At 10:30 PM on Thursday, I was boarding the metro for the 20-minute-or-so journey back home, after spending the evening seeing Ревизор ("The Inspector General", written by Gogol) at Малый Театр (Little Theater). Noting how wonderfully open the metro car was, I happily sat in the closest seat facing the doors. There were only a handful of people present, leaving the seats next to and across from me unoccupied.
I love the metro, except for the times when it’s so crowded with commuters that I can barely move. Then, I feel a bit like a drowning cat in my innate urge to scratch everyone’s eyes out, so I won’t be forced to share with them the germy, stale, underground air. Aside from these rare occasions, riding the metro is a perfect combination of comforting and exciting. I feel like I’m participating in life without actually having to do anything. It’s the best place in the whole world to people-watch. I can stand quietly and observe, without worrying about saying the wrong thing or struggling to change a word into the correct grammatical case. No one talks to me most of the time… Except if they’re asking for directions, but that doesn’t happen to me very often because most seem to sense my “American Idiot” aura and leave me alone.
As I sat and pondered these important thoughts, three guys, probably around my age, bolted through the doors right as they were closing. Sensing that they were full of energy and also, probably, alcohol, I avoided eye contact, instead becoming suddenly fascinated by the metro map displayed on the wall, and turned up the volume of my IPod. Two of the guys immediately sat down across from me, and after a pause, in which he seemed to be debating his seat selection, the third one sat right beside me. I would like to note again that this was a fairly open car; they could have sat anywhere. I kept looking straight ahead, determined to maintain my stoic, straight-faced, I-don’t-know-you-and-I-don’t-care-about-you Russian expression, with which I have become accustomed to seeing everyday in the Moscow streets.
Despite my really fantastic efforts to be engrossed with the gray car walls, I could tell their attentions were focused on me, and unable to resist the curiosity, quickly flicked my eyes towards the two boys sitting across the aisle. This, my friends, is where I made my fatal mistake. The shorter one winked at me, and I, being blessed with a face from which I cannot hide any emotion, broke into an embarrassed smile before turning my head to the side and righting my expression. Once again, I could tell they were talking about me but, having headphones in and not understanding much Russian, I couldn’t pick up what they were saying. I looked forward again, feeling uneasy, and, this time, the other boy offered me his Coca-Cola bottle, from which they were each taking a swig and then passing on. I shook my head, keeping my straight face. He then reached into his unzipped hoodie and dramatically pulled something from his chest. He offered his hand out to me, with his fingers squeezing in time to the pulse of an invisible, beating heart – the heart that he had presumably just ripped out of his own body. At this, I not only smirked but laughed outright, before covering my mouth in surprise and quickly returning my gaze to the metro doors. I calculated how many stops were left before my own, wondering if I shouldn’t get off earlier and wait for another train.
The boy, who had just offered up his literal heart to me, said something to his friend across from him, and they stood up to switch seats. I caught a strong whiff of cologne, not entirely unwelcome in the stale-smelling metro car, as the boy sat down beside me and began speaking rapidly in Russian, asking if I would share my headphones so he could listen to my music. Accepting that I could ignore him no longer, and also feeling self-conscious because a “One Direction” song had just come onto my iPod, I reluctantly pulled out my headphones, turned to him, and said that I only spoke a little Russian. He smiled excitedly and replied with something I didn’t understand, before naming a list of countries from which he thought I might have arrived. After saying no to everything, I gave up and told him I was from America. “Ah, New York!” he exclaimed, spreading his hands out in front of him in enthusiasm, as if pulling aside window curtains to reveal a view of bright city lights. I told him I was from Seattle and, in response to his next questions, that I was studying in Russia for the year. After congratulating me on being such a good student, he told me that he, too, was not a native Russian, and then said the name of a place very quickly. As it was obvious I did not understand him, he repeated himself, then said, “You know…” before making an explosion noise and pulling his hands back to shoot a pretend gun. At this, his friend across from me decided to help, forming his hands into an exploding bomb and also adding “Boom! Boom!” noises. I understood; they were from Chechnya.
The boy, who had offered me his literal heart, then asked me where I was going, and what I was doing, and where I lived, and if I wanted to come with them. I said no to everything, but confirmed that I had a boyfriend, remembering vaguely the advice that it was always good to say you had a boyfriend if you were receiving unwanted attention. He pulled out his phone and asked for my number. Knowing that he wasn’t going to give up and also figuring it didn’t really matter, I let him type his number into my phone. As he called his own phone from mine, insuring that he would be able to call me in the future, one of his friends drew a heart in the air with his fingers and made a kissy face. I sighed and shook my head, but again couldn’t fight a smile, because, apparently, it’s impossible for me not to smile in inappropriate, uncomfortable situations. Then, he interrupted my primary admirer, pointing at the station name that was now flashing above the doors. The boy, who had offered me his literal heart, told me I was beautiful a few more times, leaning in a bit too close for comfort, then stood up and proclaimed that he would meet me again. He rounded the door, proudly calling out “Bye!” to me in English. As the doors closed, the three of them stayed outside the window drawing hearts in the air, shooting invisible cupid arrows, and blowing me kisses, until the train finally pulled away.
Ten minutes later, after stepping out of my metro station and onto the city street, I laughed for almost a full minute, then pressed play on that “One Direction” song and listened to it, without shame, all the way home.