It’s getting light outside. My taxi driver is taking it easy, seemingly in no rush. The digital clock in the middle of the car reads 5:57. Moscow’s streets are empty. I asked him to turn off the radio—I need some peace and quiet. I want to replay the night in my mind. Like every Friday, I was at the Wall Street Bar at nine o’clock. The owner and I went over the final details for the evening. I greeted the staff, and my DJs started the warm-up. On the surface, it seemed like it would be a normal night.
Two hours later, I got a call. An acquaintance was at the door but couldn’t get in. I pushed my way past guests and bouncers. Outside stood the girl. We’d only known each other a few weeks. She came to my parties regularly, and I liked her. We’d chatted online a few times and even had coffee together. Tonight, though, she was a bit drunk, and the bouncers didn’t want to let her in. I tried to bring her inside, but unfortunately, the bar owner—a very wealthy Russian—was there that night. The bouncers refused.
“There’s nothing I can do,” I told her. She looked disappointed, pleading for me to let her in. Her makeup was a little off tonight. After a moment, a tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m sorry, but you’re not in good shape tonight,” I said. It dawned on me that she might have taken drugs as well. The bouncers were probably right. “Come on, it’s best if you go home,” I suggested. “I’ll get you a cab and pay for it.” She reluctantly agreed, got in, and left. I stood there in my T-shirt, watching the taxi drive away. Weird night, I thought, as I pushed past the line of people back into the bar.
Inside, the place was alive as usual. My DJs were firing up the crowd. A girl climbed onto one of the speakers and started dancing, her cleavage threatening to spill out of her dress. The owner sat at his table and gave me a satisfied wave. Shortly after, I headed to the VIP area, where there was a bathroom without a line.
“Where are you from?” asked three guys standing at the sink.
“Germany,” I replied, and they cheered.
“We’re Russians, but we live in Stuttgart. I just bought an E-Class,” one of them said.
“Nice,” I responded. “But I prefer Porsche.”
The three guys looked to be in their mid-twenties. “Maybe a Cayenne,” one said. “I’ve got a family and kids.” I nodded as they told me they were celebrating a friend’s birthday. I joined them at their table and downed a vodka toast in his honor. They were having a great time, which was all that mattered. At least they weren’t the usual fat old guys surrounded by three or four playmates. These were cool guys—a new generation of Russians. I liked people like that, I thought, as I moved on.
My phone rang. Was it someone else who couldn’t get in? It was the girl from earlier. “I’m home now,” she said. “I just wanted to say goodbye. I just took 18 sleeping pills, and hopefully, I’ll never wake up.”
“Are you crazy?” I shouted into the phone. “Girl, stick your finger down your throat and throw up!” She hung up. I didn’t even know where she lived.
Five minutes later, my phone rang again. It was her. I stepped outside. It was cold, and I was still in my T-shirt. I tried to calm her down, then applied pressure. Nothing worked. While I talked to her, I could see people dancing inside through the windows. The line at the door was still long. Two tall, impeccably dressed Russian women gave me disapproving looks as they waited to get in, ready for a night of fun. I paced nervously back and forth, clearly not having a good time.
Eighteen sleeping pills, I thought. Is that enough to kill yourself? Who knows what else she might have taken earlier. Sometimes, these threats are just cries for help. Is she serious, or is she bluffing? Can I help? Do I want to help? Do I want to get involved? I hardly know her. It’s not the first time I’ve been in this kind of situation. I begged her to vomit, then lie down and sleep. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow,” I said. She cried and told me there wouldn’t be a tomorrow for her.
The place was packed, and the owner smiled at me. One of my DJs stood nearby. I couldn’t bring myself to smile back. What do I do now? Is she serious? I told the story to my DJ, but he only understood half of it—it all sounded so confusing. So I went looking for Paul. She had mentioned Paul on the phone earlier. When I found him and explained the call, his face darkened. “I have to go and help her,” he said. Paul had known the girl as long as I had but had spent more time with her.
“You’re not responsible,” I told him. “I think she’s just bluffing.”
“I can’t take that risk,” he replied and headed out. Andreas went with him.
I needed a drink—a vodka shot. After that, I made my rounds, engaging in meaningless chatter and making small talk with guests. In the VIP room, I found two of the three Stuttgart Russians at the bar. Their faces were grim.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s our friend—the birthday boy. His fiancée just caught him having sex with another girl in the bathroom.”
“We saw everything,” one of them said. “She came over looking for him. We tried to warn her when she headed for the bathroom, but she went in anyway.”
“And now?” I asked.
They gestured toward a table where the party had been in full swing earlier. Now, it was split in two. On one end sat a stunning girl, her makeup streaked with tears. A group of other women surrounded her, trying to console her. At the other end sat the culprit, alone, staring blankly ahead. His friends sat at the bar with me.
“Three vodka shots,” I told the bartender, “on me.” Afterward, I suggested they take care of their friend. The party table had turned into a scene of icy silence.
The bar started to empty. The owner stood beside me, clearly satisfied. I ordered another round of drinks. The night was winding down, and I finally allowed myself to unwind. “What a strange evening,” I said, sparing him the details. We had one more drink.
Shortly after, Paul and Andreas returned.
“Well?” I asked. “How did it go? Was it serious?”
“We called an ambulance,” Paul replied. “They pumped her stomach. She’s in the hospital now.”
“Damn.” We stood silently at the bar. I didn’t know what to say.
I dropped a friend off at her place. She wanted me to stay, but I couldn’t—my girlfriend was waiting for me. My taxi continued on. At 5:45 a.m., the driver turned off the radio.
We passed a crash scene, slowing down. The car was unrecognizable. I thought it might have been a sports car. Flecks of green metallic paint shimmered faintly through the wreckage, but there wasn’t much left. On the sidewalk lay three mangled heaps of metal. A tire stuck out here, a steering wheel there. No one could have survived that. I’d never seen anything like it, especially in the city. How fast do you have to hit a wall or barrier to tear a car into three pieces?
We drove on as the morning unfolded. It had been a full moon night. Probably just an ordinary night, really. That’s how it always is in Moscow—or any big city. You just don’t see it. Honestly, I don’t want to see it.
As we crossed the river, the streetlights flickered off. It was going to be a beautiful spring day, full of sunshine and warmth. Not for everyone.
The girl would wake up in the hospital, likely wondering what had happened and feeling a twinge of shame. The two fiancés would wake up separately. He’d had too much to drink, swept up by the allure of the night and the city. Now it was too late. The relationship was over. She’d wake up on a friend’s couch, lost, unsure of her place in life or what to do next. She’d feel sadness but also rage, wondering repeatedly how he could throw away all those years for a quickie in a bar bathroom with a random girl he’d just met.
Elsewhere, a doorbell would ring. Two police officers would stand outside, ready to tell parents that their daughter had climbed into a drunk millionaire’s car and was now dead. The mother would wail. She was only eighteen, so beautiful, with her whole life ahead of her—and now it was over.
I’d be home soon. I’d smoke a joint and crawl into bed with my girlfriend. Sleep would overtake me, and by noon, it would all feel surreal. Like a bad dream. I’d have a heavy head—not from the vodka or the weed, but from reality. Reality weighs the heaviest.
Photo by Anna Frizen on Unsplash
