found drama

My high school Russian class has won a dinner at the Soviet Consulate in Washington, D.C. Most of the class members won’t be able to make it but I’ve decided that I won’t miss this for the world. I’ve got my outfit all picked out: jeans, a t-shirt celebrating a particular Russian-distilled vodka, and the formal jacket of a Soviet naval captain (which is red with yellow piping for some reason). The jacket is a little tight but I spruce up pretty nice when I need to.

It’s about a two-mile walk from my apartment to the Consulate but it goes quickly in the brisk air of this autumn evening. The building is a big basalt cube set against D.C.’s low skyline. Security is surprisingly light and it isn’t long to get inside. Many jokes are made about my choice of attire – – all in Russian spoken a little too quickly for my just-barely-above-novice-level ears. They’re good-natured about it though and none of the guards are at all malicious. I’m ushered into the main hall where an extensive bounty of hors d’oeuvres are being served. I dig in and try out my student’s Russian on the guests.

Unfortunately, the buffet session is cut short when the floor gives out and we fall into a subterranean labyrinth. Everything is dark or else very dimly lit. The walls are nowhere in sight but the terrain is a series of variously sized black and greasy gray cubes. The groans of encroaching zombies are all around us and we run, fleeing, jumping from cube to cube, frantic.

About Rob Friesel