Neighbors in New York: When You Live With a Spectacular Blonde

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When you move to New York, you quickly get used to living as if you were in a dormitory, even if you have never done this before. So you get used to it, that when you remain without neighbors for a couple of days, panic loneliness comes.

At first, we lived three of us: I (serious brunette), T. (serious blonde) and L. (soft blonde). One evening, we sat with T. on the couch, watched the first season of the series “Young Dad” and nibbled Chinese seeds. Scenes of incredible beauty and the same music were carried far to the Vatican, but L. came out of the kitchen. She slowly sucked up black coffee from a cup with the words USA, for some reason Gzhel, and attracted attention with the phrase: “By the way, I told you how I in the pool people died? ”.

"No! Why do you want to tell me now?” we were surprised.

We paused. L. worked as a coach in a Moscow swimming pool for several years. Today she went to study in the hall in New York and remembered the story. In general, on one of her shifts she noticed a man under water. For some reason everyone thought that he was practicing breathing there. It turned out that his heart had given out, and he had been standing under water for 10 minutes without moving. “They pulled him out and started pumping him out, there were cameras everywhere, and we understood that he was no longer there, but we did everything according to the instructions: artificial respiration and so on,” said L.

T. went to the kitchen almost in tears and began to make coffee. Now L. and I watched “Young Dad”. Slowly pulling black coffee out of a mug with a painted radish, she went into the room and asked: “Did I tell you how a woman jumped off the roof at the bar where I worked?”.

"No! Is it a night of horror stories today, like in a children's camp? Only, unlike childhood, we grew up and picked up real stories.”

We paused.

“Why, my colleague called me the other day. Imagine, she went downstairs to call the police, and right in front of her eyes a woman collapsed on the asphalt. And two of my other colleagues noticed how she climbs onto the partition in the bar, tried to stop her, but nothing happened. The restaurant was fined, almost closed. And then the detectives talked with relatives, and it turned out that her husband threw her for 2 of the day before that,” said T.

It's my turn for the story. I went for coffee and took a glass with a picture of a woman on a pole. While sipping my coffee, I walked into the room and asked: “Are there any normal glasses in this house?”

After the episode of The Young Pope, L. was getting ready to go on a date. It takes her two hours to get ready, at least - this is probably the price she pays for remaining a frivolous, spectacular blonde. She says: “Men don’t need much. They want to see a beautiful, caring woman next to them, and so that she doesn’t eat her brain.”

The next day I told this to an American friend and, as sometimes happens, literally translated the phrase: “don't eat their brains / so as not to eat brains”.

“What is wrong with brains? Are all men vegetarians? ”He did not understand.

In English there is no figurative meaning of the word “brain”, although there is a phrase “fuck your brains out”, which combines both Russian “to fuck your brains” and “to take out your brains”.

He replied: “L. “she’s a spectacular blonde, I see no reason not to trust her.”

If I'm going on a date, and L. knows this, the most important thing is to slip through the door so that she won't notice. It is difficult - the door to the street leads from the common room, where we spend almost all the time when we are not sleeping at home. If she sees that I am not wearing a dress or putting on makeup, the weight of being enters:

- You must read the Rules. This is a great book.

— About how to dress up correctly?

— About how to find the ideal man. We all want to find the perfect man, even if we don't admit it.

“Today I have a black T-shirt for $50,” I draw attention to the fact that I tried, because in my wardrobe there are the same ones for $5 or $10.

— And most importantly, don’t pay for yourself. By doing this you are spoiling the field for other women.

“OK,” I throw on my jeans and run out into the street.

Neighbors in New York are both scourge and sugar. They appear spontaneously, and it seems, with whom you will live, determines the tape measure or the god of weather, but certainly not you. In Moscow, where I lived to New York, you can write to Facebook and find a congenial person among friends of friends. Here, time, money and everything else is limited to getting along with anyone.

This leads to unusual discoveries. Worlds that seemed terribly far away are now in sight. Over time, you begin to understand them, get used to them and even love them. Although the answer to the neighbor’s question “what do I look like?” still starts with “we have different tastes, so...” and ends with “actually, it’s terrible.”

L. - a spectacular blonde and the main earner for our home. She brought 5 bottles of wine last week because her boyfriend owns a wine company in France. Another time, a certificate for dental treatment at a private clinic, because her boyfriend is a doctor who supposedly treats all local Jews. Somehow she came without gifts and was upset: she said she wanted to return with the car. An Arab sheikh invited me to a restaurant and said that in order for him to touch her, they had to get married. But this is a marriage on 24 hours, so in a day she will be free. He asked to call her kalyma - what to present to her for the wedding. She answered: Mini Cooper. While L. was eating oysters, he looked for a car on the Internet, but then replied: “I'm afraid this bride price doesn't suit me. Sorry". After 10 minutes, he put her in a taxi and sent her home.

Once a week, when L. leaves in the evening, T. and I watch a movie in the common room and wait until the door opens. We are waiting for L. to bring stories and, possibly, gifts.

Yesterday L. returned with a bad story. She said that her lover, a physicist, lives in paranoia and is sure that we need to evacuate because “soon everyone will be fucking blown up.” We spent a long time looking at North Korean missile strike patterns. We agreed to continue at brunch the next day with unlimited Bloody Marys. But at six in the morning L. was noisily rummaging through things in the room where we slept. When we started throwing pillows at her, which meant “stop rustling,” she said: “I came to get a new swimsuit. I have a plane to Miami in an hour. If anything happens, the missiles won't reach there. I'll be back in a week." Well, she left, and we fell fast asleep.

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