Maybe the day after St. Patrick's Day isn't the best time to post this piece. Maybe it's the perfect time. Maybe I’ll
let one of the feedback
comments describe this piece for you: “Engaging. Terrible. Desperate.
Lovely.” Here’s how it
begins:
My Russian friend Nini and I are toasting vodka, a
shake of pepper in the bottom of the shot glass. We drink two bottles, quart
bottles. A lot of alcohol for two little pixies. Some boys arrive, friends of
hers, Russian guys who hardly speak any English. They're all over us, they're
not picky, they want to get laid. The cute one pushes the hair out of Nini's
eyes when she pours. She gets to pouring at a whole new pace. The glass bounces
on the floor. Fling, that
bottle's done, fling, another
one's gone. I realize at one point that the conversation is happening entirely
in Russian, and yet I'm yelling and being yelled back at.
Can a piece of fiction
utterly tell the truth? Check out Matthew Klam’s
classic Nerve story.
