The Metal Box on Leninskyaya Street
Five friends inside a metal box. A window no bigger than a shoebox.
A babushka with a red nose and a sea of wrinkles leaned into the kiosk window.
A shawl wrapped tight against the Siberian cold. Below zero for weeks that winter.
“Shto vam nuzhno?” Olga asked. What do you want?
A biology graduate working at a kiosk.
Common in Russia in the late 1990s.
“I am waiting on my pension. Please… a bottle of vodka. I’ll pay you tomorrow.”
“Nyet. Do svidaniya.”
The metal slot banged shut.
Five of us sat inside that kiosk on Leninskyaya Street on milk crates spread with blankets.
A metal box. Barely room to turn.
A scratched plexiglass window facing the street.
Four Russians.
One American.
We didn’t share a language. Not really.
But we shared St Petersburg beers.
This was a Russian 7-11 in the 90s—
Vodka. Cigarettes. Beer. Soda. Cookies. Pens.
You knocked.
You ordered.
Rubles hit the counter.
Done.
Outside: well below zero.
Inside: an electric heater at our feet.
Beer in hand.
Baltika #4. About fifty cents.
I usually paid.
A knock on the glass.
The slot opened.
“Da.”
“Please… a bottle of vodka, I get paid —”
“Nyet.”
The slot slammed shut again.
A pause. A knock against the plastic window. Muffled by a thick glove.
“Da!”
The old man spoke softer:
“Then give me window cleaner.”
“Five rubles.”
Coins tinkled on the wood counter.
I asked what that was about.
They told me:
Some pensioners were alcoholics and couldn’t afford vodka.
I remember just staring at the plastic packet.
Стеклоочиститель — printed in red across the front.
Rubbing alcohol.
Sometimes methanol.
For cleaning windows.
He was going to drink it. Many did who visited our kiosk.
That was late 1990s Russia.
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