Page 4 of Notes About Vodka

I am glad that my role is simply to mix and pour the perfect drinks for our patrons. Okay, I have to make the orders, deal with Dante and Tony’s bullshit, schedule the other bartenders, and listen to patrons venting about their shitty lives as they attempt to hit on the ladies and guys who work the floor. It’s a lot, but it keeps me busy, and sometimes that’s the best thing for me—to stay busy and keep the noise in my head at bay.

As dream girl switches to the same song by Dave Matthews Band, Tony continues to make notes on his hiring paperwork and I lose myself further into my thoughts.

I can’t believe that it's been over a decade since I left Sochi. To say I am missing my parents and friends who have moved on with their lives in an understatement. I feel caught betweentwo worlds: the home I long for and the aspirations I want to pursue in the United States. I miss the familiar warmth of my mother’s cooking, the sound of my father’s laughter, the comfort of speaking my own language without hesitation or translation.

Initially, my plan was to leave, but now that I am here for the unforeseeable future, I can't help but dream of one day owning my own restaurant. I want a place where I can blend my Russian roots with what I’m learning here in the United States.

I’ve fallen in love with BBQ, Latin food, and most importantly, creole and cajun food. I really fell in love with American cuisine on a missionary trip while living with my host family in Florida. The church took us to Baton Rouge, where I ate everything I could. Now I want to infuse my Russian flavors with Southern soul food and cuisine from the bayou. Yet, I also envision bringing American-style eateries back to Sochi, confident that they’ll thrive alongside popular fast-food chains and cater to those craving western delicacies. You can always find a KFC, McDonald’s, or Burger King in Russia, but what about all night, slow-cooked ribs over mashed potatoes, or queso-covered steak nachos?

Yeah, that’s not available in Russia yet to my knowledge. And I want to be the one to bring it there. I want to bring a piece of the life I’ve built here back home, a bridge between two worlds that sometimes feel impossibly far apart.

One of the best things that happened to me while living in the United States was when I finally received a diagnosis for my ADHD in my early 20s. It explained so much about my struggles—why I couldn’t focus, why I was always restless, why I felt like my mind was always racing. However, as I find myself still zoning out and staring at the beautiful songstress on stage, I can't help but feel conflicted; is it a blessing or a curse?

Focused on my daydream, I’m not ready for reality to intrude on my thoughts.

Especially, when Dante, my boss, snaps me back to the present with his loud. “Val, get the fuck out of your head man. Are you high or something? I told you stop smoking that dank crap. Get over here, we need help hauling in the kegs and liquor bottles. Didn’t Isabella tell you that shithead last night fucked it all up. Don’t worry, I fired his ass this morning. Over text if you are interested in knowing.”

I struggle to break my gaze away from the siren and make my way towards the back.

Groaning at Dante, I say, “Good, the raspediet needed to go.”

The work is strenuous, but I am used to it. As I lift and move the heavy kegs and cases, it brings back a sense of familiarity and routine. By the time I am done, my muscles ache and sweat beads down my back. I enjoy the cold keg fridge as I re-hook the lines and blow out any residual gas.

As I rush back to the main room, I am desperate to catch another glimpse of the girl who auditioned for one of Tony's coveted talent spots. But instead of staying and shadowing one of the current staff for the night, she’s gone, vanished into thin air without a trace.

A sharp pang of disappointment claws at my chest, leaving me breathless and grasping at straws. I’ve never seen her before and now I just want to know her name or if she was chosen for the job.

The thought of never seeing her again hits me like a ton of bricks, leaving behind a gaping hole in my heart. In a futile attempt to ease the overwhelming emotion, I rub my hand frantically over my chest, hoping to physically push the feeling away.

What the fuck, Val? Get a grip, she’s just a ghost to you.

I approach Tony, who is busy sorting through applications. “Hey, Tony,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Just saying, you should hire the redhead with the raspy voice.”

The talent manager nods absently, scribbling a note. “Yeah, that one is packing some hella pipes, but seeing as we are already overstaffed… Probably not, but I’ll consider her in the future.”

With a sigh, I move behind the bar, ready to start my long, late-night shift. As I mix drinks and serve customers, my thoughts keep drifting back to her. For the first time in a long while, I feel something more than the dull ache of homesickness and the pressure of my ambitions. I feel a spark of excitement, a longing to know more about the elusive, witchy woman who has captivated me.

Oh, God, that voice.

I imagine her painted red lips singing to another microphone as the night wears on. Wondering more about her, I question, where is she from, why is she here, did she see me hanging back in the shadows as I watched her play? What secrets does she carry beneath the scar on her back, and what has brought her to a place likePianissimo?

Luckily, the hot summer day has brought in a lot of traffic. Everyone in the city is in the bar tonight trying to cool down and enjoy a drink. So my thoughts become limited as the night picks up. But they stay on a delicate simmer, kept on the back burner of my mind amongst the busy night. Her voice, her presence—it’s a mystery and I don’t want to let go.

Two nights later and it’s another unusually busy Thursday night.

Not only is it over 100 degrees outside, the humidity is worse. The air is thick, oppressive, and even stepping outside for a break feels like a mistake.

I’m balls to the wall at the bar with three people deep and even more patrons clamoring for beverages in hopes to cool off, or maybe heat up with how some people are looking at each other. The energy is electric, charged with a strange mix of frustration and longing. It’s almost palpable, the tension in the room, as people push and pull against the heat and each other.

The buzz of conversation and laughter fills the air, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the occasional shout from the back tables. I’m in my element, moving efficiently behind the bar, pouring shots, mixing cocktails, and cracking open beers. My hands move on autopilot, my mind effortlessly falling into the rhythm of the job. But as the night drags on, the relentless energy of the crowd starts to drain me.

“Hey, Mads! I’m going to head out back and take a quick smoke break,” I shout to my fellow bartender—a tall, muscular man with a dark complexion and a quick wit. He’s at least four inches taller than me, packed in muscles, and always has a steady presence that balances the chaos around him. And you will never catching me calling him by his full name; Maddison Allison Earlison. Last person who did ended up in the underground Fight Club and came out darker than a blueberry, which made him almost as dark as Mads.

“Go ahead, Val. I’ve got this,” Mads replies, expertly sliding a beer down the bar to a waiting customer.

I slip through the back door, breathing in the cool night air. The alley behind the bar is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos inside. I light a special cigarette, taking a deep drag and exhaling slowly. The nicotine calms my nerves, but it's the tiny bit of pot interlaced in the cherry that really does the trick. I need it because my mind is still racing after a redheadedmystery. The high helps, smoothing the rough edges of my thoughts.

As the good vibes set in and my brain relaxes, my body follows. I think back to my siriena. The image of her at the piano, her fingers moving with such grace, her voice pulling at something deep inside of me. I never believed in love at first sight, but I think I was struck by cupid.

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