Russian Love Story

It’s the next day. This day will be good. I’m wearing a new sweater. This one is gray and tight. It has a black curly octagon-like figure on the chest. It looks terrific. I’m on the stairways to the office. As usual, I do double-steps. It gets me into the rhythm. I’m ready to rumble and move fast.

I come into my office and there I am immediately shocked. Maria is crying. Quite loudly. She is almost uncontrollable. It’s only 09:30, but she is already crying. I don’t understand. What has happened? As soon as she sees me, she gets embarrassed and starts to hassle with paper towels and make-up. She is so confused. I ask: “Maria, why are you crying? What has happened?”

Maria: “I’m so sorry, Petr. I cannot help it. I was told that I cannot work here anymore. I don’t meet the Protocol 124P and I must leave the office by noon. I’m so devastated. Where will I get the money? How will I live?”

Now I’m twice as shocked and even confused. I have never heard of this Protocol 124P and cannot understand how can it be a cause for firing. Without asking from me? Me! Who dared to fire MY team member? This person will regret this day for the rest of his life! Once I find him! “Maria, please explain what has happened?” I try to be calm, but I’m upset, so I’m not calm.

Maria: “Tatiana Viktorovna came her 30 minutes ago and informed me about this. She brought the documents which outlined the deviation from the protocol. She said I have to leave today before lunch. She gave me papers to sign that relieve me of my duty. As there was no choice, I signed them and now I have no job.”

“You signed the papers?! Why did you do that? I’m your supervisor, only I can put forth such documents!” She is such a stupid cow. She is 21. She does not know anything. She is so timid that that fat old hag Tatiana was able to scare her into signing an end of employment document.

Maria: “Petr, what could I have done? She comes here, I’m working on my computer. She shows me the company’s Book of Conduct and informs me of the violation. She makes it really clear that this is more than enough for being fire. I start to cry. She says to stop crying. Calls me a baby and shoves me. I start to cry more. She puts the papers under my face and pushes a pen into my hand. “Sign,” she shouts sternly. I’m shaking, crying, confused. I thought I was doing a good job. I did not know about this protocol. I have been in confusion this whole time. I cannot question Tatiana, how can I? She is a Senior Manager of Office Management.”

“Of Office Management?!” I scream out loud in shock. How come? I thought she was in Quality Control. Since when has she moved there?

Maria: “This promotion was announced last week in an email, did you not read it?”

No, I did not f*****g read it! It was sent by that schwein-cock Dima. DIMA!! It’s him. He made this! Oh, this is not going to end here! I throw the suitcase that I had still in my hand onto the desk and rip off my coat and throw it on the chair and blast out of the office. Maria does not know what happened. I am furious. Has Dima lost his f*****g senses? I’m so upset. I go immediately to his office. It’s on the fifth floor. I take the steps and this time I f*****g run them up. I’m practically flying like Rocky. I’m also about to punch him just like Rocky.

I enter the fifth floor. The hallway is not long, about 30 meters. Dima’s office is at the end, on the right side. I stride towards it with menace. But quite soon I see that his door is closed. And there’s a paper on his door that says “Dmitry Sergeyevich Tretyakov is out of office. He will be back on Tuesday.” It’s f*****g Friday! Unbelievable. But this will not stop here. “Tatiana!” I yell. I know she is in the next office.

“Please explain! Please. What is going on?”

Tatiana: “What is going on with what, Petr? You must be more specific.” She does not look at me. She is sitting in her office chair. Her hair is tall, just like Alla Pugachova used to have it in the 80’s. Her body fits snuggly into the office chair as she is a large woman.

“Specific? Do not play the fool! I don’t need to be more specific, you can guess with your head what may have upset me?”

Tatiana swings her chair with slight difficulty towards me and looks up. She has an elated smirk on her face: “Oh Petr, this a civil company, you do not need to scream.”

As she says this, I feel like screaming five times louder. She tries to provoke me. I do all I can to not to explode completely. “You have fired my subordinate without telling me! You have fired Maria! How did you think I would act when you do such a thing without telling me? She has just learned to do work, she has only been here three months. Please, Tatiana, do me a favor and explain what is happening?”

Tatiana: “It’s all very simple,” she says. Her calmness has not changed. She is like bureaucrat from a Kafka novel that only knows her own role and revels in executing it flawlessly. “The Protocol 124P is quite straightforward. Your assistant did not meet the criteria specified in it.”

I explode: “Maria is not my assistant! She is a highly competent specialist who is a valuable member of my team. They don’t grow Maria’s on trees like they may the employees who work in Office Management!”

This one got under her skin and her left eye started to twitch. She is a simple but proud woman who takes her job very seriously. Especially since she was recently promoted by Dima and is now doing her utmost to impress her new boss. Her previous boss was a true harasser. He enjoyed creating mundane tasks for his team and clocking the execution time on them. A director of superior caliber.

Tatiana: “Now, Petr Vladimirovich! This is an important and confidential matter, and I’m under no obligation to tell you what is the violation your subordinate did. Only Mr. Tretyakov can divulge it. If I were you, I would rather focus under whose management did this specialist misbehave, and should there maybe be an inquiry into the manager’s conduct?”

Her loosely veiled threat took me by surprise. She is truly emboldened. Dima must have instructed her to act bullishly towards me. Dima the smelly badger.

I see the Book of Conduct on Tatiana’s desk and go after it with a flash-like speed. I enter her sacred workspace territory and she does not like it. She tries to grab it, but her puffed hands cannot move fast. I stuffed it under my armpit. “I will review this curious protocol of yours! I will get to the bottom of this. This is insanity. Tell your boss that.”

As I leave her office, I smash the door closed even though it had been open when I walked in. Let her marinate there a bit and get some exercise by moving her fat ass from the chair. I must plan now my next move. The bets have increased. Dima has not gone down but unleashed his own attack. Who does he think he is? His brainpower is on the level of a dog. And that is insulting to the dogs of all kind. I will not sleep until this matter is resolved. That is certain!

I'm leaving the office. It's 19:10 and it has been a long day. I walk to my car. It's snowing hard. The wind is hell. It whiplashes icy snowflakes against my face. A b***h. This is the worst part about St. Petersburg. Windy and cold winters. The snow turns everyone into stumbling hobbits and matryoshkas.

I want to get home. Fast. But of course, it's impossible. The roads are blocked with a******s sledding in slush. I jump into my car and rev it loudly. I don't care about the loud sound, it's good for everyone to know that Petr is coming. I switch on the headlights. And immediately hear a knock on the window of the right door. I have not yet cleared the snow from the car, so I cannot see who dares to knock against the window. I must get up to see who it is. My shiny black leather boots hit the snow and I erect myself to yell several blyat shouts at the pideras that knocked on the window. I turn towards the knocker and get immediately annoyed. It causes my testicles to clench. It's Dima the mother f****r. I cannot believe it!

Dima: "Petr, it is against the company's policy to make such a loud sound with your car. It makes people scared. I order you to stop doing it immediately. As THE Director of Office Management, I will write a report that on this day, you raised the decibel levels in the parking lot above 87. It's a rule, you know. It is in place because of my initiative, which I made to the Workplace Performance Committee five months ago. The committee deliberated the question thoroughly for two months, because of its importance. And after three revisions they approved it. I must say…"

I thought this was going to be a quick exchange, but I guess not. I have to deal with this yellow ant prick. He is rattling and rattling. I start moving towards him around my car. The snow is already deep, at least 30 centimeters. I make big awkward steps, trying to avoid the snow going into my boots. But I fail. "Goddammit!" I feel the coldness and immediate wetness through the socks. This f*****g f**k-face will now get it! With three more steps, I get near him. I'm very furious. He has been yapping this whole time.

Dima: "I must say that these kinds of regulations and rules are what keep this company running smoothly. It's MY job that ensures that, do you understand Petr? My job!"

I get close to him. Russian men don't have much personal space, but I make sure to be close enough that whatever personal space he has, it's violated. I'm 20 centimeters from him. We are the same height, so our faces see directly eye to eye. My closeness flusters him. He is confused and does not know what to say. I clearly breach the norms of respect between Directors and Managers. He is dumbfounded by my rudeness and cannot come with appropriate words. "Dima…" I say quietly. "It's no longer working hours. You are no longer a Director. I am no longer a Manager. Do you understand? Right here, on this parking lot, you are a man and I'm a man." A dull orange light glowed above from the street lamp. The snow made both of us squint and tuck our heads deep into the jackets like turtles. The scene was straight from the Max Payne movie. I felt intensity rising and adrenaline was pumping in my veins.

Dima was trying to find words to counter: "Petr, this is… How can you… Petr…"

"I see you knocked on my car. Why did you do that, Dima? Why did you knock on my car? Cannot you see that that is rude? If you come knocking on my car, where should I knock on you? Should I knock you in the spleen?" Dima was getting more confused. Normal person would have gotten a bit scared. But he is too dumb to get to that emotion this quickly. His mind is still traveling in the fog. I move forward towards him. There is no space between us. To not fall, Dima has to take a step back. And he tries, but there is now so much snow that it's difficult. He moves his other leg and still cannot find his balance. He stumbles backward, his back hits the snow, his suitcase falls from his hand. Now Dima gets angry and starts struggling himself up.

Dima: "Petr Vladimirovich! This is outrageous. Do you understand what you have done? This will not be forgotten!"

I still move towards him. My legs are spread shoulder width and I basically cover his knees with my body. He sees my shiny black boots. He sees the power of my thick thighs. Even men cannot overlook them. At least when looking from the ground up. It's now clear who is the boss - it's the one whose ass is NOT in the snow.

"No!" I say. "It's already forgotten. This never happened." I point with my finger into his face as he tries to get back up. "This has already been forgotten. You never knocked on my car window and this never happened. Do you understand, Dima?"

I stand for while on top of him, still legs wide. Adrenaline has pumped them and they are swollen. Dima does not know what to say. To me, that is enough.

I turn around and walk around my car and jump in the driver's seat. My socks are completely wet. But it's okay. It was worth it. Dima better know his place now. Or I will come knocking. Hahaha.

In my office, there is also another woman. My other subordinate. Our third team member. Why have I not mentioned her? Because it was not her time. Now it is.

She is Natasha. She is 37. Older than me. She has worked in the company for 10 years. She has had many bosses. But I’m so far the best. That’s what she has said. She really likes my ideas. Says that very few managers in the whole St. Petersburg could have such ideas. I, of course, know this myself. She does not need to say this to me. But Russians always say what’s on their minds. We don’t have a filter. Our emotions guide our lives. If we feel sad, mobile phones fly. If we feel happy, kisses for everyone.

Natasha is sick today. She has the flu. Again. She has the flu at least once a month. But because she is a patriotic Russian woman, she asks for sick leave only every second time. It’s the least she can do. I approve every second application. It’s not suitable to be sick that often. And the application process is also quite strict. I have made it properly organized. There is a form that has a place for a stamp. Only I have the stamp. The form is very simple, only seven items. But every time they bring it to me, I inspect it very thoroughly. I take 2 minutes. They stand in silence. Waiting. Staring at the wall or at their hands. They are nervous. They don’t know what I will do. Sometimes I ask: “Why are you sick again? I don’t need sick people here, I need good workers, and you are sick all the time.” At that moment, they usually start to shake a little bit. Their eyes start to puff up with pending tears. I feel strong. I feel manly. I get tingling in my stomach. The girls need to know who is the boss. I rarely listen to their response. I look at them in the face, I periodically check their bodies. They always dress very thickly, lots of clothes on, but I still like to see. And it really is my duty to analyze their form and figure. I check whether they are really sick or not.

I’m always sitting behind my desk when the application for sick leave is given forth. They often keep standing in front of my desk, even though a chair is available. It is more respectful that way. I like it. I could invite them to sit down, but it’s better for them to be standing. Just to know who is their boss. Yesterday, Natasha was putting in her sick leave application. I read the form slowly:

Family, First, Patronymic name: Petrovna Natalia Ivanovna

Age: 37

Position: Manager for Media Relations

Reason for sick leave: My throat hurts and I my nose is runny

The length of days of absence: 3

Number of sick days this year so far: 21

Urgent work tasks during the sick leave: Proofreading copywriter texts, approving stock photos, coordinating the M23 account

I read the lines over and over again, to fill the two minutes of silence. We are in my office alone, Maria has left one hour early today. She has a dentist appointment. Good for her, teeth are important. Natasha is still standing, as she should be.

“Natasha, Natasha... What is this again? Why?”

Natasha: “Petr, I’m sick. I have the flu. I want to work, but I cannot. My head is full of ruckus. My brain does not work. It’s awful. I must go home. I do very good work, but I cannot now. It’s terrible…”

She would go on for another 10 minutes, but I interrupt with a strict shout: “Last time! Do you understand? This will be your last sick leave this year! I cannot have an employee who is not here. I need a team. I need output. Not this. Come on, Natasha.”

She wants to answer, but I immediately get up, and she does not know what to say. I grab my coat in my hand and start moving towards the door. Right after I pass her, I turn around. Her upper body turns partially towards me. I breathe deeply several times without saying anything. She looks into my eyes, slightly in despair. “Natasha, you know that I’m a good boss,” I say this quietly. “I will give you this sick leave, but your work must be super high quality from this point forward.”

Natasha: “Yes, Petr, of course. I will do everything excellently. Thank you!” She is relieved. She wants to hug me, but I stop her initiative by saying: “Give me my stamp, it’s on my desk.” She turns around and leans over my desk. The curvature of her body is at a right angle, her brown wool dress is pressed tight against her butt and hips. She reaches for the stamp and gets back up. I take it from her hand without saying anything. I stamp the paper against the wall and give it back to her. She thanks me several more times. I leave. This is how a good boss acts. You can’t let employees go easily. They need to work for it. Natasha did a good job. I will reward her one day.

Maria: “The report is done.”

She says this in a timid voice. I sense the report has a 50 % chance of being as good as sushi fished from the Neva river. I don’t want to review it. My thoughts are racing from plump Nastya’s surprised face to Fedya’s models and to Dima’s stupid selfish ego. I’m not depressed. Russian’s are immune to depression. I’m melancholic.

“Yes… I’m… busy. No, well, how long is it? Can we do it in five minutes?”

Maria stands up from her chair, straightens her knee-length skirt by pulling it down with both hands and comes to my desk with the report. She puts a stack of printed PowerPoint pages on my desk and starts to explain the contents. She has a touch of pride in her voice because the sheer length of the report signifies a solid piece of work. In Russia, quantity beats quality every time.

Maria: “I gathered all the materials as you said. I have ad-media metrics, social reach, target audience demographics, direct survey responses, in-store interview, and preliminary sales indicators from the client. I’ve summarized the results on the first five pages with graphical charts that… <…will I make it in time to a corner store Perekrestok, the fridge is empty, not even beer there…> …on page 32 I have created a GANTT chart to explain the future planning of the project for the next phase of the campaign… <…I can’t believe Fedya is now working with hot models all day. That grease ball. I now see why he is in St. Petersburg. He needed a new city that does not know his reputation. He did not choose to come here. He had to come here. That hairball…> …and on page 76 I’ve listed all the sources for the materials used in the aggregate numbers that yield the result of 230,000 views for the landing page of the promo campaign… <…the perfume of Maria’s is clearly not top-shelf. She is now on my side of the desk, sideways to me. I’m sitting. She is standing, bent over the desk and working the papers. There is five centimeters of space between us. She does not feel awkwardness or tension. She has come here to work. Her turtle neck sweater is thick. So is the material of her skirt. Its color is black. She bought it from the market. She has worked on my team for three months. She’s average looking. She had good scores on her diploma. That’s why I hired her. I’m not thinking of having sex with her. At least not too often. It’s not a matter of planning. What happens, happens. I cannot be responsible…> …and that’s why the report's methodology is summarized here.”

She falls silent. There is no question at the end. I’m not sure what she wants to hear. That she did an excellent job? I’m pretty sure she has no idea what she wrote in the report. To fix it, I would have to review every page and probably remake the whole thing. She moves back to the other side of the desk and sits down in a chair. She looks straight into my eyes. I lean way back into my chair and tilt it back into 45-degree angle. My legs are spread wide. I out hale loudly and keep a short silence, searching for words: “Maria… good job. We… can present this to the project team tomorrow. You will do it.”

She gets tight. She has not given a presentation in our company yet. Her pulse starts to race and she is blushing. She looks even tighter into my eyes. Looking for some kind of crumb of help. “What’s the problem, Maria?” I lean forward, put my elbows on the desk and look directly at her. This raises her alert levels even higher. Her breathing is rapid, her chest rises and falls quickly. I can see it through her thick sweater. Her legs are pressed tightly against each other. She clenches her hands in her laps. I throw her a bone: “Make a seven slide summary of the report. Very short. You will have to 2-3 minutes. State just the facts. You know this topic best.” This was the motivational part. Now I continue with the classic Russian management style, the domination and humiliation of the subordinates. “Make sure to do a good job. I hired you to do a good job. If you do bad, I will have a new “Maria” here in your place next week. This is a top team. Only the best get to be here. Do you understand?”

Maria is at her peak emergency levels. She is like a little dog. She would jump very high right now. With a deep look of urgency in her eyes, she says: “Yes! Of course! I will do an excellent job.” She knows not to say too much. She can only make her situation worse.

I feel good now. I’m not at all melancholic anymore. Thank you, Maria. She is still in her chair. Waiting to be discharged. I’m extending the moment with silence. I run my fingers against the table, making a drumming sound. “You can go.” She hurriedly gets up, picks her report from my desk and hurries in front of her computer. I get a whiff of her budget class perfume. It empowers me. She is dependent on me. And this job. I have power. I’m a strong man.

Who is Maria? Is that what you want to know? Is she beautiful? Is she smart? I will tell you. Later. I can't do it now. I must run. It's almost lunch. And Fedya is about to come.

Fedya from Moscow. A car mechanic. Who now shoots photos. I'm not surprised. He was also shooting photos of all of his cars. The cars that he was repairing. He was always asking me "Petr, Petr, can I make photos of your car? Your car is the best, I must have photos of it."

I always said no. "Fedya, you will not take photos of my car. You can repair it, but no photos." I have no idea what he does with those photos. Maybe he sells them? Maybe he hides them? Maybe he does something which I cannot even imagine? I don't care.

But now he is shooting girls. I would say it's an upgrade. I go to the studio. It's on the fourth floor. I take the steps. I want to pump my legs. Thick thighs is power. You want to have legs that stretch out any pants. I'm wearing dark and slim straight slacks. They are the s**t in St. Petersburg. Slim pants and thick legs. It's a combo for girls' attention.

I take double steps in the stairwell. I like to have a full range of motion and I move faster that way. I must make it before lunch. The lunch is always 12:00 o'clock sharp. People become mindless YouTube-junkies when the clock hits noon. They're gossiping and eating ramen noodles and rice cookies. Women are. Men don't eat that crap.

I reach the fourth floor and open large double doors into the studio. These doors are way larger than what is necessary. This building used to be a Soviet military research facility. So everything must accommodate tanks and stuff like that.

"Who is this? Fedya?" I yell immediately to Fedya as I see him in the middle of the studio, all by himself. "Fedya the Mechanic, unbelievable." Fedya looks flabbergasted. His mind is not clicking very fast. He is a mechanic, after all. "Fedya, it's me, Petr. Don't look like an idiot. Or you will never have a chance to take photos of my car."

Fedya: "Petr, I don't believe it. I come here for a photoshoot, but I see Mr. Mustang. How are you, my friend? How is life? Are you married? Do you have kids?"

That's typical Fedya, asking more questions than anyone can answer and not even waiting for most of the answers, he just likes to fill the airwaves. To put him in place, I don't answer any of his questions but break his balls. That's what real men do. "Fedya, who has given you permission to shoot anything but cars? I don't see any cars here? You must be confused. You also ended up in the wrong city. You should be in Moscow."

Fedya starts to laugh. It has a repetitive high pitched rhythm. It's quite contagious.

Fedya: "Petr, you son a b***h. Come here and I will show what a car mechanic can do."

He grabs me in a tight hug and wrestles me a bit. It's brotherly love. Even though he is not my brother. I don't have brothers.

I'm trying to break his grip by grabbing his right shoulder, bringing my weight to left. At that moment, Nastya walks in, with three girls. They are the models. With clean stockings.

Nastya stops in her tracks and opens her mouth. Her head is turning from side to side and her horse mane hair is fluffing along. She is trying to understand what is happening in the studio and why I'm there. I never participate in the photoshoots. They take forever and are not as glamorous as one would think. Even if there are girls in stockings.

Nastya: "Petr, what are you doing here? What are you strangling Fedya? What is going on?" The girls are equally confused. And cold. They are only wearing tight tops and small black leather caps.

Fedya: "Anastasia Ivanovna, I'm ready to work. Petr, let go of me!" He shoves me. He has no more words to say to Nastya. He looks at me. I look at him and then at Nastya: "These photographers that you have Nastya, they are no good. I was testing his strength: Weak. No muscular build." I squeeze his neck with my left hand. He lets out squealing sound. "See, pure slothfulness." Fedya starts to laugh. Nastya starts to get annoyed. The girls are looking bored. But still beautiful.

Nastya: "I don't know what is going on but I have a deadline today for the photos, the girls are ready, Fedya, are you ready? Where is the car?"

Fedya: "The car is in the makeup. My assistant Sergey makes her look pretty. Five minutes, five minutes."

"Nastya," I say to her and walk towards her. "Keep your eyes on Fedya. He's one b*****d." I stop in front of Nastya. The girls are half a meter behind her. I don't look at them, but I know they are checking out my thick legs. Of course. How could they not to.

Nastya: "Petr, I don't know what you are talking about, you are making me late, and my project late. Girls, let's go."

I don't move. Nastya and the girls walk past me. They smell like vanilla and lavender. Much nicer than Nastya's pungent perfume. I turn around and check out their butts. Three gorgeous butts. Moving from side to side as they walk in high heels towards the set. Dark translucent stockings do more than enough justice for those wonderful peaches. My pants start to feel tighter.

I see that you may want to ask, why is this Dima such a s**t head. I will tell you. I will tell it to you like it is. And then you make a decision on why this “kind person” should not be breathing air.

Dima is a Director of Office Management. He tells everyone about it. That he is a director. But why is that? Because he has only tits on his mind. He is like a dog that is running after a bone. Where there is a bone, there is Dima. Except that instead of a bone, it’s tits. It doesn’t matter what kind.

Director Dima shows up to my office with a bunch of papers in his hand. He takes his time. He is a director. He often reminds people of his title: “As a director, I say we do THIS.” Yes, Dima, as a director, you can go suck my balls. Director of what? Was it that you are a Director of Office Management. What is that? Like a secretary position? You make sure the cleaning lady is on time? Very nice. How hard of a job is that? Do you manage? Do you need help? Can I help? To get you the f**k out of my office?

Of course, I don’ tell him that. That’s just in my head. It’s 09:05. I have a pryanik in my mouth. A thick Russian cookie-like delicacy, glazed with sugar. It’s delicious, but I cannot enjoy it. Dima is waving his hands because the office electricity bill is too expensive. He wants everyone to understand how important it is to save electricity. My eyes are half-dimmed. I could not care less. Maria is not looking up. She does not want to. If she makes eye contact with Dima, that could encourage him to make new advances on Maria. Dima’s suaveness is on level of Jabba the Hut. Which means that while he is talking to me, he constantly takes glimpses at Maria’s tits. She is 21. Of course. The only problem is that Dima’s glimpses are overly lengthy and blatantly obvious. He is like a dim-witted circus bear.

Because I’m only a manager, I have to listen to Dima. He is a director. It does not matter if he is a director of Cheburashkas. He is very important. According to himself. And to ensure that everyone knows this, he has created a dreadful reporting practice which every manager has to fill out.

-      “Is the number of trash cans adequate in your office?”

-      “How do you keep track of office supplies?”

-      “How many printer copies does your team make per month. Why?”

-      “Are your team members correctly using ergonomics in their work?”

These are examples of what he asks. There are 37 more. I fill this survey every month. It takes me 45 minutes. And for that whole time, I just think of how much I hate Dima.

Dima: “As a DIRECTOR, I say we do THIS!”

He says the same thing again but emphasizes his title with the volume of his voice. “Okey, okey, Dima, I understand that we must unplug phone charges when not in use.” That’s his topic for this morning. It’s clearly very important.

Dima: “No, you don’t understand. Electricity is expensive. Look, look!”

He sees that Maria’s phone is charging. He grabs it with his hands. The phone has a pink cover, with small bunny ears and lots of glimmering stickers of hearts. Maria looks up. She does not want Dima touching her phone. Neither would I.

Dima: “Look, Petr! This phone is using the company’s electricity. It’s morning, and it already needs to be charged. Maria, why is your phone charging in the morning?”

He turns fully into Maria’s direction. He puts his hands on his hips, even though he’s still gripping the phone in his right hand and papers in his left hand. He is into the power play. Authority. Superiority. It’s a fast lane to sex. That’s what going on through Dima’s mind.

Maria: “I’m… well, the battery was down and I’m charging it…”

Dima: “Down? What work have you done this morning that the battery is already down? You use your phone all night. You chat with your girlfriends on Telegram. It has no battery. And you come to the office in the morning and use the company's electricity to charge it? This is clearly a violation.”

Dima’s hands are waving as he talks and his voice get sterner. Maria’s face starts to get red as she is blushing. Her pulse quickens and veins on her neck begin to enlarge. Even though she is wearing a black turtleneck sweater, she feels vulnerable. She takes a glance at me, flabbergasted.

“Dima, nobody is stealing the company’s electricity. Relax.” I say that to Dima. He does not turn. He keeps staring at Maria. He keeps looking at her neck, where here alertness can be seen. He enjoys this. The power he has as an office manager is his heroine. He is addicted to it. He is a son of a b***h. “Dima!” I say again, now with annoyance. He still doesn’t say anything. But he puts Maria’s pink phone back down.

Dima: “Here’s the survey.”

He drops the papers that he had in his hands at my desk without looking. His eyes are still fixed on Maria.

Dima: “There’s also a survey for your team. Fill it by noon and bring to my office.”

He looks at me, finally. I don’t say anything.

Dima: “Good.”

And he leaves the office. Triumphantly.

Yes, I now must tell you about an a*****e. His name is Dima. Dmitry, for long. And he should not exist. Why? I will tell you later. Because right now, my thoughts are with Nastya. The plump one. You remember. She washes socks for girls. So that the girls can look pretty in front of the camera.

The thing with Nastya is that she is popping too much. She is like a popcorn in a microwave. Pop. Pop. Pop, pop, pop! All over the place, in all departments in the office.

Yes, I work in the office. I am a manager. A good manager. I tell my staff to stand, they ask how high. I tell them, not too high. Hah hahaha!

But how would I describe Nastya. Plumpness you already remember. She has darker hair, it fluffs like a horses mane. She wears lots of beige cardigan tops and sweaters. She smells nice; her perfume has peachy and woody notes with zingy acidity. When she pops by you in the hall, her scent lingers in the air like an echo.

"Nastya!" I yell. She just walked past my office and I want to talk to her. My staff is in the office. They don't react. They sit quietly at their computers. The computers are underpowered. But so is their brain, so there is no effect on their work.

"Nastya!" I yell again. She does not come into my office. She must have popped into somebody else's room. "God dammit" I exhale in frustration. Maria looks up at me. She is a Junior Manager. 21 years old. I look at her. She looks back down. At her slow computer.

The walls in this office are pale yellow. Just like the skin color of an anti-depressed chain smoker. Or that f**k Dima!! Hah hahha hahhaa!

"Nastya!!" I yell again as she walks again past my office, now into the opposite direction as before. Suddenly, her fluffy mane haired head pops into the door hole.

Nastya: "Petr! What?!" She yells at me. But not in an angry way. In a Russian way. Which mostly means affection. But it can also mean that I'm not afraid to kick your ass.

"Nastya, I yell at you three times, and you don't hear me," I say this in a monotonic voice. There is no emotional charge. Yet, the volume of my voice is loud. Maria looks up again.

Nastya: "Well, and so what? I have a photoshoot today, guests are coming in the afternoon, the book dealer is expecting from us the materials today. What do you want? I'm busy."

"Nastya, I just wanted to know what is the last name of that photographer? He was Fedya something? I know a photographer by that name from Moscow. Maybe he's my friend?"

Nastya: "His name is Fedor Raskovich. Do you know him?"

Unbelievable. Fedya was my car mechanic. And now he shoots photos? "No, I don't know him." I tell Nastya that. She does not need to know. With that, she turns around and leaves. She is wearing dark gray business pants with brown vertical stripes. They make her butt look slimmer. Not that I mind.

Yes, hello. This me, Petr. I’m from Russia, St. Petersburg. The most windy and cold city that a man of my stature could live in. I like it here. I have friends, I have a black leather jacket. And there are many attractions here. Like museums and art schools. 

Not everyone has been to St. Petersburg, but that is ok. Because after I tell you my story, you don’t need to come here. It will be a pure let down. No fun. Because you don’t know the streets. You don’t know the alleys. You don’t know a piece of meat from a piece of cabbage. 

“Okay, drive! Why? What? Where are you going, you dirt bag of a dog!” Sorry for that. I’m driving. The traffic is terrible in St. Petersburg. The streets have been made for horses. Not Skodas and Land Rovers. “Blyat!” This a*****e just drove in front of me. “Get out of here! Where is your brain!” Some people should be put to sleep. They are so stupid.

It’s breaking the morning with a correct breakfast that is the key to the best life. I personally eat blinis every morning. I make them with baking soda and aromatic sunflower seed oil. Some people don’t like the oil. But they can go by an Opel. I also add high fat sour cream and strawberry jam, and then I roll it into a nice thick cigar and eat it. The breakfast of tanks and machine guns right there. 

To get to work is what I’m doing now. It’s the last five kilometers of my commute. I live in an area called Kolyminskaya. It’s in the east of the City. A standard Russian district with no particulars. Just a replica of thousands similar districts thought the whole former Soviet Union. It’s a bliss, you know! Like a school uniform. Every one got the same. No stress. No peer pressure. Here, everyone lives in similar decrepit, mold-infested buildings. And we are happy. Not because of the buildings. But because other people have it equally bad. That is the ultimate achievement of the communism. 

I’m now taking my bag from the car. It’s the bag seat. In Russia, you never want to open the trunk of your car and then leave it unattended. It’s like a candy story for low lives. I park outside. This city was built on swamps and there’s practically no underground parking. 

“Hey, Nastya! Wait!” I run after Nastya. She’s a sweet girl. Plump a bit. She must enjoy blinis as well for breakfast. “Where are you going so fast?” She almost did not hold the door open for me. 

Nastya: “Petr, sorry! I’m so late. So late. Here, take this pouch.” 

She gives me a round pouch, size of an oblong water melon, that is not too heavy. It’s covered in brown paper. I have no idea what could it be. “What is this, Nastya?”

Nastya: “Stockings and leggings. I had them washed. We have a shooting today. Girls need them.”

Of course it’s a brown pouch of women’s socks. How could I not guess that. “Really. What shooting is today? Who is coming in?”

Nastya: “Fedya from Lestrovno. He’s an old friend of mine. He does excellent long lens photos. He has just moved back from Moscow and tries to find gigs in St. Pete.”

Is that so. Who is this Fedya guy? Have they had a fling together? A man with a camera in his hand knows his tricks. Often times the camera man forgets that he is not one a set anymore and instructs the girls he’s dating in the same manner. And the girls rarely object. Go figure. Masculine power. It’s what it’s all about.

“What time do you shoot?”

Nastya: “Right in the morning, at 10:30.”

Practically at the sunset. These creatives sure live by their own schedule.