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***NOTE: Dialogue in italics is spoken in Russian!
Murray Bauman never celebrated the Fourth of July. As a naive child, possibly, but nothing memorable tied to the holiday seemed to stick with him into adulthood. As Murray grew into his teenage years and developed that staunchly opinionated and free-thinking mind of his, he denounced the holiday altogether. He hated the government, and the government hated him, so why celebrate the founding of a corrupt country? That was his logic anyway, and he stuck by that motto for years to come. In Mr. Bauman’s humblest opinion? July 4th was asinine, and he would not be caught dead commemorating anything on that date.
But something changed. On the evening of the 4th, 1986. July.
Murray had woken up sick, head pounding with an insane pressure on his heavy eyes. He shuffled into his kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Some sort of pick-me-up. Black, bitter and unsweet. Following his regular routine, the yawning man sifted through his junk drawer to find something to write with, all while waiting for his morning brew. Murray uncapped a marker he spotted among the mess and used it to check off the previous day on his calendar. His hand hovered over the paper before he pulled it away. Murray stared back at the current date with contempt. God dammit.
It had really been a year, hadn't it?
He swallowed hard and shook off the feeling. Upon sitting him his recliner, that sick feeling intensified. Murray realized he didn't even want coffee anymore. He felt nauseated, like there was a deep pit in his stomach. Soon enough, he abandoned the cup on the table beside him and buried his face into his hands. He was losing it;he was sure of it. Of all the crazy shit he endured this year, demonic horrors, a plane crash, and a Russian gulag, that damn carnival was the one memory returning to haunt him. Murray inhaled sharply before sinking back into the chair’s cushions with a deep sigh. His hands fell from his face, and he looked straight forward at the couch in front of him.
There it was, sitting on the worn faux leather, staring back at him with giant eyes and a wild, beaked smile. It was colored a patriotic red, white, and vibrant blue. Woody Woodpecker. That fucking bird. He could hear that mocking laugh in his head.
"Don't look at me like that, Smirnoff."
The stuffed bird sat undisturbed, unmoving, and unblinking. It wasn't sentient; Murray knew that.
It looked exactly like it had when Alexei had won it, only there was a small hole pierced through its middle area. Murray retrieved the woodpecker following Alexei's death. It sat with him in his living room. He even talked to it…on occasion. Mostly when he was drunk. Sometimes when he was lonely. He was lonely a lot.
"Stop it."
Murray's voice was tired and stern. He was arguing with a mute, plush, cartoon bird. If he wasn't crazy before, he definitely was now. The aging man reluctantly got out of his seat and staggered over to the bird. In one swift move, he picked it up by the beak and tossed it into the hall, out of view. He didn't want to be reminded of anything today. He wanted to enjoy his morning. Now that those eyes weren't staring into his soul, he could finally sit and drink his coffee peacefully.
After brooding in the living room for some time, taking in the silence and lack of company, Murray stretched and decided it was about time for a real drink, preferably something that burned when it went down. If he was going to sit and commiserate to the static sound of his tv, he’d like to at least feel somewhat numb first. His coffee had gone ice cold and stale. But. He kept a bottle of vodka on his nightstand. That would do the trick. He figured could finish the last few remaining sips of his bedside stash, then move on to his prize stock in the pantry. Lord knows he’d need it.
Only, on the way to his bedroom, Murray found himself faltering before he could enter the hallway. Woody was splayed out on the floor, its head tilted toward him. Its stupid expression burned holes into Murray's skin. Murray didn’t see Woody, though…In place of the bird, an image of Alexei’s lifeless body flashed in the troubled man’s mind. Alexei looked just as the woodpecker did: slumped over, breathless, pleading almost. And in Murray’s mind, it was all his fault that he had become that way.
“God dammit!”
Murray raised his voice, muttering swears. He was all alone in the warehouse, so it wasn’t like he had anyone to disturb. Fixing his wrong, Murray marched over and picked the bird up, dusting it off frantically, and straightening its body. His fingers traced the bullet hole. His friend was still wounded. Fucking hell, he still had the scar. How could he have let this slide for so long?
“C’mon..let’s fix you up.”
After stumbling back into the kitchen and rummaging through his cabinets and drawers again,
Murray produced a long threaded needle. He sat the stuffed animal upright and began to put his piss poor stitching skills to work. Before he pierced the fabric, Murray made sure to push any spilled cotton (a vital organ) back in. Bits of red dyed the fabric in certain spots. The sight of it made Murray’s eyebrows twitch. As he began to stitch the bird up, he made mindless conversation in Russian.
“I am here, comrade. I see you.”
Murray huffed as he worked. It was difficult to sew with such trembling hands. The stitches were far from perfect and somewhat lopsided in areas. The wound had carried over onto the backside of the toy too, and once Murray patched up the front, he had to repeat his procedure once more.
“You’re a fine American, Alexei. Brave American man. You’ve pledged your alliance…The finest men die heroes here.”
Murray harbored an immense guilt when it came to Alexei’s passing. He felt responsible in a way. He beat himself up over the fact that he should have never let Alexei out of his sight.
Murray was supposed to be a guide, a translator, an ally. All Alexei wanted was a better life and Murray believed he played a part in crushing that dream, albeit unintentionally.
Woody Woodpecker’s chest was all closed up. It now had two small, front and back ‘scarred” over bullet wounds. The stitching was almost invisible from far away. Christ. This should have been Alexei getting bandaged up. The real, living, in the flesh man, not a stupid cartoon character. He should be conversing with Murray, two healed scars hidden under his shirt, a coffee cup in hand. He should be alive, breathing, and soaking in all those American novelties he enjoyed so much. Murray sighed, deep and exhausted.
“You wanna do something, comrade?” Alexei died alone. Murray wanted to fix that. He needed to fix that.
“Let’s get out of here.” Murray didn’t even bother cleaning himself up before he left home base. He fixed his glasses, held Woody Woodpecker tight under his arm, and pulled his van keys from their hook, narrowly remembering to slip on a pair of house shoes before leaving.
Today was Alexei’s day. Murray wasn’t a spiritual man, but in the slight chance that his friend was still connected to him (and mostly to ease his conscience), he was going to bring him out into the world to explore.
Murray’s first stop was the gas station a little way down the road. The one that sold those diabetically sweet slurpees Alexei loved so much. A bell rang as he opened the door and the clerk immediately eyed him up. Murray was some middle-aged bald geezer in a stained white undershirt &
house robe, holding a giant Woody Woodpecker carnival prize. Still. Murray hardly acknowledged anyone in the store and instead made a beeline to the drink machines. The man sounded like a mental case, rambling and talking to no one, in a foreign language that sounded like Klingon to those around him. All eyes were on him, but Murray’s focus was on getting that damn cherry slush.
Keeping Woody close to him, he took two cups of the largest size from their stand.
“What do you smoke, Smirnoff? Soviet-issued trash?”
Murray laughed to himself as he popped the lids onto the cups.
“American cowboys, they are always puffing on Marlboros. Always have a mustache hanging over the filter in the advertisements. That’s what you need.”
Murray filled each up to the brim, making sure to get his money’s worth of cherry goodness. He even let it spill out of the lid a little. The cups were so big, it became difficult to carry both slurpees in one hand and the bird in the other. Somehow he managed and carefully balanced it all before setting the drinks on the front counter.
“Um, will that be all, sir…?” The young clerk questioned him hesitantly before punching in the prices on the register.
“Two of these also…Like the cowboys, right?” Murray stifled a smile and pulled two packs of Marlboro Light cigarettes from the check display.“Right…?”
The teenager didn’t smile back.
Murray sat Woody upright in the passenger seat as he drove. He wasn’t going home. He sipped his slurpee as he passed his driveway up; Alexei’s drink sat melting in the cup holder. Murray rambled to air during the entire ride, his eyes not even leaving the road. He told Alexei about everything he had missed: the Soviet’s failure in Hawkins, Hopper’s false death and incarceration, and his mayhem trip to Russia. He explained how Alexei would’ve gotten a kick out of how he and Joyce had weaseled their way into prison. How Alexei would have been such an asset. How perhaps they had flown over his home on the way there. And when he was done detailing his misadventures, Murray realized he had driven all the way into town. He was on the outskirts of Hawkins now. He slowed down to a rolling stop and, for the first time since he last started the car, he looked over into the seat adjacent. He was alone. He had no one.
Murray pulled over and killed the engine. He brought his hands to his face and melted into them. His cheeks were red hot, maybe from anger, grief, or perhaps from all that sugar. That sickness from earlier in the day washed over him again. It was hard to stop himself from sobbing now.
It surely was a sight: a grown man, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, weeping over a stuffed bird.
He cried. He hadn’t cried in what seemed like forever. All that guilt and embarrassment just came flooding over him. He was drowning in regret and pent-up sorrow.
“God dammit! I’m sorry… I’m sorry!” Murray swore, wiping at his face. His words were jumbled, his heart beat fast,
and he was stammering like a fool. He was looking upward now, through the windshield and into the dusky sky, not at the bird. An owl called out in the distance.
“I fucked up. You should be here. I should… I should be teaching you. You should be a goddamn citizen! Fuck, you should be soaking up the goddamn sun!” Alexei’s final months had been spent underground. He had barely any time to experience the warm summer sunshine. He had unknowingly watched the sunset for the last time on the drive to the fun fair…
Did Alexei have family? Russian loved ones to reconnect with? Did Alexei ever miss home? Did he even have a home?
When the sunset in Russia, did it look the same? When Alexei watched the sky grow dim for the final time, did he experience that sweet American dream?
Murray stayed on the side of the road until the sun bid the sky farewell. Till the moon was in full, glorious view. He sniffed and rubbed his irritated eyes, all red and puffy now. He had run out of tears.
“Alexei…”
Murray caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and couldn’t help but laugh. Jesus Christ, did he look like shit or what? He was a mess. Alexei would probably be laughing his ass off if he were here. Calling him all sorts of names. He had been bawling, like a big bald baby.
Before he could speak again, Murray was interrupted. There was a loud boom, followed by a faint whistling noise. Smoke shot up into the sky and spiraled upward. After a few seconds, the starless ether was illuminated by a burst of color. Fireworks, one after another. They followed behind in uniform. Red and blue, silver and gold. It was the first time Murray really found joy in witnessing such pyrotechnics. Its was beautiful. The bursts of color lit against the black haze…a glimmer of hope.
Murray breathed heavily; his mouth agape as he watched the show go off in the distance.
“Alexei, look at this.”
Murray felt clarity in this moment. He didn’t believe in a god, but he sure as hell believed this was something. Some kind of spiritual connection being sent to him. Maybe Alexei had been listening after all. Maybe he had found someplace safe, setting and resting in the Indiana skyline. A cowboy smoking in the American West. An owl gliding among the shimmering stars.
“Shit…C’mon, Smirnoff.”
Murray grabbed his stuffed passenger and opened the door. His eyes didn’t leave the sky as he walked around to the front of the van. He sat on the ground, the grass beneath him, with his back against the vehicle. Woody Woodpecker was sat beside him, its face turned up to gaze as well. The two of them had a perfect view. Murray pulled their cigarette packages out from his pocket, as well as his lighter. He sat Alexei’s pack on Woody’s lap and proceeded to light up a cigarette of his own.
He smoked all night with that damn bird, at least until the fireworks stopped. Murray couldn’t keep his mouth shut either. He talked and talked and talked, only this time he didn’t feel crazy at all.
He felt his comrade beside him. He heard every laugh and snide remark in that witty Russian voice…
When it was too late to be out anymore, Murray got up from his spot and left the woodpecker where it was sitting. He studied those giant eyes, that wild smile, and patriotic coloring. That unforgettable, iconic laugh sounded like a far-off echo.
He made his peace.
Murray backed up and out onto the road. As he drove, he watched that bird get smaller and smaller, until eventually, it turned to nothing. A blip, disappearing. One with the night. When he noticed it was no longer in his view, Murray exhaled. He had been holding his breath.
“Do Svidaniya, comrade…”