his friend so what does that matter to you?”
At this point Dick felt a need to make his presence known. Blurting out “Jestem Dickiem. Możesz zadzwonić do mnie Richard – – lub ‘Sir.'” while not attempting to hide a wide smirk.
“Ok, Ok,” said a third Russian. “We know where Tom and Dick are. But where the hell is Harry?”
The bartender looked at the Russians and with a shake of his head silently gave them a “For Shame, for shame” look.
The Russians, normally requiring deep respect, looked at each other; quizzically.
The bartender reached over to the tiers of whiskey bottles behind the bar; 1st tier = $1.50 per ounce, 2nd tier = $2.50 per ounce and third tier $3.50 per ounce. The bottles on the third tier were mostly full.
The bartender reached up on the third tier to grasp a Mass Card. It was for Harry.
“Harry’s dead, died last year, May 14th if my memory serves correctly. Yes – – – look – – – right there on Harry’s Mass Card – – – May 14th, 2016. Croaked while sitting right here at the bar. Broke open his noggin when he hit the concrete floor. Quite a mess. Ladies auxiliary had to clean it up.
“Sorry” replied the last Russian. We didn’t know.
They bought a round of Slivovitsa for the patrons in memory of the dearly departed and then they silently departed.
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Haha. I love when you post these responses. Great. And props for phonetically translating Russian
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Great piece, bursting with potential. A great idea to have two questions vying for attention. In light of that, I particularly like “Do you ever think we might ask the wrong questions about life?”
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I had the same thought… we might be asking the wrong questions after all
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I’ve always suspected as much
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Nice stuff you write by the way… I was revisiting your other posts then I saw about Frank dying… funny thing I’m writing a book with the main character being Frank 😁😂
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haha nice. It’s a great name for a character. I am glad. Hopefully you are kinder to your Frank than I am to mine.
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haha thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.
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Great story! I just started a blog. Please check it out!
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Thank you very much. Will do.
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