Yuri lived on 34th Street, on one of the poorer parts of the avenue. He was well-liked by his neighbors and he, for the most part, thought they were decent. He could go outside and point to the floors of the cookie-cutter, red-brick apartments on his block and name their hard-working, impoverished residents by the window. When he’d go out for a smoke, he’d lean against the rusting rail of the stoop to his shitty apartment and close his eyes extra hard as he went in for a deep pull. Midway into the pull, sometimes, he’d startle himself and his eyes would open wide, as though he was scared of something he had just seen in the darkness of his lids. He wouldn’t close them again for the whole duration of that cigarette, not even once to blink. His eyes would just drift back to those windows, the names of those tenants floating through his head so nothing else would.

Yuri was an immigrant from an obscure country, so he’d tell people he was from Russia to avoid their confused stares and probing questions. He spoke Russian, so that much was true. He was a racist, as most Soviet immigrants were, but that didn’t stop him from befriending the blacks who worked with him and lived on his block. After work or during breaks they’d meet up by the dumpsters and Yuri would smile, extend his “hey’s” and say their names louder and happier than an acquaintance ever would. He’d even go so far as to dap them up, and something would slip out of his hands and into theirs, and something would slip out their hands into his. He treated everyone the same with this, so he thought of himself as fairly egalitarian.

Yuri was a doctor, back in Russia, that is. He was a nurse here. He worked long, grueling hours at his job, and hated it. The ugly, dull, baby-blue color palette used for everything from the peeling walls to the cheap asbestos tiles. The industrial din and harsh, white light of the metal-halide lights overhead. The whining, decaying, dying old patients half-naked in their open robes. He despised it. He’d mutter curses in Russian to himself as he’d venture into room after room, flipping naked granny after naked granny, replacing their bed-pans, wiping their runny shit from their droopy asses with cold napkins, ripping the small, skin-colored patches[1] off of their shoulders and putting it into his pockets, checking down boxes on medical forms nobody ever read or cared about. The hospice patients would moan, and wince, and wail, and wheeze; some would babble on about politics, or the weather, or the same story about how their daughter never visited them, and Yuri would just kill a little piece of himself each time and smile and say “Yes, Mrs. O’Riley,” or “That’s true, Mrs. Petrovna” or “That’s sad, Mrs. Connor.” Not to mention how much of him would die with all the pleasantries. He felt like their servant, not just wiping their asses, but asking them permission to do it, too. It drove him mad, the obsession with obsequies that permeated everything in America:

“Is it alright if I move you, now, Mrs. Jaker?”

“Yes, Yuri.”

 “Is this temperature fine for you, Mrs. Carlton?”

“Cold! It’s too cold, Yuri!”

“Is it better now, Mrs. Carlton?” he’d say through gritted teeth.

“Yes, Yuri but watch your tone.”

It was demeaning, but Yuri tried not to think about. it “I’m doing this for my family,” he’d thought, and in many ways, he was. He had a wife and three kids – two boys and one girl. He had worked out a pretty sweet deal with his wife over the past 15 years. He’d pay for everything – the rent, the bills, the food, whatever – and she’d do everything in the home – the shopping, the cooking, the laundry. He’d sleep in a king-size bed in his cavern of a room, and she’d sleep on the couch which she’d make every night with a roll of thick, heavy blankets brought over from Russia. The kids slept together, three peas in a pod, but more like sardines in a can, on two beds in one room.

The kids knew things were weird, but Yuri was excellent at keeping up a façade. For a Jewish Soviet, he was pretty well-versed with the pork-barrel. Every Friday he’d scoop up Jordan – his youngest, favorite – and they’d both drive down to the drive-thru Burger King seven blocks away and order an inordinate amount of fast food. Burgers, Whoppers, wrapped in white paper, by the handful; fries, nuggets, onion rings by the dozen; ketchup packets, paper crowns, and stark-white napkins. He’d laugh to himself, probably out of sheer pride or vanity or some other empty emotion, at how happy his four-year old looked, paper crown cutting into his blonde curls of hair, bobbing as he jumped up and down at sheer joy from the thought of his kingly feast. He’d give Jor a bag to make him feel like he was helping, tell him to go sit in the passenger seat (“Yes, Jor the passenger seat – just don’t fucking tell your mother and duck if you see the cops.”), and then they’d drive back and burst open the door to the apartment like Conquistadors coming back to Spain, laden with bags and bags and brown paper bags of the riches of the New World. Mom would clap and cheer, Ian and Anna – the son, the daughter – would scream and squeal and scramble into the kitchen for plates and forks and knives, banging silverware and porcelain and glasses in their frenzy. Mom would fold open the tiny table in the living room, Pop would flick on the T.V., and the children would lay out the food. They’d sit on the couches, on the floors, on folding chairs that should’ve only ever been used outside, in silence, gorging their mouths and stuffing their minds, and feel, even if it was just for a brief, fleeting moment, like a family.

Yuri would lean-back, stretch out his hands as though reaching for the stars, and let out a long and loud yawn of primal satisfaction at the end of his meal. He’d stand up abruptly, jingle around for something in the pocket of his white-scrubs, and then excuse himself to the bathroom. Mom would turn sour, shake her head – half in anger, half in disappointment – and would tell her children to focus back on the T.V. It was cold this Friday; a chilly, brisk September night, with Rosh Oshana just around the corner, and, as usual, the heat was out. Jor climbed up onto his mother’s lap and she wrapped the two of them together in a blanket and bobbed back and forth, showering him with kisses. Yuri came out of the bathroom and Mom shouted at him to get out in Russian, for reasons Jor could not understand. As though he didn’t even hear the scream, as though he didn’t even feel the palatable hostility in the room just waiting to be broken by his presence, he sauntered into the living room, eyes glazed and glued to the window facing the trees outside, and cut through to his room, slamming the door behind him.

He slept like a baby that night, Yuri did. He considered himself a somewhat religious man, so he’d stumble out of bed and make a show of going into the living room in his holey tight-whiteys and donning his tefillin. Jor would be up early for the Animaniacs, his favorite cartoon. He’d nestle himself into the best seat on the couch, and try to fix his eyes on the screen and pretend like Pop wasn’t there. He knew what was coming – Yuri’s silent, yet dramatic lurch for the T.V. remote, a solemn click of the mute button, and then, upon seeing Jor’s furrowed brows and angry pout, an innocent “What, you’re just watching it for the pictures, anyway.” Jor wouldn’t argue with that. His father returned to his table and muttered the prayers under his breathe, breaking the fragile silence: “Uk-shar-tam l’ot al ya-de-cha, v’ha-yu l’to-ta-fot bein ei-ne-cha.” “You shall bind these words as a sign upon your arm, and they shall be for a reminder between your eyes...”

It was Rosh Hashanah, and that meant the house had to be as clean as a dilapidating tenement from the 20’s could be. Anna scrubbed the toilet and tub, changed out the moldy shower curtains for ones that would turn moldy in a month, and replaced the soaps and towels; Ian tidied the cardboard boxes of fresh and rotting fruits and vegetables strewn over the hallway (a habit, Mom would explain, she couldn’t give up from Russia), swept dead and alive cockroaches onto a dustpan and into the trash, and dusted every possible surface in the detskaya spal'nya (kids bedroom); Jor vacuumed, paused for compliments, and Windex’d the mirrors and windows and glass panels of the garish China cabinet in the living room. They then each took turns showering, and, once cleansed, made an especial effort to wear a new piece of clothing for the New Year, and, once dressed, took out the bulky, plastic Lifetime table Jor got as a gift for his birthday and set it out for dinner. Jor’s favorite relatives – his Aunt Manya, Uncle Robik, and two cousins, Shura and Sanya – from Staten Island were coming over, and his grandma from the apartment downstairs was coming up. Ian set nine place-settings – cramped for such a small living room – and dealt out orders for his other siblings to bring in food from the kitchen.

“Jor, go bring in the salad”

“Anna, get the apples and honey.”

“Jor. Salad. Now.”

Yuri heard this and got rather upset. He walked over to his first-born son and realized that this was a particularly good teaching moment. He bent down to be at Ian’s level, then smacked him clear across the face with his thick, heavy hand. Jor gasped at the whack and Anna put her hands up to her mouth as her eyes began to tear. There was a steady and fast thudding from the kitchen, like the sound of machine gun fire, as Mom’s knife clamored against the chopping board.

“Nobody commands anybody in this house. Except for me. Got it?”

Ian trembled and avoided eye contact with the father he hated, no, despised, so much. He didn’t want Yuri to see his tears. He didn’t want Yuri to see him. He didn’t want Yuri to do anything. Ian nodded out of necessity, then bolted into the squeaky clean detskaya spal'nya and cried his heart out onto his pillow. Yuri shook his head in disgust when he heard the muffled weeping coming from the room – “God,” he thought, “I’m raising a sissy.” The door bell rang – it was Robik, Manya, Shura, and Sanya. A sadistic vein in Yuri’s temple pulsed.

“Ian, go answer the door. Now,” he roared, with a ferocity that was not to be questioned.

Ian reluctantly, languidly, as though his body was a rag doll barely animated with life, dragged himself from the bed and appeared before his father once again in the living room. Pop grabbed his hair and forced him to look up and make eye contact.

“Listen to me: before you go open that door, go to the bathroom and wash off your fucking tears. I don’t want your Aunt Manya, Uncle Robik, and cousins Shura and Sanya thinking they’re related to some fucking girl-man. Got it?” He gave Ian a little playful slap on the cheek to home in his point.

Ian nodded and his cheeks even flushed a little bit. He was embarrassed – his father was right, if Sanya had seen him like this, he’d definitely think he was a girl. He marched off to the bathroom, passing the kitchen on the way, exchanging a fleeting glance with Mom. The machine gun fire stopped, and she peeped her head into the living room and saw her husband standing proud and smug and content with his parenting and her two children cowering in the corner, Anna wrapped around Jor as though her 5-foot body could somehow protect her little brother like a bullet-proof vest.

“You Bastard. You FUCKING bastard.” Mom ran over to Yuri to grab him by the collar when the doorbell rang again, this time twice in succession. Ian quickly finished up in the bathroom and went to unlock the door with a satisfying click. Mom knew she had about 10 seconds before they made it to the living room. She turned back to Yuri, with a mad look in her eyes, and whispered just loud enough for only him to hear: “If you ever touch MY fucking kids again, I will cut your fucking dick off.” Yuri looked nonplussed, his smile unwiped, and he straightened his collar as she let him go. He scoffed when she turned to her children in her sweet, sing-song voice:

“Ann – Jordan, Jorchik – go say hi to your cousins!”

He always thought she was such a good actress, flipping from angry to happy in a split second. She put on this whole play of being the perfect wife, the perfect stay-at-home mom – born to a good, wealthy family, college educated, takes care of the kids, does the dishes and laundry and cooks and cleans and doesn’t complain – when really, he knew she knew that she was just as fucked up as he was. He offered his brisk hellos to her relatives, then made his way to the bathroom. He slapped one, two, then three, then four, then five and then six of those little beige, skin-colored badges onto his shoulder. He looked in the mirror and saw one, two, then three, and then four, and then five and six of himself. He smiled. He unlocked the bathroom door, left the lights on because he forgot they were on, and stumbled and bounced off the hallway walls like a doped-up ping pong ball. He made his way to the kitchen – somehow, miraculously, no one had happened to see him from the living room – tapped on Mom’s shoulder, and then collapsed at her feet.

She gasped and dropped her knife.

“Yuri, Yuri – Yuri, Yuri – wake up, wake up!” Her skin was flushed, her voice was shaky, and her breathing was shallow and fast. She slapped him – no response. She slapped him – still no response. She took a kitchen towel, rolled it up, and whipped him across the face – still, no response. Jor came in. He was bored in the living room.

“Oh Jordan, Jordan baby thank god you’re here. Close the door to the kitchen for Mama, Jordan – be a good boy and close the kitchen door. Good boy, Jordan. Baby, do Mama a favor and fill up a glass, please baby.”

Jor nodded his head with the slowness and steadfastness typical of children – carefully thinking out their responses to every request – and was quite confused as to what was going on. He pulled a folding chair up to the sink, grabbed an empty glass – plastic, washed and reused from 7/11 – and filled it with cold, cold water. Mom was fanning Yuri with the kitchen towel and holding his head up so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit. Jor tugged on her shirt and presented her with the full glass, waiting for a compliment for a job well-done.

“Oh good, Jordan, thank you so much. You’re such a good boy, now stand back.”

Mom took the glass and splashed the cold, cold water on Yuri’s face. He gasped and Mom gasped, too. His mouth was agape, breathing heavily, and the water mixed with his drool to form a thick, cloudy drop hanging off his glistening, fat bottom lip. His eyes were wide open and he saw Jordan – his youngest, favorite – and he wanted to close them again so badly. He would’ve given anything in the world to close his eyes again, to be back where he once was – to be back in Bukhara, where he was a man, a doctor; a place where he knew the language, where he felt strong and powerful and beautiful and wanted, where he didn’t cower before foreigners and pretend to like his co-workers and neighbors and patients who were just as miserable as he was; a place where his father didn’t have Alzheimer’s and he didn’t have kids. He wanted to close his eyes so bad – he wished for it again and again with what very well could’ve been his last breather - but the drugs wouldn’t let him, and they kept them wide-open, glassy and dazed. His eyes would just drift back to his son – his beautiful, frail, fragile body, so tiny you could see the breathes expanding and deflating in his chest – and the memories of Bukhara would float through his head, so that nothing else could