The Russian Man

In August of 2019, I had my thirtieth birthday at a dive bar in Bed Stuy. It was the only place that would let me plug in my pink, rhinestone-covered laptop and play my Megan Thee Stallion playlist. So even though the bar didn’t serve food and sold TVs in the bar area, it was the perfect place for me to celebrate the end of my twenties. I danced with about 12 of my friends on their tiny dance floor. We drank, laughed and took videos of each other dancing. We got so hot that even the midsummer August air felt cooler than inside the bar. My Rent the Runway rented jumpsuit had sweat marks on it. 

At 11:59, I screamed that I was ready to have the afterparty at McDonald’s. The nearest McDonald’s was closed so we went to a diner instead. After many vodka sodas and a few shots, the transition to the diner was disorienting: bright lights, the smell of burning oil and the sound of spatulas hitting the grill. Our waiter was a tall man who looked like the caveman from the Geico commercial. I was feeling friendly.   

“Helloo! How are you?” I asked our waiter. 

“Hi, Hello, Welcome. Where are you from?” he replied. 

“Um, Manhattan,”

“No, I mean, like, where are you from?” 

“Uhhh, my grandma came over on a boat from Russia?” 

“I’m Russian. Where in Russia was she from?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Give me your number and I can tell you where your grandmother is from in Russia.” 

My friends all giggled and I smiled awkwardly. My boyfriend, now husband, was maybe the most uncomfortable. I then felt self-conscious about my low-cut top and fake eyelashes that were probably sliding off. We all chowed down on burned burgers and floppy french fries. Before paying our check, the strange Russian man slid me a matchbook and a pen. 

“Here! Write your number here.”

Women face this dilemma all the time. In middle school I remember the hot girls memorizing the number of a rejection hotline. It was a fake number you could give guys and they would call and get an automated message saying that the girl that had given you this number was NOT interested. I don’t know why I struggled so hard to just tell this man: “No, I don’t want to give you my number. I’m sitting here with a guy I’ve been dating for a year and a half! And you’re not my type! Oh, um, it’s not because you’re a waiter, okay? I’m not into you! It’s not because you’re Russian or because of your weird affect. Oh, no. Don’t feel bad. It’s not your looks.” Instead of saying all of this, I came up with the brilliant idea to give this man my dad’s phone number. My dad was 88 years old and I figured that if the waiter did call him, my dad would pick up and say: “Hello? Is this Publisher’s Clearing House? Where’s my money?!” and the Russian man would hang up and never call again. My dad’s number was also one of the few phone numbers I had committed to memory. 

I mostly forgot all about it until the next day when I went over to my parents’ place for bagels. I was feeling hungover and took a long, hot subway ride to the Upper West Side. My dad had a particularly bad fall that messed him up in June, and he wasn’t quite his boisterous self. I pushed back his feathery, gray hair and kissed him on the forehead. It was warm and soft. 

“Hey, Ruthie! I got these weird texts last night!” My dad handed me his Samsung phone. It had me in a kayak as his wallpaper. 

“Oh, dad, I’m sorry. I gave your number to a Russian man.” 

“WHAT?! You what? Well, that’s just great. He’s probably Russian mafia and now I’ll have to fight him with my cane.” 

My dad treated “the mafia” as an imminent, looming threat in his life. I looked at my dad’s text messages and sure enough at 2:07am, the Russian man sent my dad three text messages. 

2:07 Hey Ruthie it was nice meeting u. Pls let me kno if u ever need anything

What was I going to do? Ask this guy to file my taxes? What would I need from him?

2:08 I did not like your friend Lindsay. She is silly 😝 I liked your quiet friend tho 

He also texted my dad a link to a YouTube video. I didn’t click the link. I deleted the thread and then blocked this guy’s number. 

“Here, dad. I blocked his number, don’t worry. He won’t text you again!” 

“OK. Geez. Well, why was he talking to you? Weren’t you with Jeremy? You must have been the most approachable one.” 

This word, “approachable,” hurt my feelings. My hangover probably contributed to my irritability. Was my dad implying that I’m not attractive enough to be hit on? It bothered me so much. It felt like a hurtful thing to be called. 

“What do you mean by ‘approachable,’ Dad?” 

He didn’t answer. My mom said he didn’t mean it in a bad way and that he’d been struggling with word choice lately. My dad was an excellent writer, so I found that hard to believe, although he did say the bagels were “tenacious” as he tried to cut them with a knife and fork. I was feeling moody. I left without saying “I love you” or “goodbye.” I let the door slam on my way out. 

The next day, my mom and I were on our way home and my dad called us to tell us that he had chest pains. My mom insisted that it was the Lobster Bisque she got him for lunch. I told him we’d be home soon. I watched him die (or perhaps he was already dead) in the ER at Mount Sinai Roosevelt. 

“I love you, dad,” I cried. I looked at the nurse next to me and told her: “I wasn’t sweet to him yesterday. I wasn’t nice.” 

“It’s okay,” she said. “He knows you love him.” 

I guess she has to tell people that often. The next day, my mom and I had to call his caretaker, Loanna, and tell her what had happened. I asked her if he had said anything about us on the last day he was alive. 

“He said that he knows your mother loved him, because of all the things she did for him.”

“What about me?” 

“He said you gave his number to a Russian man.” 

Sometimes, people do know when it’s “the end” and they can say goodbye, but for a lot of us, we don’t get to write the conclusion when it comes to losing a loved one. This is not the final chapter I would have selected for me and my dad. If I could rewrite our story, I would have spent the evening of my thirtieth birthday here with my dad, watching Breaking Bad and eating Americone Dream instead of trying to twerk at a dive bar in Bed Stuy. 

In retrospect, I should have never been mad about the “approachable” thing! I am approachable! It’s part of my charm. I always get that I “look like somebody” someone knows. It’s clear from those texts that the Russian man was trying to get to my friend! And that’s okay. I have a wonderful husband. What do I care who or what the Russian man wanted? 

I am left with knowing that The Russian Man saga is my final memory with my dad and perhaps his final memory of me. When I re-frame it, I tell myself I gave that weird, Russian waiter my dad’s number, because I wanted him to protect me. In some ways, it was the perfect final memory for us. I reverted back to my 13 year old self when my dad called me approachable, but ultimately I was a 30 year old woman who loved her dad enough to memorize his phone number and thought of him as my friend. He had to know I loved him. Now that I have my own son, I hope he gives my number to a Russian man one day..