“Do you speak Russian?” I’m asked by the old, white-haired Russian fellow. He’s wearing a yellow bathing suit and has a gut that’s so disfigured and misshapen there must be something wrong with him. I don’t know many medical terms, but, instead of gravity taking this guy’s over-sized stomach and forcing it to sag, the stomach appears to be growing outward into space, like a second head coming out of his torso
“Not really, I only know dirty words,” I admit. What I mean is, if he has a young daughter I’d have no problem telling her I want to come in her mouth or fuck her in the ass.
“I teach you.” He says. We’ve just finished having a broken-English conversation about a guy who drives his Porche twenty feet to the pool instead of simply walking out his front door and across the street. I guess he feels a sense of camaraderie since we laughed at the (probably) poorly endowed douche bag. After he’s commanded me to listen, he waves his index finger in the air to simulate an insect flying around his head.
“Ptchel’. Ptchel’,” he says.
“Ptchel’.” I repeat.
He sees a small wasp that has landed opposite us on the divider between the hot tub and the pool. He moves his head slightly to get a closer look, before saying, “Ossa. Oh-sah.”
“Oh-sa.” I reply. He nods.
A large bumblebee floats over our heads and he quickly points and says, “Schmel! Schmel!” and I blurt out, “Schnel!” excitedly.
“Nyet. Schmel.” We go back and forth trying to sync up our schmels.
As we’re speaking, this huge, black, gnarly hornet lands about a foot from his head. At first he doesn’t notice, and I wonder if he maybe he’s about to get stung right in his face. I don’t say anything. He catches a glimpse of the hornet out of the corner of his eye and quickly paddles away from it. Then he moves in closer and begins to furrow his brow. His eyes shift left and right. He can’t remember the word. In a booming basso he calls over to his friend, who happens to be fast asleep. After three or four hollers, the friend snaps up. They begin shouting at each other, and I assume it’s because the friend is mad at this guy for waking him up to ask what’s the Russian word for a bee. The conversation they’re having in my head is hilarious. In reality, I have no idea what they’re saying. The friend looks at me and, in the most incredibly sardonic, formerly-hardened-soviet accent he says, “We call this ‘mosquito.'”
