The Russian

After 90 days my tourist visa was set to run out, so my friends Seth and Andrea and I planned a morning at the immigration office. I was in business mode at 7am, needing to do a few things before we met up at the park by my house to head downtown.

I walked down the hill from my house to the park, which is practically empty that early in the morning. As I turned away from my normal route to school, I noticed a kid in a black hoodie. He stood out in my mind since there had been a series of robberies around the school by someone dressed the same.

I wasn't paying much attention to him until I realized he was walking in a trajectory that would cross his path with mine, and he would get there before me. I sped up because it felt a little weird...and so did he.

So I sped up a little more (and so did he) and soon I was sprinting down the sidewalk, my wheeled backpack swinging behind me, a few feet off the ground. I was approaching a cross street with cars that careen down the hill without regard, but I didn't care. At that point, I would probably have told you I'd rather be hit by a car than be robbed--as a matter of principle. :) Without looking, I charged into the street. The drivers are pretty gracious here so no one hit me. (Maybe the chase that was going on made them want to help me?)

While running through oncoming traffic (just 2 lanes--not that exciting), I started praying: "Lord, where should I go, especially if this guy DOES have bad intentions?"

I headed straight for the 24-hr mini-mart. I was probably out of breath when I got to the checkout stand and told the clerk I was feeling a little nervous. Maybe that's why she didn't understand me. :) I was hoping someone who knew the neighborhood would scope out the situation for me and make sure everything was cool.

Finally, she says that her manager will meet me outside. A few minutes later, a burly tank of a guy is at the store opening, gesturing with his finger that I should join him outside. Could this be the manager?

I cautiously obey him, noticing again that the kid in the hoodie is still hanging out just across the street from the store, watching us. The man explains he owns the store and asks me if there's anyway he can be of assistance.

I use vague, non-accusatory terms to describe the situation since I really can't guarantee that this kid really was trying to rob me, since he never caught up with me(!).

The man glances at me and asks, "Why did you pick my store to run into for safety?" I start to say something about asking God for help (why not be honest and share?), and he quickly looks disappointed.

In a few seconds, he rallies and with his chest thrust a little more forward says, "Obviously, everyone has told you about me. Why else would you come to ME for help?"

I fumble around a bit and come up with, "I hear your store is wonderful and I've been shopping there a few times!"

This is NOT what he is after, so he leans in and continues, "Everyone knows who I am. During the guerrita (little war), I saved this neighborhood. Now everyone knows that it stays safe because I scare the bad guys away. Do you REALLY not know who I am?"

All I can do is repeat that I'm glad to meet him so he continues, "They all know who I am, the good guys and the bad guys. I am...(I swear there was a pause)...The Russian."

Feeling like I may have just met a superhero or a character from The Godfather, I say, "Nice to meet you."

"My name is Alex."

"Great to meet you Alex, I'm Amy."

"I'm from Russia originally."

Thinking quickly, I respond, "My grandmother was from Czechoslovakia."

Alex beams. "Prague is beautiful! We are practically neighbors!"

Now that we have bonded, he tells me the story (As if I had a choice. My eye is still on the hooded teen, leaning against a tree across the street, reading a newspaper!?):

"There was a war here. Bullet holes in every store front." He gestures broadly with his thick, muscular, hairy arms--not an exaggeration.

Alex tells me how 8 years ago this place was overrun with gangs, shooting matches, and generally un-safe conditions. He owned a business and the gangs were making life difficult, so he and his son took matters into their own hands.

As he describes the artillery they used, the attack on their store and the shoot-out that followed, he raises an imaginary gun and takes aim at, you guessed it, the hooded teen across the street, still watching us. Ha!!

The Russian had to go to court because he was guilty of killing 3 people, but he was acquitted since it was in self-defense.

It didn't end there. There were other gun battles, knife fights, and he shoves up his sleeves and a pant-leg to show me the scars.

He tells me, "You are safe now because you know The Russian. I am always here and I always have mi amiguita (my little girlfriend) with me." And he reaches down and pats his pants pocket where I now see the outline of a gun.

I thank him and tell him we are all grateful he's around. My friends show up, wondering who this guy is. We are ready to leave for immigration, but he has one more request. He wants me to memorize his phone number so I can always call him if something happens. He'll show up and take care of it.

The kid with the hooded sweatshirt is gone by the time I leave.

I doubt I'll be calling The Russian, but I think meeting him made my month.

Sidenote: I just had to look up The Russian on wikipedia, because I knew I'd heard the term before. If an artist drew a dramatic version of MY Russian, it wouldn't look much different from this one of the Marvel Comics supervillain from The Punisher: