Nothing says Winter like a January evening with sleet and snow. I’m reading Crime and Punishment during my commute these days. And on this particular wintry night, I think sometimes, my life is like a Russian Novel.
It’s five o’clock. I get up to leave but look in on my supervisor to wish him a good weekend. He is passed out drunk at his desk and snoring loudly. An empty vodka bottle lays on the floor, a shot glass near his upturned hand on the desk. I could have left hours ago, he’s been passed out that long. I blow a candle out near a mess of papers before he sets the place on fire. He’s a petty official who has recently been transferred here from Siberia but he’s been having a hard time. His young wife has run off with a Cossack leaving him with three little children. It seems only a matter of time before he is sent to some position back in Siberia.
It’s 730 steps from my desk to the subway platform where I like to stand. I’ve counted it. Taking a windowless stairway down nine stories, I push through the fire-door to outside. The streetlights glow with the snow coming down. Commuters rush by every which way, bundled from the cold, focused on nothing other than to get home. I navigate my way through drunks and bums. The stairs are wet and slippery as I go down to the platform. The train ride home is packed and mostly quiet. At the distant end of the car I can hear some serfs strumming a balalaika and siging folk music.
After a long walk along snow covered streets, I finally reach home. The only question is whether I should shovel the inch of snow on the driveway. Or have the peasant women sweep it clean for a few kopeks.
copyright 2015 Magnus Incognito