Sofia and Smoke Pit

Sofia and Smoke Pit

I had been in Kiev a few months when I finally found the bar that would become my salvation.  It was right off the Maidan Square and I called it Smoke Pit.  I had popped in there for a quick beer one afternoon after looking at rental apartments in the neighborhood just after I moved to town, but it didn’t catch me as any place I’d want to hang in.  During that first visit, it was crowded and in a basement with a low ceiling and everyone there was smoking, so the name Smoke Pit stuck in my mind as a reference point when I thought of the place.  I decided to check it out for  drink months later not realizing what the place would soon become for me.  It’s funny how random motivations open doors to life that would have easily remained closed, possibly forever, if events just went slightly in another direction.  This could be said about my entire experience in Kiev (and life in general) because I never imagined such a life even existed before moving there and it could also be said about this night, as I decided to stop there to avoid seeing a girl I had hooked up with at my usual place and this was the only other bar I knew.

Smoke Pit was small, dirty, poorly lit, even more poorly ventilated and, as mentioned, in a basement.  You had to maneuver down these steep narrow steps to enter.  Looking back, it’s amazing that I never fell down going in or out of the place.  It’s door was big and metal and its top hinge was always pulled out of the frame.  It was a bitch to open and close.  When you opened it, it screamed loud.  Everyone in the bar knew when someone was coming or going, but it depended on how smoky it was if you would be able to see who it was.  The place was a small box with a low ceiling.  It was gritty and the walls were covered with hand drawn portraits of people.  The paper of the portraits was weathered yellow from all the tobacco constantly languishing in the air.  They had a small bar that seated up to six people and then the room was packed with small tables and benches. 

The wife of the owner ran the place.  Her name was Sophia.  She was from Uzbekistan and had a few gold teeth.  Her black hair was short and she was from Korean descent.  She must have been in her late 20s and she always had positive energy.  Her looks were average, but her attitude more than made up for it.  Her English was substantial, not perfect, but enough to talk to and joke with.  We had a good relationship, but it wasn’t from anything I had done.  She mistakenly thought she knew me for a long time, years, and I found this out immediately when I got there this night.   

As I entered the place, Sophia was behind the bar serving customers and yelled in English, “HELLO!  Good to see you again!”  I soon found out that she always yelled “HELLO!” whenever anybody walked in, no matter who they were, where they were from or what language they spoke.  She also always yelled “SEE YOU TOMORROW!” whenever anybody left.

Despite her friendly welcome, I knew she couldn’t remember me from my one previous visit, as I didn’t remember her, but I played along and said “Hello” and sat at the small bar and ordered a beer.

When she gave me the beer, she said, “We going to new bar tonight.  You come with us?” 

“New bar??”  I said, confused that someone was being so friendly and familiar with me.  This usually didn’t happen anywhere I went.

“Yes, music tonight at new bar, we leave twenty minutes, you come, yes?”

“Uhh, I don’t know maybe, we’ll see.  I have to meet someone here.”  It was a bald-faced lie, but this is an instinctual thing to say when you cannot figure out what you’re getting into.  I had to comprehend and think over what was unfolding before me. 

“Ok, twenty minutes, we leave twenty minutes.”  She smiled, I saw the gold and she walked into the back room where the kitchen was.

I sat at the bar, drank my beer and thought about it.  I was planning on sitting there all night anyway, might as well check out a new scene I thought as I tried to convince myself to go.  I was still fairly new to Kiev and didn’t really know many places- or any people outside of the other bar I frequented, Karambol.  A little adventure couldn’t be a bad thing I told myself. 

After about 10 minutes she came out.  “We go now, you come?”

“Yeah, I’ll check it out.”  I slammed my beer, paid, and we all left.

Outside it had started snowing again.  It was quiet and beautiful.  We walked through the main square to the main road.  There were four of us.  Sophia, a guy named Ivan and his girl, a hot bleach-blonde named Natasha.  Sophia was the only one who could speak any English, and I could still barely speak any Russian, but that didn’t mean anything.  We were all “old” friends in Sophia’s eyes. 

“I no see you in long time.  Where you be?”  Sophia asked me as we made our way across the square.  I decided to tell her the truth.

“I think you mistake me for someone else.  I have only been to the bar once before and only recently moved to Kiev.”  I told her looking confused with a shrug and a smile.

“Hahaha, you joke me!  I know you.  I remember you!”  She laughed.  I decided the truth wasn’t worth the effort.

“Ok, well, thanks for inviting me along.  It’ll be nice to see something new.”

As we continued to the street, I found out we would have to get a car to take us to the new bar.  We hailed one at the main street and climbed in.  I wasn’t very familiar with the city outside of the center and had no idea where we were going or how far we had to go.  When we got there around twenty minutes later, I was totally lost and was regretting the decision to join along.  I was out of my element and comfort zone.  The new bar was in the middle of what appeared to be a residential neighborhood.  You couldn’t even tell that it was a bar from the outside; it looked like any other apartment building, which in fact, it was.  The entrance was in the back.  It was really dark back there as we made our way to the doorway.   

When we entered, the music was loud, jazz.  The place looked like an abandoned minimart that they didn’t bother cleaning with a bar thrown into the middle and a dance floor at one end.  It was nowhere near as smoky as Sophia’s place, but it was smoky nonetheless.  Old, dirty and smoky- these were common characteristics of pretty much all the bars in Kiev that weren’t high-end during these early days of independence.  

The problem with this place was the people there.  Families were everywhere.  Little kids dancing with old men and women.  It looked like a wedding or something must have just taken place.  Everyone was old and sitting with their husbands, wives, kids, parents.  I got a vodka tonic at the bar.  I figured I was stranded there for a while.  It was really snowing outside and I had no idea where I was or how I would find a ride home.  I decided to just wait it out; maybe I’d get lucky and Sophia would give me a ride back to her bar later.  Also, there were a few hot mothers lurking around, but no open seats anywhere, so I was forced to stand with my drink in hand.  The people I came with melted into the background immediately like tears in rain and I soon couldn’t locate any of them.  I drank quickly to compensate for the unfamiliar and new surroundings.  I soon lost track of how many vodka tonics I downed.

The next morning I awoke in my bed with a serious hangover.  I had no idea what happened or how I even got home.  The last thing I could remember was dancing with Ivan’s girl at the new bar with everyone surrounding us in a circle, clapping along and encouraging us as we spun in a circle holding each other.  I still don’t know anything else from that night, but from that time forward, I never questioned the idea that Sophia knew me for years, and she was always a happy, friendly face when I would come and drink at her bar, which was often.

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Another fun story about Kiev in the old days- An Afternoon in the Drunk Tank In Kyiv- can be found here:

https://libertinereflections.blogspot.com/2018/11/an-afternoon-in-drunk-tank-in-kyiv.html

Subscribe by Email: If you would like to receive an email notification when I post, please send an email to: libertinereflections@gmail.com with the word "Subscribe" in the subject line and I'll add you to the list.  Please share my blog with others- Thanks!

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Falling Down: A Pain Unseen

Falling Down: A Pain Unseen

“Double whiskey and a beer, please.”  Once again I’m in my favorite pub when I should be writing.  I like it here though; I can find peace and clarity. As usual, Darryl is perched at the far end of the bar.  Darryl’s a fat slob, but I respect his fortitude.  He’s here every day/night.  He cusses about how shitty his life and marriage are until he gets plowed enough to let depression overcome his angst.  If he’s having a really bad go of it, he’ll feel that need for a woman, but not his woman.  He’ll want something different.  So he usually then buys Lisa (or another one of the skanks that frequent the place) enough drinks to get her into it and they’ll leave together.  It’s not really a pick-up, a woman like Lisa will fuck you, suck you, shit on you- if that’s what you’re into- and all you have to do is buy her some drinks and throw her a little money at the end and she’ll be happy.  If you don’t want to pay for it, give her a sympathetic ear and let her tell you one of her tragedies.  Act like you care.  She’s just as lost as anyone else, and if the mood is right, she’ll give it away for that brief moment of having something real to hold on to instead of the loneliness.

Lisa will drink whiskey when given to her, but gin is the preferred means to fortify herself against the demons.  In this world of ours, we’re just trying to grind, scrape and claw our way through another day without killing someone, or ourselves.  You’ll find all types in this place, but when it comes to the women, they can usually be thrown into two categories: drunks and whores. But then again, you can say the same thing about the men.

“How about another round?”  I yell down to Paul, the barman, who seems to have forgotten about my end of the bar while he chats with Darryl.  As I shout, I notice the couple at the side table on my left are really going at it.  I’ve never been one to screw around in public.  What’s the point of showcasing intimacy to desperate strangers, especially in a place like this?

This is a drinkers’ bar.  Among other things, it could also be called a brothel, school, paradise, jail, torture, or church.  Take your pick.  For myself, the latter holds true, it’s more spiritual.

“How about another beer and whiskey my friend?”  I call out again while the jukebox is between songs and finally catch Paul’s attention.

After a while, I see that the couple to my left have stopped their make-out session and now seem to be upset with each other.  The girl is not saying a word.  She’s crying on the inside and the guy doesn’t care.  That’s how quick things can change in life.

After a few more rounds, it’s time to go.  I can feel the drunk coming on.  I go home hoping to get some words out on the page, but on the way out, I pick up a fifth of whiskey to-go from Paul.  Paul’s a fairly good guy and he only drinks when he wants to kill himself.  Therefore, he is drunk often.

Once in the friendly confines of my apartment with my family of roaches, I sit in front of my computer.  “What’s it going to be?...” I ask myself hoping for the right words to flash across my mind like a plane pulling a banner across the sky.  Of course, as soon as I’m finally feeling an immortal thought coming on, there’s a knock at the door. 

It’s Hank from across the hall.  He must’ve heard me come in and is looking for a break from his old lady.  He wants a drink.  Lucky for me, I’ve already dented my fifth pretty good, so the charity ward will not be in full swing tonight, but I’m happy to fill him up.  He’s just as screwed, and broken, as the rest of us.

“Hey man, what’s news?”  He says as he plops down in the lounger next to my desk.

“Nada….same old shit.”

“Where’s Wendy?”

“Gone, left about a week ago.”  Wendy was a girl I was hanging with until she found another guy with a little more luck than myself and bailed.  I was true to her and into it, but that doesn’t matter these days, it’s all about what you can give and honesty and loyalty aren’t considered to be of much value it seems.  I do feel that one day it’ll all come back to me.  What you give to the world, the world will eventually give you back.  While I cannot guarantee this, we all need something to give us hope and this is my crutch.

After about ten minutes, the whiskey is finished and Hank’s smoked two of my cigarettes.  He’s just sitting still now as the war rages on in his mind.  He’s also waiting, waiting to see if I’ll pull out another bottle.  Not today. 

After a while, the poor bastard gets up and leaves--- he doesn’t bother to say anything, not even a thanks.  In all honesty, that’s what I actually like about the guy.  He doesn’t fuck around with manufactured politeness.  If he has something to say, he says it, otherwise, he shuts up.  If humans didn’t have the ability to talk so much, life would be a lot easier.

I wake up, the sun has risen, but it’s cloudy and the light is stale.  I still haven’t written anything.  I piss and then go to the kitchen.  I pour myself a drink, light a smoke and stare out my window, as I contemplate getting myself through another day.  A little boy walking with a little girl come into view.  They start across the street toward the park.  It’s probably his little sister.  They’re small and clean, and happy looking.  About halfway across the street the boy spots some ducks, gets excited and runs ahead.  The girl tries to follow and catch-up to him, but trips on the curb and falls on her face.  Hard.  The boy doesn’t even notice because he’s chasing the ducks around, trying to get them to fly.  The girl, about to cry, looks around for sympathy, but there is no one there to give it, so she doesn't make a fuss.  She catches up to her brother as the ducks take flight and the kids continue into the park.  I stand at the window, imagining her falling again and again and again- all the while not feeling any pain because no one cares to notice.  Maybe today will be a good day.

I drain my glass and refill it.

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An Afternoon in the Drunk Tank in Kyiv-

An Afternoon in the Drunk Tank in Kyiv-

Within a few minutes we pulled up to a police station.  We got out of the car and they brought me in.  We went through a few rooms with cops everywhere and came up to a window.  The cop behind the glass asked for my passport.  I gave it over and he started leafing through it.  Since I was entering a new, previously unknown, phase of police harassment, I decided to call Polina, our office manager.  I wasn’t in a hurry or too worried, but I didn’t want to get lost in the bureaucracy of a police station in northern Kiev without anyone knowing where I was.  I told the police to wait a minute and made a call on my cell phone.  Polina answered almost immediately, but with a voice that betrayed the fact that she didn’t want to be bothered by me once again over a weekend.  We spoke in English, which the cops couldn’t understand at all. 

“Hi Michael.”

“Hi Polina.  I think I may have a small problem.  I’m at a police station in Podil and the cops just took my passport.”

“YOU’RE AT POLICE STATION!  OH MY GOD- WHAT HAPPENING?”  

Well, that clearly got her attention. 

“Please don’t worry, everything is fine.  They are just harassing me for a bribe that I won’t pay.  Maybe you can talk to them and tell them I work for a Ukrainian company and that I’m supposed to be here?”

“OH YES, OH MY GOD.  PUT THE PHONE TO THEM.”  I felt a warmth rising inside me that she cared so much about me.  Polina earned some good points with me because of this reaction. 

“Polina, please relax.  Everything is fine.  I told you in the office that this happens to me all the time here.  It’s because of my skin color.  You know as well as I do that my papers are in order.  Here’s the cop.  Don’t be nervous, just tell this guy that I work for the bank and I am supposed to be here.  Please breathe and be calm.”  I heard her take a deep breath.

“Ok Michael.”

I handed the phone under the glass to the copper.  He took it and they had a conversation.  A few minutes went by and then he hung up the phone and handed it back.  I was about to call her to see what the hell was going on when the cop who spoke with Polina started talking to the cops that brought me in.  I didn’t understand it, but they did.  They immediately brought me to a back room. 

Once there, they opened a green wooden door with a fogged out glass pane in it and pushed me into a dark room.  The door immediately shut and the lock turned behind me.  I turned on my phone to make a call, but I had lost the signal.  Bastards- I thought to myself. 

I looked around the room.  It was a holding cell about six feet wide and eight feet long.  There was a small bench that ran around the perimeter of the room for people to sit on.  The room had four other people in there with me.  All of them looked homeless and drunk.  All but one of them were passed out.  It smelled of terrible body odor mixed with urine, vomit and feces.  The holding cell was as dirty as my fellow inmates.  The only light was what made it through the fogged out glass in the door, which was also covered in a thick layer of filth.  Needless to say, it was pretty dark in there. 

After a few minutes, my eyes adjusted and I could see pretty well.  I sat down on the bench near the door.  This was before mobile phones had flashlights or anything, so I just sat there and thought about what was happening to me, the room itself, the foul stench and the people I was now surrounded by.  I also wondered if there were roaches in there with us.  There had to be.  All the people looked broken, tired and lost.  The one other guy who was awake immediately came over and sat next to me.  He was very close and his aroma of body odor, piss and vomit overpowered the general smell of the place.  It wasn’t very pleasant. 

He leaned on me, put his hand on my shoulder and said something in slurred, heavily accented Russian.  I had no idea what he said, but I looked him straight in the eyes.  He was dark skinned like me, most probably from Georgia or the Caucus.  I felt for him and his predicament.  These fellows were the underside of society.  The ones that embraced alcoholism to get through the economic hardship and racism that constantly confronted them amid the chaos of the social and economic transition that was taking pace all around them.    

“I don’t speak Russia very good.”  I said to him in my Russian.

He held my gaze and repeated slowly, “Yes, yes. What happened?  Why are you here?”

“Police.  They want my money.  I will not pay them.”  I replied in my broken Russian.  He smiled and shook his head up and down.

“We have the same problem.”

“I don’t think so, but who knows.”  Was all I could say.  At this point he was leaning into me with his hand on my shoulder.  The disposable 35mm camera I had in my coat pocket was on his side, so he was pushing it into my upper kidney.  This gave me an idea.  I pushed him off me, gently of course, and took out the camera.  It had a flash on it, so I turned it on and waited for the light to turn orange to indicate that it was ready.  How great it would be to document this experience with some photos I thought.  It was good luck that I brought this camera with me this morning.  I put my arm around the bum next to me, held the camera away at arms length, put on a big toothy smile and took the shot.  The flash burst out like lightening.  I rolled it to the next frame, waited for the flash and then took another of my new friend and me.  Then I took one of the two guys passed out directly in front of me.  Each time the room erupted in light and now everyone was awake and staring at me.  I was laughing and having fun.  My friend to my right was also loving it.  I took a shot of him laughing.  I guess that was too much for the cops though, as they noticed the flash going off and after the last one, a cop opened the door with a scowl demanding to know what was going on.

“Photos.  I’m just doing some photos.”  I said meekly pointing to my camera.  I didn’t know the word for taking photos, so I used doing, which could maybe be translated as making I thought.  The cop wasn’t happy.  All the bums were enjoying this thoroughly though and with the door opened I could see that none of them had many teeth and they really were totally filthy.  My heart felt for them again.  The cop’s didn’t.  He yelled at everyone to shut up and be quiet.  He took my camera and shut the door forcibly.  

“Whores!” my bum said to me referring to the cops. 

“Da, it fucked up (pizdyets).”  I said in agreement.  I had recently learned some bad words in Russian and this seemed like the right place to try them out in conversation for the first time.  My bum loved it- he laughed and again put his arm on my shoulder in an open display of camaraderie. 

After another ten or twenty minutes, the door opened again and the cop motioned for me to get up and follow him.  I shook the hand of the guy next to me and wished him luck and then got up and started walking out of the holding cell while saying “goodbye” and waving to the others.  The cop looked quite confused by this display of friendship and respect for my fellow prisoners.  Once out of the cell, he locked the door, handed me my camera and I followed him back to the front area where the guy at the window had taken my passport earlier.

Once there I saw Yuri, our head of research.  My heart sunk.  I had no idea Polina would make this a five alarm fire.  Yuri looked really nervous and concerned, but once I spoke to him I realized it was just a general fear of his of dealing with the corrupt police.  I went to the window, the guy behind it handed my passport back and we were free to go. 

I asked Yuri what happened.  He said that the cops told Polina that someone from my office had to come get me and since my boss was back in Prague for the weekend, she called him.  He also said that he had to pay forty Hrvnyas (UAH 40) as a fine.  That equaled about $20 and I flipped out. 

“A fine for what?  I didn’t do anything wrong!”  I said with shock and anger.

“Michael, it's forty Hrvnyas.  It’s nothing.  This is how the country works.”

“It’s not right and I didn’t want to pay them anything- that’s why I got arrested in the first place- I didn’t do anything wrong!” 

“The police will use it to buy vodka and cigarettes.  It’s the way it is.”  And with that, Yuri was done with this topic and didn’t want to talk about it.  He wanted to go back to his family and day off.  I gave him the UAH 40 as we walked to his car.  He offered me a ride, but I didn’t want to hassle him and told him I would rather walk.  He insisted on taking me home fearing I would get in trouble again.  I didn’t want to make a scene and who knows, maybe the original police that hassled me were still patrolling the neighborhood, so I got into his car to avoid a confrontation.

Once back at my apartment, we said goodbye and I apologized again for bothering him on a Sunday.  He drove off.  When I was back in the friendly confines of my apartment I was still upset that Yuri didn’t fight the fine, but it was too late now.  I opened a bottle of wine and kicked back on my couch to digest this latest run in with the Kiev police.

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Hey Readers!  Want another tale from Ukraine in the early days?   Here you go!  

https://libertinereflections.blogspot.com/2017/12/the-benefits-of-having-positive.html

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