Everything’s Coming Up Josey (10 page)

I think I even drooled.

I missed supper, which didn't upset me too much (I mean, a choice between baked chicken leg and Salisbury steak? Hello?), but when breakfast rattled by, I roused myself and forced my gritty eyes open. “Wait!” I say, glancing at Grunge Boy's plate. Fruit, a cinnamon roll and eggs. Okay, not Jas's
kringle,
but it'll do.

The flight attendant—oh, no, it's Perfect Eyebrows!—looks at me with a faint smile. “Oh, you're awake.”

I
did
drool. I see it on her smug face. I nod, aware that my hair is probably doing its 1920s skullcap impersonation, and there are pillow lines etched into my face. “I'm awake. Can I get some breakfast?”

“Of course.” She hands me the tray. “Coffee?”

“A gallon, please?” That was supposed to be a joke, but she just gives me a courtesy smile and pours me a cup. I've had bigger shots of whiskey. I thank her and she rattles off.

“Sleep well?”

The Grunge speaks! I try not to spill my OJ as I open it, and look at him. Underneath that rats nest hair, he has pretty hazel eyes and they're glancing off me as if I make him…nervous? I must have a sort of missionary presence.

“Yes, thank you. Did you get some sleep?”

“Naw. I can never sleep on airplanes. Watched the latest Ben Affleck thriller, though, on the movie options.”

Movies? I missed
movies?

No one mentioned movies. Not fair.

“Do you know how much longer it'll be?” I ask. I dig into the eggs, and despite being rubbery, they fill a few gaps. The cinnamon roll is what I expected. Sahara dry and sickly sweet. But it accompanies the eggs nicely.

“Oh, an hour or so. We're over Poland.”

Wow. I slide up the shade. Sure enough, dawn pours through the window and the sunrise is breathtaking as it spills out like OJ onto the clouds. “Wow,” I say again, this time aloud, because God deserves it.

“Yeah. I love traveling east.”

I add sugar and cream to the shot of coffee. “You go to Russia a lot?”

“Yeah,” he says, while crumpling up his napkin and wadding it in his juice container. “I do some computer consulting for a company in Moscow.”

Grunge-Man/Computer whiz. Of course.

“Why are you going? Tourist?”

Do I look like a tourist? I wore my black linen capris and a white blouse, with a pressed (well, it was!) suitcoat. Sort of a rebound from the fruit-skirt fiasco, but I wanted to enter my new world with a touch of class.

Except I just dripped coffee on the blouse. I bite back a word that might give me away and dab at the shirt. “I'm a missionary.”

Silence. He raises one eyebrow, then a slight smile. As if humoring me. I feel my hackles rise like Godzilla.

“That rocks.”

Oh.

“Thanks. I ah, am going to teach English for Moscow Bible Church.”

He nods, like he knows exactly where that is.

“Maybe you should stop by sometime,” I say, because we missionaries are supposed to invite people to church.

He smiles wider, and I see just a hint of a blush. “Yeah, well, I'm a member.”

I don't know what to say. “That rocks,” comes out of my mouth.

He holds out his hand. “Caleb Gilstrap.”

I feel something warm, something besides a coffee stain, heating my chest as I shake his hand and introduce myself.

As it turns out, Caleb has a Ph.D in computer science and the consulting he's doing is for an NGO project (Non-Government Organization: meaning humanitarian aid). He's been awake for two days, jetting across the country from California, (hence the smell) and after an hour of conversation, I feel like a slug.

Caleb the Grunge: nice guy. Josey the Missionary: slug.

We finally part the clouds and start our descent into Moscow. I see tiny houses on miniscule plots of land spiraling in the closer we get to the city. Caleb leans over me. “Those are dachas—little summer cabins on garden plots. Most of the Muscovites live in high-rises and come out on the weekends to tend their land.”

“There are a lot of them.”

“There are a lot of people in Moscow. It's bigger than New York.”

Oh. If I push my eye up to the glass, I can see the airport, a tiny speckling of gray buildings.

“You'd better buckle up and hold on,” Caleb says as we hear the engines start to whine, the landing gear clunk down.

“Why?” But I obey. I cinch the belt tight and hook my feet around my carry-on. Please, let my bagels stay in their bag overhead.

“Because Moscow has the worst landing strip in the northern hemisphere.”

Thanks, Caleb. I needed to hear that. Especially since I'd done a great job of muscling the bogeyman of flying into the recesses of my brain. But, no, here he comes, with a roar and a wash of sheer ice in my veins. I white-knuckle the armrests.

We touch down. Once, twice, three, now four times. And when we get all three points on, I can feel the teeth rattle around my head. Caleb grins at me, but he's a blur of motion.

I close my eyes, and the bogeyman slinks back into hiding. Sometime soon my lungs will begin working, too.

We taxi near the terminal, but stop far enough away for me to ask why.

“Oh, we have to disembark on the tarmac and hike in,” says Caleb as he releases the belt. “Say goodbye to the land of conveniences.”

I'm not quite sure what he means by that because Dwight said I'd have running water. But now that I think about it, he did follow that with “most of the time.”

Hmm.

I stand on the seat, unlock the overhead bin. A bagel falls out. I scoop it off the seat and hold my hands up, catching two more.

But I'm here. In
Russia.
Russshhhhaaa. Russia, Russia, Russia!

And more importantly, it's been thirteen hours and I'm not even missing Chase.

Much.

To: Jasmine Snodbrecher [[email protected]]

Sent: August 27, 2:47 p.m.

From: [email protected]

Subject: The Lowdown

Dear Jas,

I've been in Russia for six hours, and if this e-mail finds you, ever, it is only because God has seen my day and decided to extend a smidgen of mercy.

 

I'll start by saying that I made two mistakes in my trip over to Moscow.

1. I ate breakfast.

2. I didn't use the lavatory on the airplane, thus making it a necessity for the airport.

 

I'm pretty sure the bathroom hadn't been cleaned since it housed rebels from the Bolshevik Revolution. And, no running water. Which didn't bode well for my flagging spirit. But I am rushing ahead, giving you the punch line first. Let me back up to the place where I am standing in line with the other passengers as we ponder our future with customs and passport control. The first thing I noticed after lugging my carry-on/anvil down the stairs and across the cold and windy tarmac of Sheremetova 2, Russia's International airport, was that gloom preceded us. Like an x-wing fighter, it strafed the gray buildings, chipping the cement and souring the air with the odor of oil and dust. A woman dressed in the gray-greens of the Russian military held open the door for us, and I couldn't help but wonder if she was waiting, like the Gestapo, to yank one of us (me!) from line, and send me to gulag for an eternity of gritty kasha. She scrutinized me for a long moment with narrowed eyes, during which my heart, the coward that it is, leapt from my body and fled.

 

So, there I was shuffling in behind the other gulag potentials and we lined up in a cement-and-brick hallway that had no more light than Uncle Albert's root cellar and all the cheer of a morgue. The expressions worn by my compatriots convinced me that I had sinned, greatly, by smiling, so I feigned (sorta) calm. But, really, I'm here! I'm here! I remember thinking. In retrospect, that excitement was premature, and I should have done a mental head slap when I looked up at the ceiling and saw dust hanging like Spanish moss. Running water most of the time? It was then my gut started to twist. (For a long while, I thought this was excitement. Probably my most glaring mistake for the day.)

 

Among the smaller mistakes over the last six hours were:

1. Making a joke with visa control in which I told them I was here to make Russia a better, brighter place. (They obviously need to lighten up.)

2. Packing two suitcases (a sin that I now confess! But I called the airline and they said I could bring two. I foolishly believed that the “one suitcase” rule, now broken, was instituted by the mission to make me think…missionarish, and well, I already said that just because I'm a missionary doesn't mean I can't have decent footwear.) because they don't have any of those nifty carts and I'm telling you, in Russia, chivalry is a cold, dead corpse. Thankfully Granny Netta's poppy-orange bag is built like the Titanic. I kicked it through the concourse with little mercy.

3. Choosing the red line, which at the time seemed to be a wise option, due to the fact that there were only three people occupying spaces. What I didn't know was that they were merely placeholders for the Mongolian Horde. Thirty Asian shippers, with bundles roughly the size of Mount St. Helens wrapped in blue-and-red nylon shrink wrap muscled right in front of me. I thought maybe I could take two of them, after all I have a good twenty, (okay, thirty-five!) pounds on them. But they just kept streaming in, like the agents on Matrix Reloaded, so I surrendered with a loud sigh. Which no one heard because the cement immensity of the terminal swallowed all sound, a design, I am sure, calculated by the KGB officials I spied lingering along the recesses of the terminal. (And by the way, the Russian movies with soldiers with big guns—all true.) Meanwhile, the green line, some twenty passengers long, clipped along at a reasonable pace.

 

I held out hope until the green line shortened past me. Then kicked the poppy bag and her fellow Tubby over to the green line.

 

That's when the customs control agent spotted me and went on his lunch break. Not lying about that. Left us there to sit on our suitcases for an hour. Meanwhile, well, remember that excitement in my stomach? It turned into something nasty, and moved south. I started hunting down the bathroom. I spotted what looked like the sign for a woman affixed to the wall next to an open door. Where was Grunge Buddy when I needed him? (Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention him. I met this nice guy named Caleb, who happened to be my seat mate on the airplane. Turns out, despite his attire, which mimics Gooch Riley's [remember him? Drummer in H's first band, the Uglies?], Caleb is a nice guy, a computer programmer and a Speaker of Russian.) Deciding not to leave my bag for the next available thief, I abandoned my spot in line (I mean, really, does it matter?) and kicked my bags to the open door.

 

Words can not describe the atrocity inside this tiny five-by-eight-foot room. Out of three possible sinks, one was actually lying cracked on the floor, the other two as dry as the Sahara at high noon. The stalls—well, sis, I'm here to tell you that Russia must be so poor it can't afford stools, because there were…(I'm nearly afraid to tell you)…holes in the ground where porcelain should be. Holes…and well, you can guess the rest.

 

I backed out slowly, pretty sure that was a memory I didn't need.

 

I returned to line, and for the first time since setting foot in Russia, brought God back into the picture.

 

4. Not putting my shampoo in a zip-lock bag. (But it serves the customs official right for pawing through my things.) Matthew Winneman, my contact, (I'll get to him later) met me on the other side of the glass barrier. (I forgot to mention that humanity was pressed up against this barrier like human wallpaper. Matthew stood in the back, unaffected, holding a small sign with my name. I wanted to throw myself in his arms.) By this time, I was crying openly, my stomach in knots. He thought it was stress. I threw pride to the wind and ask him where the nearest clean public bathroom was.

 

He
laughed
. Grabbed one bag and hauled it outside.

 

I remember thinking, what, exactly, did that mean?

 

Moscow airport is located one hour, thirteen minutes and 47 seconds from my new
flat
. (Isn't that cool? My first foreign word! By the way, it is code for apartment.) I'm on the fourth floor. And, yes, there is an elevator, but we didn't use it (so I hauled the Teletubbies up the stairs—are you so very proud of me?) because Matthew said he wasn't feeling lucky.

 

Not sure what that meant, either.

 

He let me in my flat, which I'm sharing with a girl (not with Mission to the World) named Tracey Mylander from Ohio. She is gone at the moment, but I picture her as sorta like me, short blond hair, nice smile, someone out to change her corner of the world. She works for an NGO (another new word!) which stands for Non-Government Agency (code for humanitarian aid). Which makes her sorta like a missionary, in a nonevangelistic way. I expect we'll be close friends.

 

The flat, by the way, is three rooms (aka, a two-bedroom apartment) roughly the size of your new place over the restaurant. Except the walls are gold and the furniture black leather. The kitchen is the size of our closet (you would die) with a tiny linoleum table and a couple of stools pushed underneath and bright red wallpaper that is peeling around the edges. It's okay, I don't plan to eat here much. Even the floor is gold, by the way. Gold linoleum that runs the entire flat. With a black and brown throw rug beneath the leather sofa and easy chairs and under a glass coffee table.

 

Most importantly, I don't see a television. You will tape Lost for me, right? Right?

 

Matthew showed me to my room and told me to “wait for instructions.”

 

(Yes, I'm in the middle of a Le Carré espionage book. But wait—all his characters die at the end! What does this mean for me, exactly?)

 

Back to Matthew. He's tall. Curly black hair, dark blue eyes, a warm smile. And, like I said, he carried one of the bags. He's wearing a ring, but it's on his right hand. Not that I noticed, really.

 

By the way—was that Chase I saw at the airport when I was leaving?

 

Anyway, I locked the door behind Matthew and took stock of my surroundings. I have an exotic view of a…dusty yard. And four other apartment buildings that blot out the sky. No nod toward aesthetics here. The buildings look like card-towers, and about as sturdy, painted the oh-so-very lovely color of gray. Each flat is a box, with two windows, and there are probably a thousand of these cubicles just within my view. (Which means that a girl could get swallowed up here very easily.) Each flat has a tiny balcony (can they fall off?) and a few host geraniums, others, old refrigerators or bicycles.

 

My room is about as big as my old bedroom, a double bed (fun!), an armoire, a saggy desk, a hard wood chair and a lovely brown throw rug on the gold linoleum floor. Okay! It needs some work. But it's only been six, no, now seven hours. Give me a couple days, in between meeting with Putin with my suggestions about the airport (I mean, please, aren't they trying to encourage tourism?) and starting a public bathroom petition.

 

I jest, of course, about meeting with Putin. But maybe a well-written letter to the head of the International Airport?

 

After scooping shampoo out of my suitcase and rinsing out my underwear as well as that cute lime-green cardigan I stole from your closet (I figured you'd find out sooner or later, so yes, it's in Russia), I ran a bath.

 

Ever wanted to bathe in sun tea? Didn't think so. Well, let me tell you, it was warm, wet and if I closed my eyes, I could imagine it was a mineral bath in the tropics.

 

I have a great imagination.

 

Aren't I adapting well? I know you are surprised, but really, I can do this!

 

Oh, and by the way, there is more to this electric-converter stuff than just changing our flat plugs to the European round ones. I made fire come out of my hairdryer today.

 

So, I'm sitting here in my wool socks (see, I told Mom the truth!), my jammie bottoms and my University of MN sweatshirt. I have exactly seven bagels left. It is 2:00 p.m. and I feel like I've been run over a couple times by Lennie's street sweeper. And, the King of all Tragedies—there is No Signal on my cell phone. I thought I got an international plan. I guess that means France.

 

You must do two things for me.

1. Call Myrtle and ask her if she wants an editorial from Russia. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner, but I'm thinking I could find something to write about.

 

2. Follow Chase. Okay, I don't mean go overboard or anything, but you know, just drive by his house twice a day, keep a journal of where you see his car (he's driving a Bronco these days), run into him in the grocery store, and if you call over to the police station, I've always found Pete a good resource for general happenings around town. He should be able to give you some dates and times for Chase's social life if he stays in the Gull Lake vicinity. Not that I'm expecting him to have one without me, but you know, just in case. Oh, and keep an eye on Missy down at the Holiday gas station. She and Chase were “friends” once, and I suspect that she'll try and get her claws into him now that he's back. (And she broke up with Mike Bellow a month ago, not that I pay attention to that sort of thing). Anyway, it's not like I care, but she gets off at 10:20 on Friday nights, so if you happen to be cruising by there around then and see a Bronco…well, you know what to do. I miss you. I miss Mom and Dad. There are also others I miss, but well, I listed the most important for the moment.

 

I think I'll go to bed now. Maybe I'll wake up in Gull Lake.

 

Love,

Just Serving God Josey

 

I'm sitting in a café, watching foot traffic. Already, I love Moscow. I feel the sunshine on my face as I walk down the sidewalk, listening to the sounds of foreign words, the scent of lilacs overhanging green wooden fences. I am looking svelte, having already lost ten pounds. Then I hear the voice. “Josey! Josey!” I turn, and there he is—running! Sweat drips down his temples, into the collar of his white polo shirt. He's wearing his faded jeans and his Birks, and he looks flushed. Worried.

Come to think of it, it is a hot day. I feel sweat bead on my forehead.

“Josey!” he says. “Wake up!”

Huh?

“Wake up!”

But I
am
awake. I frown at him, but he's fading fast—no! I reach out—
Thwack!