Unexpected Items
by Invisible Ranger (HBF), 2018
Disclaimer: All characters from The Strain are the property of their creators and no copyright infringement is intended.
Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn: January, 2012
It was one thing he had never quite understood about America, even after all these years: there were simply too many choices when it came to peanut butter.
Vasiliy Fet stood under the too-bright fluorescent lights of the bodega, blinking, transfixed by the Extra-Crunchy, Organic, and Smooth Deluxe jars before him. When he had been young, he'd stood in line for hours with his mother outside a state-run commissary just to get basic staples, with no guarantee of returning home with the needed items. Most people, himself included, didn't in fact like the agony of choice. In that small way, Mother Russia had gotten it right. You got what you got, and that was that. With a grunt of disdain, he pulled a jar at random from the shelf, stuffing it between a baguette and a stalk of celery.
He was stalling for time. In here, it was at least warm. Outside was a three-block walk in sleet and howling winds just to get home. It was late, perhaps half an hour before closing time. His favorite time to shop, when few people roamed the narrow aisles and he could ruminate over the perfect type of bath tissue or horseradish in relative peace and quiet.
The raging storm outside matched his current mood. Winter in New York was when all the rats came inside, and he'd worked overtime all week. His arms and shoulders ached. The furnace inside his drafty loft was slowly giving out, and repairs would be needed soon. Expensive repairs. Worst of all, the previous evening, he'd had dinner at his parents' apartment, against his better judgment.
It was strange to think of the place that way. "Their" apartment. It once had been "his" apartment. Vasiliy had come of age there, that little shoebox in a block full of other little shoeboxes with other newly arrived families, in the middle of what everyone called "Little Odessa." He'd moved out a long time ago, but his father still stubbornly abided, a hermit crab clinging to his hard-earned shell.
Why would we have a need to go anywhere else? It is comfortable and the rent is fixed. Your mother and I are perfectly content here, Alexei had said, his thick brows knitted together in an expression which suggested the opposite of contentment.
It hadn't escaped Vasiliy's notice that his father's growing piles of work, the research for his current book on architecture, had taken over the already small living space like an aggressive tumor. Maybe you should at least take Ma down to Florida or something. You know, get her some sunlight. The doctor would agree with me. Airfare's pretty cheap now, and how long's it been since you've had a vacation?
When I finish my book. I must at least do that. Then we will go.
Vasiliy stuffed a roll of paper towels into the basket without looking at the brand name. Neither he nor his father had ever been good liars. Alexei had been promising Natalya a vacation for many years, and they'd never been anywhere more exotic than Atlantic City one weekend when Vasiliy was still in high school.
At least I am writing books, doing something with my life. At least I did not throw away the opportunities given to me.
Alexei's implication had genuinely hurt. He had never understood the need for Vasiliy's profession, the skill involved, the dedication of the men who protected the city from vermin. Alexei Fet hadn't ever crawled in freezing sewage or needed stitches to close a gaping wound while sitting comfortably at a desk writing books that few people would ever read. You still tell the neighbors and your circle of academics I'm in city planning? So you don't have to be ashamed of your son catching rats for a living?
The only shame is that my son wasted his natural talent, Alexei had answered.
Somehow Vasiliy had wound up in the dairy aisle without noticing. More impossible choices…sixteen brands of cheddar cheese, ten varieties of one-percent milk. He must have been scowling, because the older Puerto Rican woman who'd been standing in front of the case scurried away when she saw him.
Ma doesn't think I'm a waste. She's never told me she's ashamed of me. It's you who's ashamed.
Keep your voice down. She's already asleep.
It had been late then as it was late now. Neither he nor his father had been drinking…for some reason they never had more than a few sips of vodka when they got together…but their tempers had been running hot. Vasiliy shoved a block of cheese into the basket and gritted his teeth.
Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? I pay my own bills, got my own place, and you still want to dictate how I live my life. You've got the balls to tell me I'm a failure for catching rats when you're living like a rat yourself.
Vasiliy wished he'd thought of that. In the moment, of course, he hadn't; he never managed to come up with that kind of clever, cutting logic that his father always used. Alexei was the kind of man who wielded his words like a scalpel. Vasiliy was more apt to use a kind of blunt force verbally just like the steel rebar he used to fight off crazed munchers.
Every time you come here…when you bother to come here anymore…it is like you become more of a stranger.
There had been some truth there. His visits home had slowly dwindled even as the stacks of Alexei's research had grown. Vasiliy knew all the things he and his parents never talked about, but which filled the little apartment like malevolent ghosts. His longstanding bachelorhood and childlessness, unorthodox living situation, "shameful" choice of career following his decision to leave university. It had been bad enough all those years ago when he'd showed up sporting his first tattoo, and that was something superficial. Just for that, his father had practically disowned him.
Kolya. They never even mentioned him…
He was roaming the bodega like a zombie, not really conscious of anything but putting one aching foot in front of the other, occasionally pausing to grab whatever item he remembered from his list. Coffee. Hot sauce. Sardines. Some instant pasta dish he vaguely recalled enjoying once. By the time he made it to the front, the handbasket was full and his forearm protested under its weight. Unless he could get lucky and flag down a cab, he was going to have to carry all of this back to the loft. Maybe there was something to that Uber app he kept hearing Lauretta talking about at work. He made a mental note to look into it before setting the groceries down on the checkout counter.
"She's sick tonight. No checker."
It took Vasiliy a moment to realize someone was talking to him. The old man who ran the place, a wizened Indian man who reminded him of Yoda from the Star Wars films. He had poked his head out of the office in back and looked annoyed.
"How do you want me to pay for all this, then?"
"Read sign. Explains everything," said Yoda, shrugging.
Vasiliy did. In precisely lettered English and Spanish, it read, Try Our New Automated Check-Out! Save Time!
Halfway expecting to see a robot in a cashier's apron, Vasiliy turned around and spotted a shiny terminal which hadn't been there last time he'd been in the shop. Everything was going automated these days, even little mom-and-pop places like this, though how the old man could afford something like this, and not proper pest control, was beyond him.
Good thing my job won't be automated any time soon. Take that, Pop. He touched the screen, and something like a bank ATM menu appeared. Simple enough. After selecting English for the language, he scanned the first item. The terminal beeped and a running tally appeared. Not too bad. He whistled, appreciating the convenience of not having to make small talk for once.
When the machine beeped, it sounded almost as loud as a warning klaxon. Vasiliy flinched. "Unexpected Item in Bagging Area," announced a flat-sounding female voice. "See cashier for assistance."
"The hell?" He snorted, looking at the things he'd scanned already. Each appeared on the screen with its price. "Hey, pops, your machine isn't working right."
The owner didn't reappear. Vasiliy tapped the screen, then the bagging area. Nothing. The lady whom he'd startled in front of the dairy case was behind him with a full cart. "Sorry, lady, this thing isn't working," he said, less apologetic than annoyed.
She muttered something in Spanish that he suspected was equally annoyed.
He took a deep breath. He'd fixed machines before; he could fix this one. When the old man ignored him a second time, he stooped down to look at it. His own face looked back at him in the distorted reflection of the glass, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual, his complexion alarmingly pale. Maybe he was the one in need of a vacation.
If you had followed my advice and not been so damned stubborn, what would your life be like?
Alexei's final argument from that night echoed once more, the way it had been ever since Vasiliy had stormed out the first time, slamming the door behind him.
"My life," he growled through clenched teeth, "is exactly the way I intended."
When he opened his eyes again, the reflection that stared back was more distorted. It took him a moment to see the spiderweb network of cracked glass where his right hand had been. He'd been pushing against it, and the screen was no match for him. Behind it, the mechanical voice, now distorted, insisted that there was still an Unexpected Item in the bagging area.
"What is the meaning of all this?" The shop owner had picked this moment to reappear, and he looked more comical than livid as he pointed to the shattered screen. "Machine is very expensive. This is very bad."
Vasiliy shrugged. "It's a piece of crap. If you had an actual cashier in here, maybe this wouldn't happen."
As the man fumed and threatened to call everyone from the NYPD to his son-in-law, apparently a lawyer, Vasiliy wasn't listening. He threw the two twenties he'd been intending to feed the machine at the man's feet. "I'm outta here, pops. Won't be seeing me again."
He could still hear the man shouting even as the door closed. The wind bit into his exposed face, and it occurred to Vasiliy that he hadn't brought any of the groceries with him. There was soup at home, some leftover rye bread, and that would do for one night. There was time tomorrow on his off day for shopping.
Things work out in the end.
As he made his way home, it occurred to him that it was his own voice, and not his father's, which reassured him of this fact. Suddenly three blocks in the cold didn't seem so far.