Or, how a photo turns dream into nightmare (but that’s in Part 2)
A photographer flits from table to table at a high-profile Valentine’s Day dinner event in Kyiv.
Look this way, over here, over here, he keeps yapping at guests, smile, move closer together, smile, that’s it, smile, smile – beautiful, great, excellent, that’s right, one more, aaaaand one more, aaaaaand one last one, aaaaand…
Thinking to himself, Formulaic Greek 404, also known as Enrikki Soiree, among a number of other sexually charged given names, titles and aliases, asks, Hey, when the fuck is that dick brain going to come to our table. How are we any worse than any of the other assholes here?
Thinking further: I can’t believe it. This country’s full of racists. I look around and I’m shocked at the expat community. Why doesn’t anyone here have a black girlfriend? I’d have one for sure, but every time I go to a bar in this town, I can’t find any. It’s like this country is purposefully filled with white women, which almost makes it racist in itself, and as it turns out, it is, so what can I do about it? As a result, I end up with white Ukrainian girls, like the one sitting next to me. Hey, at least I try. But the rest of these filthy scum dogs make no effort at all. Fucking bunch of disgusting racists. I bet they even use the word ‘nigger’ privately in their heads, or maybe even say it amongst themselves, in whispers like, as a joke. But there’s nothing funny about it. Some of these motherfuckers even voted for Romney as a vote against Obama. Others didn’t vote at all, because they didn’t like Romney, but they didn’t want to give their vote to a black president. Everywhere I fucking look, it’s, young white girl, young white girl, young white girl. Yeah, sure, it’s easy to say, well, Rico, if you want a black girl so bad in some other country outside the Tri-State area, why don’t you go to Africa, and I would, except the way things worked out, see, I… when I got here I knew I couldn’t leave and that I was predestined to fill gaping needs in this place with my Stately School of English Languages, among other things. Hey, where the fuck is that photographer? Are we any worse than –
Um, excuse me, sir? You’re not by any chance Richard So-So-So-Sooooorro? Um, of the Golden Rule, or is that the Silver Spoon, School of Modern English Style… um…
That’s Enrikki, or Rico, Soiree, and it’s the Stately School of English Languages.
Wow, I thought it was you! My name is Zippy Zamazda, I’m from the, uh, Ukrainian Diaspora, and I was actually hesitant to come over to introduce myself, but my wife here insisted I try because it couldn’t hurt and so what’s the big deal if I made a mistake, or even if it is you and you don’t want to be bothered, she said there’s still nothing wrong with making a move like that at an event like this, because that’s what it’s all about, you know, networking, and so I would just say hello and introduce myself, but then later, if I ever saw you again, I’d already have the advantage of having made your acquaintance, and, and, uh, if you didn’t find it at all off-putting, you’d be likely to remember me and maybe even have a good impression and then, you know, maybe we could, um –
Oh, that’s quite all right… Zippy, did you say your name was? Hell, why don’t you just sit right here behind our table? There’s plenty of room, and –
Oh, really, Mr. Soiree – gee, that’s great! Thank you, thank you very much! What an honor! I never thought –
Oh, not at all; don’t mention it. So, Zippy, aside from being from the Diaspora, what do you do?
Oh, well, I’m the former chief editor of the Kyiv Poster… um… and I’ve also worked as a political analyst for a top investment bank here, and, um… I write commentary for a variety of journals and other publications, about, um, well, I’m a Ukraine expert, and, uh –
Yes, yes, now I remember… I’ve actually heard of you, and –
You have?! Wow!
Yes, and I’ll say it’s also quite the honor to have you at my table!
It is?!
Yes! In fact, I’m wondering if you’d be interested in…
Here, Zippy Zamazda immediately thinks – to wit, correctly – Hey, this Soiree is about to offer me a job…!!!
But finally, the photographer comes around to their table – Hey, all you great people, look over here and smile, smile, smile! That’s right, that’s right, now move closer together, that’s right, make it look like you’ve just been engaging in a friendly and fun conversation when I interrupted you, and you’re turning to me just for a second, that’s right, that’s right, there goes one, and another, and another – very good, excellent, excellent! – and you’re sort of continuing what you were up to while looking at me for just the smallest fraction of a second before going back to – yes, yes, that’s right, that’s it, that’s it, and there’s one, and one more, and there, and there, and… okay, that should do it. Thanks, you people.
Hey, Soiree asks, who do you work for?
Oh, ah, What If magazine. Hey, thanks a lot, but I got to move on. See ya!
Hey, hey, wait a second – What If – that’s great, that’s just fantastic, Soiree says. I’ve always wanted to get in that magazine. Hey, this is great! Hey, fella, what do you say you make an effort to get the best shot of us into your wonderful publication?
Sure, I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee anything. Just write down the names of the guests at your table and give them to me when you get the chance, and I’ll do my best with the editor to –
Saaay, Soiree says, that’s great!!! That’s all we’re asking. Just try, and –
Sure, sure, says the photographer, I’ll try. Got to go now, got to go…
Wow, that’s great if we can get into What If magazine, says a flash-stricken Zippy Zamazda, squeezing his wife’s hand hopefully.
Yeah, wouldn’t that be something, says Soiree, mirroring Zamazda and squeezing the hand of his date for the evening, the beautiful white Ukrainian girl one-third his age.
Continued in Part 2
Filed by Jack Step, April 3, 2013