THE PACKAGE

In the waning days of the Soviet Union, the parcel post, never
terribly reliable even in the old days, fell apart. Yet my parents,
living in the South Russia, found a good way to send me fruit and
other morsels to Moscow where I studied in an engineering college.
They gave the package to a conductor of the Moscow-bound train, paid
him a few rubles for safe-keeping, and I picked it up when the train
arrived.  The package was a feast for me and my two roommates, let's
call them Sergei and Oleg.

Sergei was portly, above average height. His face was somewhat
attractive if a bit pimply. He belonged to one of Southern ethnic
minorities.  Sergei's father visited him often in the dorm.  The
father spoke Russian with an accent. The father was a kind, gentle
fellow with unworldly manner of a college professor. The father was an
intellectual. I forgot what his profession was but he could fluently
speak and write in French. The humanities, however, were about to hit
rock bottom on the socio-economic scale of  the new Russia. The father wore
threadbare pants and used an awkward-looking old bag on wheels to keep
his belongings. Sergei was embarrassed for him and treated him with
slight disdain.

Oleg was a short, rotund, round-faced, ever cheerful fellow from one of
the Russian provinces.

That winter night, when the package was due to arrive, I was lying in
bed with high fever. I had the flu. In this condition, taking an
hour-long trip to the train terminal to pick it up was not a good
idea. I asked Sergei to go.

  * * *

I served in the army as Russia was slowly imploding under a host of
disparate forces: the party apparatchiks were eager to appropriate the
resources they were managing on people's behalf, the intelligentsia
was clamoring for freedoms and reforms while most people just looked
to the standard of living of Western Europe and the US and naively
hoped it can somehow be quickly grafted to the country of defeated
socialism.  When I came back, Russia was markedly
different. People Changed. Young people changed the fastest.

My two college roommates were only two years younger, yet the
differences between us were profound.

Even during my time, studying hard was somehow uncool. The students
usually said that they were so good that they did not have to study at
all or that they would get good grades if only they cared to. I was
not cool. I worked hard for my grades. In new times, the value of an
engineering degree quickly declined, the instructors found it easier
to give us good grades without bothering to teach us much. I switched
my energy to other pursuits: studying English, job, athletics.

For Oleg and Sergei the whole concept of work was somehow
foreign. People who spent their lifetimes working, studying and
advancing their careers were making pittance in the new Russia.
Working hard looked meaningless.

Oleg and Sergei were both talented. Sergei could read in French. Oleg
was an able chess player.  Yet they cultivated this attitude of
apathetic slackers. It was not too difficult: little was required to
get passing grades in our school now.

My approach to success in life was working hard towards some distant
goal. Oleg and Sergei had a more simple and hands-on attitude: success
was measured in rubles. Back then, few were required to feel
rich. Sergei spent endless nights playing bridge for money. Oleg
played chess: the stakes were one ruble per game.

Sergei and Oleg drank a lot. I was a teetotaler.

Our approach to girls was quite different also. I mumbled
something about love and respect. The guys had it worked out pretty
well: get them drunk, make out and get them in the sack. I was a
virgin. They bedded a few girls.

I think we did have a mutual ethnographic interest in each other: we
were just so very different.

  * * *

"Sorry, Misha, I was late and the train already left." said Sergei
with a nonchalant smile when he came back.

The package was sent by my parents. Missing it like that was not an
option for me. Silently, I put on an extra sweater and, slightly
wobbly, went to the subway station for my trip to the train
terminal. I located the train in the layover depot. I was lucky the
conductor had not left. When I came back to the dorm, it was past
midnight. The roommates were out and I was exhausted. I put the
package under my bed and fell asleep.

I woke up later as somebody was shaking my bed.
Sergei was trying to pull the package out and get to its
contents. Seeing that he woke me up, he giggled and averted his eyes.

"Hi, Misha, just trying to get something tasty. You wouldn't mind,
 would you?"

I opened the box and let him pick what he wanted. There was nothing to
say. I was of the last Soviet generation and he was the first of the
post-soviet crop.