Absurdistan by Gary Shteyngart Page B

turning to face either Flatty or Caesar. I used each brief occasion to tell them a little about my life.
    “I studied multiculturalism at Accidental College…”
    Left hook to liver.
    “My mama named me Misha, but the Hasids called me Moses…”
    Right jab to left kidney.
    “I’m starting a charity for the poorest kids, called Misha’s Children…”
    Hammer blow to liver.
    “Rouenna kissed the underside of my
khui
…”
    Kidneys, one-two punch.
    “I am a better American than most native-born Americans…”
    Roundabout to the spleen.
    “I went into analysis to work on my weight issues…”
    Open-fisted liver poke.
    “When I move back to New York, I think I’ll live in trendy Williamsburg…”
    There were curses and panting around me and the plebian stench of heavy exertion. I felt sad for these boys trapped in their stupid Stars and Stripes outfits, guarding the very people they should have hated the most. We would all die together in this stupid fucking city of frozen windowpanes and grotty courtyards. Our gravestones would be vandalized, our names covered with swastikas and bird shit, our mommies with their frying pans rotting away by our side. What was the point of it all? What was keeping us from the inevitable? “You should aim for the throat and spine,” I slurred to my assailants. “If you punch my hump, maybe I’ll die on the spot. What good is being alive, anyway, when it’s always at somebody’s mercy?”
    The guards slowly lowered themselves to the curb, and I slid down to join them, panting along with them out of camaraderie. They put their hands around my back, so that all three of us were linked. “Why do you want us to hurt you?” Flattop asked. “Do you take us for animals? We don’t like hurting people, no matter what you think.”
    “I have to go to America,” I said. “I’m in love with a beautiful girl from the Bronx.”
    “The famous one with the big ass?” Caesar asked.
    “No, her name is Rouenna Sales. She’s only famous on her
own
block. I’ve sent her a dozen electronic mails this week, and she hasn’t written back. She’s being chased by a poseur who has American citizenship. A writer.”
    “A good writer?” Caesar asked, taking out a flask and passing it to me.
    “No,” I said, taking a swig.
    “Well, then why are you worried? A smart girl wouldn’t go with a bad writer.”
    Flattop pressed me to him. “Don’t despair, brother,” he said. “We may have nothing in this country, but our women have kind, beautiful souls. They will love you even if you’re lazy or drunk or give them a thrashing now and then.”
    “Or even if you’re fat,” Caesar suggested. We took more swigs of the moonshine. As far as my new companions were concerned, I was no longer a parasitic Jew but someone to be trusted. An alcoholic.
    “I love Russia in my own way,” I blurted out. “If only I could do something for this country without looking like an asshole.”
    “You said something about Misha’s Children,” Flatty reminded me.
    “How can I mend young hearts when my own is broken? My dear papa was recently taken away from me. They blew him up on the Palace Bridge.”
    “Very sad,” Caesar said. “My father was just run over by a bread truck.”
    “Mine fell out of a window last year,” Flattop said. “It was only the second story, but he fell on his head. Kaput.” We each made a deep mourning sound with the combination of our noses, throats, and lips, as if we were tragically sucking noodles out of an iron bowl. The sound traveled slowly down the street, stopping at every door on the way and secretly adding to each household’s despair.
    “We should get up,” I said. “I should leave you be. What if one of your American masters came walking down the street? They would fire you.”
    “Let them all go to the devil,” Caesar said. “We’re talking to our brother here. We would die for our brother.”
    “We’re already so ashamed of ourselves to be wearing