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“God. Fucking. Damn it!” Dima shouts, paying no attention to random passers-by. Kitay-Gorod appears to be especially crowded tonight — on Friday night. “Guess who’s the world’s greatest fucking idiot!”
“We’re both,” Anthony replies grimly, with no sign of slowing down, so Dima has to speed up to keep up with his long legs.
“That’s ri-i-ight!” Dima drags tartly. “And do you know why?”
“‘Cause we didn’t book the table,” Anthony responds obediently.
“And who’s to blame?”
“You?”
“Hell no. Actually, that’s you who called me in the first place.”
“And you’re the one who chose the bar.”
Dima sighs. Whatever, they both fucked up. Dima — a fucking idiot — didn’t consider that his favorite bar will obviously be packed out on Friday night. And Anthony — a fucking idiot — didn’t consider anything at all, he didn’t measure every possibility as usual, didn’t make a call like a grown-ass adult and didn’t provide them with a neat ‘Anthony 9pm’ sign on a big-ass table for them two. In tandem, at least one person must possess some amount of brains, otherwise this kind of shit happens inevitably.
“Fuck it,” Dima states dramatically. He has a right to be dramatic: he’s already in the mood to booze, and not just anywhere, but in a nice bar — and now, all nice bars are completely jammed with people. He’s even saved up some money — ‘cause he’s not going to let Antony pay for him — it’s bad for Dima’s shabby peace of mind.
“No need to overreact.”
“For real? So, you have a plan?”
Dima is angry. He’s angry at Friday itself, at damn Kitay-Gorod, at every person who has decided to go out tonight, at himself, and, of course, at Anthony. Most and foremost, at Anthony — it’s just convenient like that. He’s like a worn out shoe or a used up guitar pick: you get used to it, just like Dima warmed up to the thought of Anthony always being to blame for all the bad things around the world.
“Of course.”
“To beat someone up and take their table? Or to bring a table from home and fit it somewhere?”
“What’s your deal?”
Dima chokes on the air. He tries to come up with a witty comeback, but it's hopeless. Anthony sees it and continues:
“I get it. You’re snarky and all, but just listen. Now, we find a bar.”
“God, what’s not clicking? It’s all packed!”
“Let me finish. It doesn’t matter,” he sounds too serious with these eyes of his recklessly reflecting passing car’s headlights. “We find a bar and take a shot there, while standing on our both feet. Then — we head right to the next one. And so on. When morning comes, we take a taxi and try to survive on our way home.”
Dima’s about to explode. Yeah. It sounds fun — too fun. Dima realizes he totally will not make it alive. But to refuse? Oh, if only refusing was that easy, especially refusing Anthony — it’s out of the question. Dima is a cool guy, an adult (for a second, he’s eighteen years old!), and he’s a tough dude, God damn it, — and if he can’t prove this to himself, he gotta prove this to Anthony.
And so, swallowing his doubt and his great promise not to throw up in the center of Moscow, Dima stops in the middle of the sidewalk and solemnly shakes Anthony’s firm hand.
“Good.”
Ten.
Their first bar flickers at them with its neon sign from the depths of some obscure courtyard. Dima takes his time and reads the menu thoroughly — he needs something that will not knock the hell out of him. There’s a fuck-ton of people, so Dima has to push his way between the backs to conspiratorially lean towards the bartender — ‘cause Anthony is not supposed to hear Dima order some unbelievable sweet mess, either it’s cherry or, for the love of God, bubble-gum. Dima pays with a crumpled bill and looks for Anthony in semi-darkness, hoping that he won’t notice this girlish bright red swill in his hand.
“To our adventure spirit,” their shot glasses clash in a cling. Dima determinedly breathes out in his elbow.
It tastes sugary-sweet, like it’s not strong at all — only a clumped lump of heat hoots down heavily, unraveling somewhere in his stomach. His breath already reeks of alcohol — perhaps, consider it success? Anthony barely noticeably winces — Dima recalls he himself didn’t wince at all, and this realization makes him even warmer. It’s spiteful, joyful even — though just utterly pathetic.
Kitay-Gorod is dull as hell when sober — it isn’t beaming at you with its kaleidoscopic lights, its vast hills don’t get your feet askew — if only going uphill wasn’t such a pain in the ass. In other words — he should get drunk as fast as possible, until this night went down the toilet and Dima couldn’t stand Anthony at all.
Nine.
Anthony leads them into another courtyard — even more cramped and more marginal, with vulgar graffitis and tatty doors. The bar occupies some semi-basement of sorts — of course, it’s packed to the gills. Dima knows — this place is just your typical hipster hotspot that only pretends to be ‘authentic’. Among these wobbly tables and ragged walls guys in trendy frames clinking their soviet faceted glasses, girls with gaudy hair, and guys that look like girls and girls that look like guys. Bombastic and so, so kitay-gorodesque — Dima’s still relatively a new guy but he already can sense those Kitay-Gorod people a mile away. Ambient plays quietly, semi-darkness falls at them again. Dima just notices Anthony is handing him a similar faceted glass that plays along to this act, too.
“How much do I owe you?”
Every time Anthony asks this — without a fail, his face bursts into a nasty smile.
“For christ’s sake, forget about it.”
And, without a fail — there it is, this big damn problem that doesn't give Dima a rest every time they’re hanging out. At least he can wash down those thoughts about his debt with alcohol.
“God, what the fuck is this thing!?”
Anthony looks at him and laughs — how fucking humiliating.
“It’s grapefruit.”
“Grapefruit-up-my-ass!” not his wittiest response, but at least he’s honest. Nothing to be witty about anyway — it just tastes like nothing but burning, aching bitterness. The aftertaste rolls on the back of his tongue.
“Sorry,” like he’s sorry. “Want some beer?”
On any other day, he would never agree. Just a little exception, he tells himself.
“The hell with you. Bring me cider.”
Dima feels as if he's a child, holding a plastic cup like it’s a lollipop while having Anthony by his side like he’s under his supervision. But he won't complain — he’s cool. However, drinking cider after that-grapefruit-thing will definitely end badly; he will not make it alive.
Eight.
The hell with it, like, for real. Their third bar is grande and hip — with hookahs and all. How much for a shot you say? Three hundred rubles? Dima takes it — Anthony’s card stings his fingers. ‘Hiroshima’ burns his throat, bass boosts into his ears.
“Next!”
Smoke and chilly air pumps his head even harder — it fumes and lifts up a tight, jolly foam of delight.
“Are you okay?” Anthony asks sympathetically. His hand burns a hole in Dima’s shoulder.
‘Awe-so-me,’ he breathes this out with his lips while blowing out smoke.
He walks, breathes at ease — now, even Anthony seems tolerable. Even life seems bearable.
Seven.
Dima jumps over one step and stumbles with the tip of his sneaker, almost kissing the ground. Who’s idea was to put bars on the second floors within these ancient houses with steep, shabby staircases? On the other hand, they’re ancient only to Dima — Anthony sees them as historical low-rise buildings.
Dima doesn’t remember what he drinks or who pays for it. But he remembers Anthony laughing at his dumb joke, covering his mouth with a fist. He wants to live.
Six.
“You know why they call it piss corner?”
Dima, who had been holding a rather good pace, seemed to grow into the ground. Not the kind of excursions he would expect from Moscow natives.
“What.”
The walls of the both houses clashed into each other, forming an acute-angled corner. The purpose of this is unclear.
“Long time ago the owners couldn’t divide the land here, now there’s a corner.”
“Why piss corner?”
Anthony shrugs.
“‘Cause it’s good for pissing in it?”
He got the hint. Only after pissing in the piss corner he can pass this rite of passage.
“To your initiation,” Anthony says, raising some kind of bloody cranberry potion at their next bar. For the first time, Dima feels that he belongs.
Five.
The music makes his insides thwack and gurgle. This one is more of a club than a bar — everything is so neon and loud, like it crumbles Dima down to death. They drink to bruderschaft, another obscure sugary-sweet crap — they bruderkuss, like Brezhnev and Honecker — and then, everything succumbs to neon and laughter.
Four.
“I’m drunk enough to take this.”
“I’m drunk enough to smoke this shit.”
It’s about cigs — throwing himself out into the street, Dima, to his own surprise, agrees to trade his cheap smoke for a bombast ‘Mackintosh’ in a metal cigarette case. God, so chic and for nothing.
What do they drink, where do they drink — who keeps track of these things anyway? Anthony leans on the counter and flirts with a bar… barwoman? …barperson? He takes off his leather jacket — it’s hot.
Three.
‘The Pit’ is a legendary place — an amphitheater growing into the ground near the remains of the old city wall. Anthony's knees almost reach Dima’s chin as they sit on the amphitheater steps.
“So, this is where Moscow used to end?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn, I thought it would look way cooler.”
Anthony chuckles gloomily. Time stopped — it froze in wait for them to rest and move on with their stupid adventure.
Dima is too tired to comprehend anything that Anthony just said. Dima hates when drunk people become too open. Anthony straight up poured his heart out — about how he paid for his driving license, how he got into uni only through his connections, and about many, many other things — but, God, who gives a shit now?
“And thinking about it… I’m not the best person.”
“Yep. A total bitch.”
Dima catches his stare back and breaks into laughter. Who cares? I get you. I sit here with you not because of it at all. Anthony pats his chest. He realizes that his jacket is on Dima — he took it off at the bar not so long ago, but now he’s cold. He leans to Dima unceremoniously and takes out a flask from the inner pocket.
“You had it? All this time?”
Two.
‘Zinziver’. Vodka. Sprat sandwich for two.
Man, Dima thinks. If now we’re sharing a sprat sandwich in ‘Zinziver’, how low has the Russian intelligentsia fallen?
“You good?”
“I’m good.”
“Sorry, if I…”
“It’s good with you.”
And here we are.
With you. Fuck.
Hey. Dima, are you actually good? What do you confess to him next? ‘I’ve never drank like this before you’? ‘I'm really looking forward to weekends, so I can hang out with you’? ‘I've never had so much fun in my entire life’?
Sure, all this combined. And not once. Some of — while snuggling someone’s shoulder.
One.
“How’d we get to Clean Ponds?”
“On foot. It’s not that far.”
And now they talk like those guys from the movies — as if they’re in ‘The Room’.
“Hey, if I throw up in the Clean Pond — would it be that bad?”
Anthony laughs. He’s calling a taxi, Dima has no idea where they’re going — Anthony’s place, probably, it’s not like he's going to leave Dima dozing off in a flower bed in front of the dorm anyway.
Anthony’s flask hits his chest from the inner pocket. He still hasn’t figured out what’s inside, is it whiskey or is it cognac — he takes a deep sip, and even now, he still can’t figure it out.
“Choo choo,” Dima imitates the train whistle, turning to the pond abruptly. “‘Scuse me, this ‘s my stop.”
Just right in front of the glittery, and dark, murky water Dima’s chest gets crossed by a hand — it’s Anthony’s. Obviously.
And then, they lose balance, and, with both of their weight — they fell. As if in slow motion — soaking in a ton of heavy shiny drops, Dima has no time to think where they are, absolutely shitfaced, going to dry out this late in the heart of the capital.
But at this very moment — he wants to live so bad.