christinamguerrero.com ~ the official site ~
Free Coffee
Copyright 2012 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
This is for Moscow
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
I love buildings.
I really like Moscow.
When I discovered videos about buildings in Moscow on Youtube
I was delighted.
Then the story ideas started popping up, as I watched the videos.
Here is one idea, inspired by a neon-lit neighborhood somewhere in that vast city.
AFTER DRAFT NUMBER ONE
Nothing yet.
“Helen. Pavel asks why you are not answering your phone.”
I grabbed my cell phone from my commuter bag as Vladimir and I rushed down the block. Around us, the Moscow night was illuminated by this business district’s neon lights. One building was glaringly outlined in bright blue.
I said, “Oh, crap. The battery is low. And I probably didn’t hear it ring.”
“Hurry up and charge it. Use my generator.” He turned and tilted his right hip toward me. He was medium-sized and built like a small square tank, which was necessary in order for him to carry his camera and associated gear, and wear his heavy vest. He pushed long curly hair out of his face, revealing big slanted brown eyes.
I searched my bag for the charger. “I know it’s in here.”
“I might have one.” He started searching. He squinted at me for a moment, then looked away. I hoped my long light brown hair was still combed straight; and hoped he was not thinking I was too thin; I was five-six, but only one hundred and seventeen pounds. Everyone I had met in Russia said I needed to gain weight.
Once more, I looked through my bag. “I don’t think I have it.”
“I don’t either. Oh. I left it in the truck.”
We looked down the long block. His truck was at the far end.
I turned and saw a sign: Electronics. “Here,” I said. “They should have one. Hurry.”
We were rushing around the Novy Arbat area of Moscow, interviewing people for a newspaper story about the best coffee shops within a three block radius. One coffee shop was hosting a contest: the most diplomatic, most tasteful, fairest newspaper article between us and The Blade, our competitors, would earn the reporter and photographer free coffee for the rest of the year.
Vladimir pushed ahead of me and said, “We do not have time for the proprietor to decipher your fractured Russian.” He greeted a clerk and asked if they had a phone charger.
I was silent. Vladimir considered me proficient in Russian but he tended to get impatient when we were on deadline. He also did not trust working women and told me repeatedly I needed to get married and be a good wife to a professional journalist. I asked him repeatedly to introduce me to one, but his answer was always, “I am still looking.”
As the clerk placed several chargers on the counter I looked outside and saw our competitors -- a reporter and editor from The Blade -- on the other side of the street; they were outside a nightclub we had hoped to enter.
“Helen,” Vladimir said, and gestured to the chargers. I tilted my head toward the windows; he looked and frowned.
“This one, please,” I said to the clerk.
Vladimir said, “We will go to the other two clubs?”
As I paid I said, “Yes,” then “Thank you” to the clerk.
We rushed outside, staying close as I charged my phone on his generator. When our arms brushed and neither of us moved away, I felt a strange warmth toward him, then composed myself. Peripherally, I saw him squinting at me again, as I returned the call to Pavel, our editor.
“Yes, sir?” I said.
“How many people have you interviewed?”
“Eight, and looking for two more.”
“Do you have time to visit the coffee shops?”
“Yes, sir. They are all open until nine.”
“Hurry. My sources tell me the Blade is almost ready to file their story.”
Vladimir and I arrived at the first night club ... just as The Blade’s editor walked out, smiling smugly at us.
“Zdrastvootye,” he said.
“Zdras,” Vladimir said.
“Where else?” I said, as we watched the editor saunter down the street.
“Someplace they probably will not go.”
“I think that electronics clerk was a spy.”
“Almost everyone is spy. Let me think.”
I looked around. I put my phone in one of Vladimir’s pockets and started walking fast.
“Where are you going?” Vladimir said.
I walked faster, then trotted. A tattoo place up ahead was open. I looked back and saw The Blade’s editor watching us; he started running in the same direction.
I reached the shop first, and went inside. A tall, hefty, handsome bald man was concentrating on designing something on the back of a young blond woman.
“Hello,” he said. “I will assist you momentarily.” He saw my notebook and pen. “Are you a reporter?”
“Yes.”
“I am busy.” He returned to the woman’s back.
“I’m sorry. I’m looking for opinions on the best coffee shops in the area.”
The woman mentioned a cafe, and held up one thumb.
I almost wrote this down, but looked at the tattoo artist. “Would you mind?”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“May I ask her a few questions?”
“Okay. And I will tell you my favorite.”
Vladimir entered, fully packed with his gear all over him in his giant vest, carrying his camera.
“This is my photographer, Vladimir,” I said.
I gathered information from the bald guy and the blond woman; Vladimir took pictures and we left, anxious to go to the coffee shops we had listed.
After the last place, high on sips of caffeine, I pulled out my laptop in the truck and started typing. Vladimir wanted to know what I was saying, every other sentence, and offered alternate phrases if I became too opinionated.
At the office, we rushed in, and filed the story and photos.
* * * * *
In the morning, Vladimir and I sighed and grunted in frustration. The Blade had won the contest. Both the editor and the coffee shop had sent us e-mails announcing the news.
“I do not understand,” Vladimir said. “Your article is as neutral as Switzerland. I cannot find single biased word, phrase, sentence or paragraph.” He was squinting again, and turning a tiny bit red.
“Thank you. But The Blade’s is neutral as well.”
Pavel watched us, looking back and forth. “I heard you were not fully prepared while out and about.”
I nodded. “My charger. I left it here.”
Vladimir said, “Mine, too.”
“Leading you to spend precious moments at electronics store so bugged it should be fumigated. A lesson in learning to plan ahead?”
“Yes, sir,” Vladimir said. “And if women did not think they could enter the work force as competently as men, perhaps I and my male colleague would now be enjoying free coffee for the rest of the year.” He pointedly turned to his computer and resumed working. His face was back to its normal color.
“Find me a husband and I will work only part-time,” I said. “He only needs to be upper middle class, not overly wealthy.”
“I’m still looking.”
Pavel snorted, tossed something to Vladimir and then to me, and said, “Advances on your bonuses this year.”
I found a gift card to GUM, with a note attached regarding the correct department for phone supplies. I glanced at Vladimir who said, “Hm. Gift card to Starbucks. Not the same, but I will find a way to adapt.”
“While you’re finding things, find me that husband.”
“I am not ready. But some day.”
I did not bother to ask what he meant: whether he was ready for the search, or whether he was considering the possibility for himself.
I decided I liked either prospect.
* ~* END *~*
BACK TO JOURNALISM - * - BACK TO ARCHIVES