Eggs in a CartonMature

How my crazy Russian friend and I met and how I chased a shot with a raw egg.

I love my friends. Honestly, I don’t think that there is anything in the world as valuable as our relationships. I try to positively influence and teach my friends pieces of my social culture and I hope that in return I can learn from them.

Sergey is my crazy Russian friend. When I say crazy I don’t mean he wakes up at five am to go for a run in the snow. I don’t mean that he has extreme political beliefs. I mean that I met him when he had me chase a shot with a raw egg. We were at a house party and there he was in the kitchen, tall as a mountain towering two heads above everyone else trying to get shitfaced. Girls on either side of him were trying to find an excuse to grope his lats or latch on to the tree trunks that were his arms.

I don’t consider myself the type that is easily influenced by peer pressure but when this god of a man grabbed me behind the neck and pulled me to him so that our foreheads smashed together and he began to spill his heart out to me in his garbled accent I could tell that this moment must have meant a lot to him. I would do anything for this foreign soul. I’m not quite sure what he said to me and I haven’t asked him since but tears spilled down his cheeks in a torrent like a heavy Soviet rain. With his free hand that wasn’t wrapped two thirds around my neck he collected a salty drop into two shot glasses then proceeded to pour some thought out combination of vodka. On the counter amongst the red plastic cups and empty bottles sat a carton of eggs. With surprisingly deft fingers he cracked the tops off of two of them and handed me one of them.

Up until this point I had attributed his open emotions and peculiarly strong taste of alcohol to a difference in culture. It had not been until I held a mix of torched cherry Bacardi and cheap Smirnoff in one hand and an egg oozing its sticky insides in my other did I realize that I was under thrall of a drunk as fuck hulking Russian. Terror and excitement tend to find themselves like eggs in the same carton at college parties.

He raised his shot glass high and in his strong accent barked, “To love another person!” and looked at me as if he was a proud father. Then it fit. He had seen my Le Mis shirt and nailed me for a theater geek. Weather he was or not, or perhaps that he simply held a strong interest in the French revolution didn’t matter. What mattered was that past the alcohol, the egg, the difference in body mass and the Atlantic Ocean we did connect on our passion for a particular musical. And in his face I screamed back, “Is to see the face of God!”

We turned the shot glasses upside down and drank. Someone must have hit me in the head with a baseball bat but I stood strong, mouth on fire. We lifted our gooey dripping eggs; our eyes locked and cried together, “Tomorrow comes!” And I drank down my first raw egg.

I love my friends. 

The End

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