We’re sitting in Andrey’s kitchen. Andrey is a manager at the best design studio in Russia. Every few weeks, we gather with friends for a “Kitchen Session.” We chat, drink, and smoke cigars. Andrey usually stands off to the side by his fridge, where he has his DJ setup installed. He’s got his headphones on and looks focused. I think he’d much rather be a professional DJ than the manager of a 140-person design studio, but DJing doesn’t pay enough—and it definitely won’t cover the payments on his recently purchased Mercedes CLK.
“We” are a mix of about ten people, mostly young, creative Russians from the advertising industry and one or two expats. We talk about business, Andrey’s music, the latest cool party, and, of course, politics. Andrey occasionally glances over and tries to interpret what we’re saying, especially during heated debates. Just as he’s about to chime in, he remembers there are only 30 seconds left on the current track and rushes to queue up the next song. Andrey’s kitchen is small, with only three chairs. The rest of us have to stand.
The doorbell rings. “Hmm, who else is coming? We’re already full,” Andrey mutters as he heads to the door. As the last track fades out, we hear an argument in the hallway. We step outside to see what’s going on.
In the hallway stands a bald man in his underwear. His face is red, and the veins on his neck bulge. Just as we arrive, he shoves the lanky Andrey hard in the chest, causing him to stagger backward. It’s the neighbor, a former soldier, angry about the loud music. He’s probably drowned his life frustrations in a few vodkas; otherwise, he wouldn’t be so aggressive. We pull Andrey back into the apartment, shove the guy out, and lock the door. He yells that he’s going to call the police. “Have another vodka and calm down,” we suggest.
Ten minutes later, Andrey is back at his mixer, and the music is quieter. The police, of course, never show up. This little drama happens almost every time we’re invited to a Kitchen Session, though it’s usually just verbal shouting. Andrey jokes that he really needs to move soon because his neighbor is such a pain. “I don’t complain when he’s drunk and arguing with his wife all night,” Andrey adds.
“Does he hit her?” I ask.
“No idea,” Andrey replies. “I don’t care.”
One good thing came out of it, though—I finally got a seat at the table and didn’t have to stand anymore. Under the table, between my feet, lies a gray wool sock. “Hmm, I have one just like that,” I think. Exactly like that. My best friend Alex gave me a pair as a gift. They’re really good. I wonder how this sock ended up here. Andrey is usually so tidy and meticulous. Yet, there’s a sock under his table—just one, all alone. And it looks like it’s been worn, dirty and smelly.
I show Sonia the sock. She’s also surprised but discreetly pushes it to the side with her foot, so it’s no longer in the middle of the floor. Later, at home, I think about the sock again. It looked so much like mine. Just to be sure, I check for my favorite pair and realize one is missing. It was my sock! It must have been stuck in the leg of my jeans and fallen out at Andrey’s place. How embarrassing. Now I’m the crazy German who leaves smelly socks behind after a visit.
Still, it’s my favorite sock, a gift from my best friend. So, the next morning, I call Andrey. He can’t stop laughing. “Of course I found it! But I tossed it out with the empty bottles. I wondered how it got under my table.”
The other sock now sits alone in my drawer. I can’t bring myself to throw it away. At least it still brings a smile to my face whenever I spot it among the other pairs.
Photo by matt tipler on Unsplash
