The Usurpation of a Conceptual Democracy

Chapter One

HEADLINE: “FIVE DEAD IN DRUG COVER UP”

Adrian Vasiliev flicks his wrist, straightening the newspaper in one swift motion. His eyes scan the paper swiftly and methodically, jumping from one group of words to the next.

“You gonna buy that?” The question comes from the man behind the stand, who is obviously irked by the fact that the only person to stop in front of his merchandise was lingering and blocking the view to the other passers-by without any movement in the direction of his wallet.

Adrian does not raise his head but raises his eyes, looking at the man over the rim of his glasses, which have slid gradually down his nose. The man is tall yet portly with salt and pepper hair and an unfortunate looking mustache. His cheeks are red from the cold and his eyes are filled with boredom. Adrian returns his gaze to the paper before replacing it.

He clears his throat and, saying nothing, shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to continue his way down the grimy city streets.

The sky is gray. The buildings are the shiny gray-blue of glass reflecting a cloudy sky. He watches his breath as he walks; it fogs up in the cold before him. People are passing hurriedly all around him. Some go the same way, others the opposite, but all keep their eyes on the gray concrete paths beneath their feet. Gray. Gray. Gray.

Adrian shakes his head as he thinks back on the newspaper headline, his boots clomping heavily through the snow. Five dead… bloody cover-up… police investigating Drug Cartel Leader Anton Sokolov… money trail that snakes intercontinentally… Five Million Monitkis.

Pointless. It is all pointless.

He rounds the corner to his apartment building, punches in his key code, and climbs the stairs to the top floor. The door to his apartment is slightly ajar, and he groans and rolls his eyes.

“Hey, Feliks! How many times have I told you to shut the door? It’s cold as frickin’-”

“Don’t sweat it!” Feliks calls from somewhere inside. “You’re always so uptight, man.”

He slams the door shut and struggles to wiggle his way out of his hefty boots. This tactic is not working, so instead he sits down and begins working at the laces. “I literally can not sweat it. It’s too cold in this place to sweat- period. Couldn’t you have at least lit a fire or something?”

“We’re out of wood!” The response comes from the bathroom. Adrian rolls his eyes and shoves his feet back into the boots he has just removed.

“Feliks, you idiot. You know that I come home every day- every day!- at exactly the same time. Why did you not call me and tell me to pick some up?”

“I guess I was a little occupied.”

“With what?” Adrian asks, finding himself further annoyed. He hoists himself up and off the ground and stands with his hands on his hips, an exasperated expression on his face.

“Stuff.”

“Brilliant.”

“Hey, can you bring me my phone before you go?”

Adrian rolls his eyes, something he realizes he has been doing a lot today, and looks around the living space for the little black cell phone. He spots it on the table next to the couch, sitting on top of a book that is open, face down, and a pile of two plates and a bowl. “You could keep this place clean, at least,” he says, reaching for the phone and walking towards the bathroom.

“I know, sorry. I’m just really trying to crunch for this test.” Feliks is sitting on the toilet, pants and belt around his ankles and his face leaning on his hands. Adrian leans against the door frame and tosses Feliks the phone. He jumps, looking up from beneath his shaggy black hair, and catches it a bit clumsily. “Thanks.”

“Remind me why I put up with you.”

“Because I put up with you.”

Adrian sighs and straightens himself up, turning again to leave. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. And open the window before you stink up the whole apartment!” he calls over his shoulder, tucking his thick, woolen scarf back into his jacket and twisting the door handle.

“Ok, but hurry! It’s cold!”

“Says the one who left the door open!”

“Says the one who says to open the window!”

Adrian rolls his eyes and steps outside into the hallway again, closes the door, and heads down the five flights of stairs for the second time that day. The steps are covered in a musty blue-brown carpet. Blue from the carpet, brown from the dirt. He pushes the door open and steps onto the street and is instantly hit by a wave of frigid air. It is a wet, icy cold that pierces to the bones. If only it would snow again. The snow always changes the air from wet to crisp.

Thankfully it is only a short walk to where the firewood is sold, and he is back in his apartment before the fifteen minutes are over. Not that his apartment is much warmer at this moment. Or cleaner, for that matter. All thanks to Feliks.

Feliks has now left his previous post in the bathroom and has returned to the couch, where it was safe to presume he has been lounging all day. Again, Adrian kicks off his boots, which were tied more loosely this time, and trudges with damp, stretched-out socks and arms full of firewood to the large, black, metal stove that sits in the corner. He shoves the wood in, throws in a crumpled-up piece of paper, and then lights a match. A flame bursts to life the moment he tosses the match in, and he closes the door on the stove. It clunks a resounding metallic clank, and he stands up and begins removing the layers of winter clothes he has on, starting with the unfortunate socks he is still sporting.

“How was work?” Feliks asks.

“It was work. How’s studying?”

“God, I hate it.” He lays his open book on top of his face and sighs. “I didn’t expect so much studying to learn programming.”

“Well, code is a language.”

“Whatever, I’m already fluent. You taught me everything I need to know.”

Adrian tosses his jacket over his scarf, which he has already tossed over his arm, and unzips his thick sweater. “Then why are you in school?”

Feliks shrugs, picking his book back up. “Maybe I missed something.”

Adrian raises an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Not so far.”

“M-hm.”

“Whatever man. Get off my case. You’re still hauling garbage.”

“Well, at least my occupation comes with a paycheck.”

“You knew what you were taking on when you said I could live here. Why are you giving me such a hard time about it? Huh?”

Adrian sighs, hanging up his coat in the little closet. It is scarcely wider than himself, and it is stuffed full with jackets and a misshapen pile of boots that continuously threatens to topple over and into the hallway whenever the door is opened. He throws his boots on top and shuts the door again.

“I’m sorry Feliks. I’m just really tired. And you’ve been really slacking lately.” He sighs and walks into the kitchen where he opens the fridge. It’s mainly empty, and he takes out two beers and a pack of kielbasa, which he puts in a pot and on the stove to cook.

“It’s ok,” Feliks replies, turning the page. “I do need to do better about helping out. Mom always got on to me about that at home. Speaking of Mom, she called today.”

Adrian glances up. “Yeah? What did she say?”

“Just checking on us, you know.”

“Did she sound ok?” he asks, popping the tops off of the beers.

“Yeah, fine. Just tired.”

“M-hm.” That wasn’t anything new. They are silent for a bit. Adrian leans on the counter, lost in thought. Feliks is engrossed (not really) in his textbook. The water boils and Adrian takes it off of the flame, pulling out the kielbasa, stuffing it in some bread with some mustard and pickle slices, and brings their bachelor-feast into the living room. “Here, he says,” handing the quickly thrown together dinner to his brother.

“Thanks.”

They eat slowly, talking over their days and sipping their beers. Feliks relates how the old woman next door came over asking for eggs (he gave her two) and how the hot neighbor from the floor upstairs accidentally dropped laundry over her balcony and onto theirs. (She has not yet come down to retrieve it, Feliks informs him, but all the same, he has refused to leave the apartment since the incident occured in the case that she does, in fact, come in search of it and he might miss her.) Adrian tells him that he slipped on the ice five times today, and almost a sixth. On the bright side, he found a five monitki bill on the ground and a nice little coffee shop down on the east side.

After they finish, Adrian takes the plates and beer bottles back into the kitchen and cleans up. Thankfully it isn’t much to do, and it is barely a few minutes before he is able to retreat into his room. He sits at his desk, pushing aside the pile of bills that he has been collecting and choosing to ignore over the past week and powers on his computer screen. It shines bright in the dimly lit room, and his fingers fly over they keyboard.

This is his haven. His room is his fortress, his computer his weapon. Outside, the world can do what it likes, and so it does. But in here he can choose. Adrian is determined to leave his mark on the world- not that he really knew how he could do so at this point. At 21, he sits resolutely and confidently in a throne void of reassurance and built upon hope. The world does not cooperate with your dreams- this is a fact that he knows. But that doesn’t mean you can’t go out there and live them anyway. The ride may just be a bit bumpier than expected.