Tolstoy
& the Checkout Girl
By Lis Anna
Tonya was the only
thing that made him smile. The purple and blue streaks in her hair reflected
morning sun perfectly. She was the checkout girl at the Sav A Lot. He shuffled
through her line in his heavy woolen pants. Tonya snapped and popped her
gum. Watermelon. Sour apple. Sweet wild
cherry. An intoxicating fragrance to be
sure.
Tonya blew a
bubble, then asked, “Will that be all?”
Tolstoy dropped
his eyes to the cracked floor. “Da.”
He glanced up fast
enough to see her cock her head to one side, her ponytail slapping her
shoulder. She was watermelon today.
“You’re going to
die of heat exhaustion if you don’t ditch that get up.”
Tolstoy looked
down at his trousers. He’d learn to adjust. To what he wasn’t sure. Or for how
long.
“$22.36,” Tonya
popped, pulling her head back in place. Pink and blue glitter sparkled on her
eyelids. He wanted to dust his body with those pink and blue flecks. He pulled
money from his pocket, handing it to Tonya to count. American currency made no
sense. He counted in Rubles.
Her fingernails
were bright orange, tips painted white. She counted his money, handed back
change and whispered, “Be careful out there. The world is mean to freaks.” Then
she turned to the person behind him in line and asked, “Did you find everything
you need today?”
I found you,
Tolstoy thought. He stepped through the strange sliding doors into a wall of
heat that consumed the rest of his thoughts.
Until he flopped
down on the cool, tile floor under the humming contraption that blew cold air
day and night. He peeled off layers of clothes one by one, like an onion, it
made him cry.
In the evening he
awoke to the whoosh of America, this strange land. Horns, people bustling about
on the sidewalk below his room. Down the hall a man sang horribly off key.
Tolstoy rose from
the cool floor and picked up the map the police had given him when they found
him in the bus station. He smoothed the map across the empty table. A star
marked the city of Delray Beach, Florida. From there his finger trailed over
the world, across the Atlantic, through Europe, up to Russia where it stopped
and tapped Moscow, before sliding south to his hometown. Such a long way to
travel with no recollection. He was so young, yet remembered being an old man,
like time fleeting backwards.
Tolstoy stared at
the blank, plaster walls. He stood up and found a pen in a drawer. With
precision he wrote a single word on the white wall. Astapovo. He stepped
back and read the word over and over until he began to repeat it aloud. When a
creamy orange sunset glowed in his windows he pulled a can of sardines out of
his grocery bag and arranged the little fishes on crackers. They stared up at
him. Rays of sunlight stretched low across the horizon in pink golds. He looked
at the surface of the lake. Blades of grass jutted from the shore. Wind. Sky.
Grass. All so different from where he’d come from. He was so displaced he couldn’t
remember why he’d left. How he’d gotten here.
He pulled a thick
bag of kopeks from his pocket, wondering what they could buy. They were so old
and big. He turned one over in his hand, deciding to give it to Tonya as a
gift. Tonya of the green eyes, blue smock, bare arms, rings on every finger,
even her thumb, especially her thumb where a silver genie wrapped around her
finger staring down into a crystal ball. He wanted to touch her hand, lay his
finger on the tiny crystal ball and gaze at their future together. He sat down
on the small sofa and conjured images of fields rolling past, across Russian
summers.
to read the complete story please go to Barely South Review Fall 2012 Edition by clicking here:
Copyright 2012 Lis Anna All rights reserved. No portion of this story may be reprinted.
