About the Author Misha Firer is a 25-year-old writer from Russia. After fighting in the Israeli Army & getting high in Amsterdam, he incidentally wound up in Berkeley, California. This year his short stories, essays and columns have appeared or forthcoming in BIG News (2), Laundry Pen, NuVein (2), Paumanok Review, Pink Chameleon, Rose & Thorn, Scarlet Letters, Slow Trains (2), Struggle, Taint, Vestal Review and WordRiot.

1.

Victor was on his way home from the furniture factory, ten hours of lunch-less hard labor for four dollars an hour, an illegal immigrant's salary. Exhausted, hungry, depressed, he stepped off the Q train and briskly walked towards the apartment he shared with five other illegal immigrants. A standard routine, a New York clockwork conveyor belt working without pauses. Wednesday, still two more days until the blessed weekend.

Victor recognized the quotidian faces of the bleak people who marched along with him through the penumbra, all except the face of a fat woman standing on the corner. As he approached she said, "I’m pregnant, sir. Can you help me?" Victor stopped. What goes around, comes around. He didn’t want to reflect upon other people's problems, he was tired, hungry, and vaguely wanted to take a shit. He was only two minutes from home. But instead of walking straight there, he stopped and reflected for some time and asked her the most important question,

"Are you an American citizen?"

"Please help me, sir."

"Answer my question, Are you American citizen?"

"Yes, of course."

Victor, having acquired a piece of crucial information, pondered it malevolently. Mostly his mind turned to the assembly line where he made infinite holes in wooden planks. He spent up to twelve hours a day at this machine with his every action placing in jeopardy the existence of his fingers, maybe even his entire arms. Then he thought about his M.A. in electrical engineering, his many years of professional experience in his home country, his current lack of potential to raise his status in this self-proclaimed freest country in the world.

Victor inspected the woman who stood before him. Fat, but he had seen much fatter women in America, not obese by local standards.

"Are you over twenty-one?"

The fat pregnant woman hesitated with an answer.

"Tell the truth. I will help you only if you are completely honest with me."

"I’m twenty three. I’m three months pregnant. I am not gonna give my child away, no matter what."
Victor drew in a long breath. Finally he said. "I will help you. But you are going to have to do something for me in return."

"Sure," the fat pregnant woman answered agreeably.

"Do you have anything to eat at your place? I’m hungry."

"Yes, of course. Chips, pizza-"

"I mean real food for God’s sake!"

"I guess not," she muttered.

"That's OK. I’ll show you how to cook." Victor said, warming up to the conversation. He had made up his mind.

Raal got the poison from the same supplier who shipped him coffee and baked goods. It was strictly business -- no questions asked. He had poisons from all over the world, some killed instantaneously, others took a year of constant intake to cause death.
Raal had a license (it hung around his neck like a talisman) to sell lunches from a roach coach, a tiny booth on wheels with barely enough space for his body, outfitted with bagels, donuts, a pot for coffee, tea, and hot chocolate. He pulled the trailer around town with his mini-van. Every morning at six he strategically positioned his movable business at Federal Plaza, near the entrance to New York City's INS headquarters.

Most of his customers were 9 to 5 INS workers. He treated them politely, smiled, initiated short conversations, gave them discounts, poisoned slowly. Many of them would die within a year or two, but the traces would never lead investigators to his trailer.

There were other customers, casual passers by, tourists. He could distinguish them right away, the former by their lack of interest in communication, the latter by their halting, but excitable English. Raal poisoned them too. Raal, after five years of working in his trailer made no exceptions to his grim menu, that is till he met Maria.

As usual, at six am Raal was on the corner of the skyscraper that looked to him like the cosmic construction of a crazy boy, paranoid and megalomaniacal. An hour elapsed and then Raal saw her.

She was the thinnest creature he had ever seen. As if she had come from the famine-inflicted part of Africa. Except that she was white. And she was very tall. A walking skeleton.

"Can I help you ma’am?"

“Yes, I would like-“ the man behind her cut in. Raal recognized him, an INS investigator. What was his name? John? Jack? Josh.

“Good morning Joshua. Is this your wife?”

Joshua answered awkwardly, “Yes, Raal. This is my wife Maria.”

Raal had been slowly poisoning Josh for about three months. Even if he stopped poisoning him now he didn't stand a chance.

“My name is Raal.”

“Maria. Are you an Arab?”

“No. I’m from a tiny clan that lives on the island of Mishuga in the Indian Ocean. We trace our origins back to Khazars and Uzbeks.’

“Oh I see.”

Raal didn’t give her poison. But he gave it to her husband.

“A new regular customer?” Raal inquired of the investigator, pointing at Maria.

“No, not really.”

Raal made eye contact with Maria, held it, never lowering his glance while preparing two coffees, and as Maria looked away bewildered, Raal handed each of them their own cup.

“Hope to see you again soon,” Raal said looking at Maria.

Maria glanced at Raal and turned around. Josh, all smiles, took her hand and they walked to the megalomaniac building. Raal was looking at Maria’s poor excuse for a behind when she spun around and their glances met and held again. Raal mouthed, "Come again," and Maria nodded in agreement. When Josh turned to see what was going on behind his back, the window on the trailer was shut, inside the trailer Raal was breathing heavily, eyes closed. Josh asked Maria, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she replied. And then after a pause. “Nothing.”

When Victor opened the door of his apartment, it suddenly occurred to him that he had forgotten to put the ring back on his finger. The other thing that had slipped his mind was his wife's name. It was hard to pronounce but even harder to memorize.

“How was your day?”

Elish. No. Eli something.

“Goddamn job,” Victor wheezed still at a loss as to what to call his wife.

Alisha. Alisha something.

“Every morning I kiss my fingers good bye in case I don’t see them again.”

Alishahu. That’s her name.

"Honey, I wish I could go to work myself, but-“

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you for quite a long time. I think we should get rid of this baby.”

She froze and then burst into tears.

“How can you say that? It’s my baby. I will keep it. I have told you that a million times. I want to keep my baby.”

“We have to get rid of it.” Victor repeated doggedly. “Because it is not mine, but even if it were-“

“Never, never, never,” she chanted.

Alishaya, not Alishahu. That’s her name. But fuck it.

All worked up, Victor suddenly lost his two-years-in-the-country command of the English language. He whined in unison with his wife, trying to articulate his negative emotions but failing.

He held her in an embrace, locked her in his arms, but rather than being comforted she began to cry.

“Stop it,” Victor said. But she went on crying even harder. “Stop!” he yelled. “Stop right now, you fat bitch!”

He pushed her away from him and kicked her in the stomach. She gasped and stopped crying. Her eyes bulged in shock. Victor kicked her in the stomach again, this time harder.

“Don’t kill my baby. Please.” Victor kicked and kicked. “What do you want from me? Papers? Why do you need this country anyway? There is enough suffering here without you.”

“Because I have nowhere to go you stupid bitch.” And he kicked his wife again. Then he grabbed her, lifted her up and beat her unconscious.

Alishaya woke up in the hospital.

Maria had never been fucked so hard and well in her entire life. It seemed to her that Raal’s penis reached all the way to her heart and tickled it till she went mad with her orgasm.

Finally, three rounds later, he stopped and they lay down on their backs, exhausted.

“Oh my God,” Maria whispered.

“Doesn't your husband ever fuck you?”

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

“You know I’ve been slowly poisoning your husband. You will be a widow soon.”

“What? Speak English.”

“I said I am poisoning your husband and he will die soon, which means we can be together all the time.”

“I don’t think I want that. To be together with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because we have nothing in common except sex.”

“I see.”

“You are not from here, you will never understand what’s going on here, our way of life, our mentality. You are different.”

“If you say so.”

“But tell me what you felt . . . when you left your country. And tell me why you did it in the first place.”

“I had trouble with the law in Mishuga. I had to leave and naturally I came to America.”

“Naturally?”

“Yes, naturally.”

“But why does anyone come here? I mean those who never had troubles in their own countries? Who come here to seek what, the American dream? I could never understand that. The United States is just a country like any other.”

“You are right, it’s not a place, it’s a state of mind and soul. Mostly soul. It’s almost never about the external location.”

“Are you unhappy because you have immigrated?”

“The place never changes, only time does, your life does, so does your perception. I am used to taking it easy. My life too. I don’t feel either happy or unhappy about my life in America.”

They made love again. Afterwards Raal spoke to Maria.

“I love you Maria. I want to marry you. Your husband will be dead soon. We will be happy together. I will do everything for you.”

“No, Raal, it will not work out as you think it will.”

“Why not?”

“Because we are from different planets. We are way too different.”

With that Maria turned away from Raal and in a minute was snoring, already submerged in a dream.

Raal lay on the other side of the queen size bed and contemplated a future without Maria.

When Alishaya opened her eyes, she saw the gauntest creature she had ever seen. For a second she thought it was death itself beckoning her towards her destiny. The animated skeleton spoke:

“Good morning, Alishaya.”

A white gown, white walls, a hard gurney, must be a hospital.

“Do you have medical insurance?”

“No.”

“You already owe us a lot of money. You’ve been in coma for three days.”

“My baby?”

“You had a miscarriage.”

Alishaya started whimpering, but her head was so dry she couldn’t squeeze out a single tear. It was frustrating.

“What did he do to my baby?”

“Your husband brought you here,” the walking talking skeleton said, “he said someone beat you up on the street when you were coming home from work.”

“I haven’t worked for months. That bastard beat me up himself. My husband did this to me.”

“You’ll get pregnant again. Concerning your husband if that’s the case I think you should divorce him and take him for all he's worth -- that will give you enough money to pay your medical bill at least.”

“Where is he now?”

“He has been by your side the whole time. He left just a couple of hours ago. Said he had to get back to the factory or he would get fired.”

“I want to talk to my husband.”

The cell phone was next to her bed.

Alishaya said, “Concerning the bills. My husband will pay everything. No court. He will pay.” Or else I'll have him deported.

Alishaya dialed his work number, asked for Victor and when he came on the line, she emotionlessly but firmly said the following:

“You dirty bastard. You killed my baby. Now you are going to pay for this. You pay the medical bills. You start treating me good; you buy me whatever I ask you to, you are going to be my loving husband. And you will never do this to me again. Never, ever in your life will you lay a finger on me. You will be a perfect husband to me for the next two years. I will protect you with the INS. But if you make even one mistake I will see to it that you are deported immediately. Do you understand me, Victor?

After a short pause Victor said, “Fair enough. I will do what you ask of me. I will be a good husband to you. But you have to learn how to cook. And you have to get a job too.”

To which Alishaya replied, “Part time.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Hot chocolate. Extra milk and sugar. Bagel with butter.”

And on top some poison to hasten the process of extermination.

“Here you go Joshua.”

Joshua looked around for other customers, found none and entered into conversation with Raal.

“You know I work as an INS investigator. Yesterday I checked out a young couple to ascertain the validity of their marriage. Wife’s American, husband’s an illegal immigrant. The woman had bruises all over her face, I bet he beat her up. But she never uttered a word against him. She sounded like a genuinely devoted wife. I didn’t have any choice but to grant him resident alien status. I mean they showed genuine affection towards each other. They did such a good job of imitating a loving couple. But the question is what drives them all to come here and fight so hard to remain in this country?"

“You know the answer, Joshua. It is the realization of the American Dream.”

“You mean money?”

“Mostly. You can’t deceive yourself forever about the state of the world we live in. It is a living hell -- only now and then you might catch a glimpse of paradise in the distance. Your wife, mister Joshua-“

“My wife?”

“You take good care of her. That’s the only advice I can give to you. She is a beautiful woman.”

Josh felt ill at ease. Nobody ever sincerely told him that. And Raal’s eyes didn’t lie. He paid for poisoned order and took it from the counter.

“You know, Josh, I have never told my victims that I am poisoning them. But there is always the first time. So here it is. I have been poisoning you for half a year now. That leaves you about three months to live. What do you have to say about that?”

Joshua shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t really care. I have nothing to live for. I hate my job, I hate my wife, I hate my life.”

“You can change it all.”

“It’s too late for changes.”

Josh took his bag of food and headed towards One Federal Plaza. To him it looked like a giant coffin pushing hard into heaven. After a moment of deliberation he threw his bag into a garbage can and entered the building.

Sliding through the revolving doors simultaneously, but moving the other way, was Victor. He left One Federal Plaza feeling as happy as a child. He had his green card in hand and he could finally breathe freely in his free country. In a way he felt like a convict exiting his prison. He looked back at the skyscraper, which looked like a nouveau riche narcotic dream, and walked towards the roach coach. He was starving.

“I’m legal!” Victor could hardly control himself. “Do you hear me, I’m legal!”

“I hear you. Did you get refugee status?” Raal asked.

“No, I married a dumb American bitch.”

“I see.”

“And how did you get your papers?” Victor asked the poison man.

“I bought them. I specialize in poisons. I made a fortune back home, preparing poisons to assassinate various VIPs. The shit hit the fan and I had to leave my country in a hurry. I paid a lawyer and entered America as a full-fledged citizen. It may be a free country but nothing comes for free as you are about to find out.’ Raal said smirking viciously.