The late morning sun burned away last night’s rain, turning the streets into a sauna. Despite the sticky air, both wore dungarees and white cotton shirts.

Samil’s masculine visage and airy voice blended like sugar and water, and his thin goatee turned black in the shade of an occasional awning.

“When did you get to NYC?”

“The day before you hired me,” said Andrew.

“Where you living?”

“I got a room at St. Marks,” he noted his concern. “What?”

“I heard that place gets wild,” said Sam.

“It has its share of weirdos.” He bent to tie his shoe. “I stay in my room.”

“Why are we on Mulberry?” Sam surveyed their surroundings. “There’s no trains or busses here,”

“I have no idea, you’re scout leader,”

“Polish food,” Sam declared. “Papa Bear’s on Spring and Lafayette,”

Lafayette meant Brooklyn, so they boarded the J train at Canal Street Station. From the subway car window over the Brooklyn Bridge, the brown water below glowed under the midday sun.

A smaller city awaited on the horizon, its streets busier than the ones back home. The breeze pushed them through Greenpoint, a waterfront neighborhood whose mom-and-pop shops boasted Polish-language menus.

Papa Bears felt like any other hole in the wall, its savory smells flooding the sidewalk to lure the uninitiated. Three booths sat opposite a long deli counter, where a motley collection of snack-chip bags tempted those in line.

Andrew and Samil placed their order with a white-capped man behind the counter. The menu over his head wasn’t much different from the Slovak fare his mother cooked, and just like at home, he drowned his breaded chicken cutlet in butter before scarfing it down. A single potato ball flecked with dill remained on his plate, and Samil stole it before they left.

The sidewalk talk turned from playing in a high school orchestra to where they’d bought their first instruments. Samil stopped walking when Andrew mentioned his matka.

“Shit, I gotta call my mom,” he declared, leading him to a phone booth on the corner. “Do you have any change, Andrej?”

Andrew paused—only matka said his name this way. He dug into his pockets, moving closer and taking in the young man’s Aramis body spray.

“See that bodega?” said Sam, loading each coin handed to him into the phone. “Go inside and get us something to drink.” He pushed a five-dollar bill at him. “I want a tropical Seagram’s, not that Gallo crap.”

Money in hand, Andrew crossed over to the corner store

Inside, he whisked past two older men gibbering in a language he didn’t recognize. Glass doors lined the back wall, each fridge filled with shapely bottles and colorful cans. He found what Sam wanted before grabbing one for himself.

A thin Hindi man awaited at the checkout counter, exchanging fast lyrical words with his guests as if Andrew weren’t there.

“Five-fifty,” said the man, barely eyeballing him.

Andrew handed over the five-dollar bill and produced his last two quarters. The man nodded his thanks and handed him two brown paper bags and a receipt.

Back on Green Street, his new friend was still on the phone, speaking Polish that Andrew deciphered in bits and pieces. When the conversation turned heated, Samil took a paper-wrapped bottle from Andrew, swigged it, and then slipped into an angry English.

“As far as I’m concerned, he screwed himself. It’s not my responsibility to take care of his bullshit,” he barked in the receiver. “Whatever. I’ll do it, but after this, I’m done.”

Samil slammed down the phone and said in Polish, “Now I have a headache,”

“Take an Advil,” Andrew cracked.

“You speak Polish?”

“No, I speak Slovak,”

“Get out.” Sam grinned. “It’s all the same, right?”

“Not Polish.” Andrew took a sip of the cooler, its tartness tickling his nose. “You bitches can’t even say the word coffee like the rest of us,”

Samil laughed, until his eyes shifted to the phone.

“You got brothers?” he asked.

“Nope,” said Andrew, who added, “Is everything okay?”

“Both my brothers got arrested this morning.” Sam shook his head, his eyes on something distant. “My older brother wasn’t born here, and this is his third offense, so he’s getting deported.”

Andrew took a larger sip, the crisp bubbles making him thirsty.

“One brother is my momma’s favorite,” Sam added. “He’s going to jail,”

“That’s fucked up,” he whispered.

“She wants me to hit his apartment. Clear out his money and shit before the cops toss it, and the landlord takes the rest.” Sam took a mouthful of his cooler, swallowed it loudly, and then burped.

“When it rains, it storms,” came more Polish.

Andrew added, “And there’s always thunder,”

“See, you understand enough, Andrej,” Sam laughed before realizing Andrew returned without change. “How much was this?”

“Five-fifty,” he said.

“Get out.” Sam’s baby face twisted in anger. “I hate Williamsburg. Everything’s so fucking expensive just because you can see Manhattan.”

Andrew laughed, unable to take the young man seriously.

The bus dropped them back in Midtown.

After window shopping for things wanted yet unneeded, they got hungry again by late afternoon. This time, Samil chose a McDonald’s near Central Park because the Burger King at Trump Tower cost too much money.

“I went to Atlantic City once,” he said, shoving a bouquet of limp fries into his mouth. “I didn’t bet anything because I was sixteen,”

“Where’s Brighton Beach?” Andrew asked.

“It’s at the end of the Q line, where the boardwalk meets the sea,” Sam spoke as if reading from a brochure before turning derisive. “It’s mostly Ukrainians now, but they’re Jews like us, so they’re tolerable. Shit, we’ve lived in the same apartment since my dad died,”

“My mother came over from Zvolen before I was born.” Andrew sucked on the straw to his thick chocolate milkshake until his ears popped. “My dad died building some stupid pipeline in the Carpathians,”

“Get out,” Sam said. “My pop had a coronary on top of his girlfriend. She was older than him, so I don’t know if she qualifies as a girl,”

Slavs possessed a unique candor, often speaking without a filter.

“I can’t believe this heat. It’s only the last week of May,” Sam added, slurping what remained of his Sprite and then burping loud enough to warrant a few stares. “We got weekenders already hitting the beach,”

“Beachcombers come all year round in AC,” said Andrew. “Not the good kind, either. It sucks living by the only beachfront property that lets you drink and gamble.”

Sam glanced at his watch. “I got to get my brother’s shit.”

“Where does he live?”

“East Seventh and First,”

“That’s around the block from St. Marks,”

“Yep,” Sam leaned forward. “Right behind you if you cut through Cooper Square.”

Andrew picked up their tray and walked it to the trash can.

“You’re coming, right?” Sam asked, standing behind him.

♪

On the train back to Astor, Samil spoke more of his brothers.

The oldest, Miro, had been in and out of trouble since he could walk. Konrad, momma’s favorite, managed to keep out of jail despite his criminal ways. This time, though, he got caught on surveillance delivering stolen PCs to Miro’s apartment.

“He got himself into this,” said Sam. “He can get himself out.”

“If he doesn’t?” Andrew asked.

“He’ll go to jail,” Sam said with a shrug.

Andrew swallowed hard. “Prison is fucked up,”

“So is having stolen shit in your apartment,” said Sam. “Lucky for him, the poh-poh don’t have his current address. His driver’s license has him at home with us.”

Prison rape clouded Andrew’s thoughts.

“I wouldn’t last a minute in prison,”

“No straight con going to fuck Konni in the ass,” Sam chuckled. “He’s ugly as shit.”

“Rapists don’t care about looks,”

“Prison gay is a straight man’s game,” said Sam. “If that ass don’t look and sound like a girl, they ain’t going for it,”

Andrew followed him to a red-brick rowhouse. Climbing its concrete stoop, he stood behind him, smirking as Sam pushed every call button until someone freed the door with a buzz.

Inside, the sparse lobby resembled a 70s television show, with large circles painted in rich earth tones on a wall half-covered in wood paneling. An orange rug led them to a tiny elevator that took them to the third floor.

At the door marked ‘8’, Samil pulled out a lock-picking kit from his back pocket.

“You don’t have a key?” Andrew asked.

“No way, Konni trusts no one.” Sam made short work of the lock and knob. “Listen, the police will be here soon, and they’re going to seize everything inside and auction it off. We might as well get what we can, right?”

Sadly, Andrew understood the logic.

At age ten, his matka’s second boyfriend, the only man he ever called ‘dad,’ had passed away. His family hated her, so within hours of his death, matka took Andrew to their shared apartment behind the man’s musical instrument business and cleaned out everything they could fit into her Mustang.

“Let’s go,” said Sam, opening the door.

The empty apartment felt like an oven with its windows closed and the AC off. A green leather sectional covered most of its pinewood floor, and high-tech appliances, some still in their boxes, cluttered the kitchen countertops.

“Momma and her boyfriend will want this couch,” Sam said, lip curled. “You need anything? Sheets, comforter, shit like that?”

Andrew stared at him. “I can’t take his stuff,”

“The cops are just going to bag it and incinerate it,” Sam said. “Don’t feel weird, okay? I wouldn’t offer it to you if you weren’t a Slav,”

Andrew sighed, “Ah, yes, ethnic partiality,”

“The only time we Slavs get along as a people,” Sam laughed. “Is when we’re sharing in someone else’s loss,”

In the bedroom, a clean white-down comforter tempted him.

Samil appeared with a black trash bag. “Since you live across Cooper,” he said, shoving it at him. “We’ll carry your haul over tonight,”

Andrew sighed. “This is fucked up,”

“He’s got soap in here,” Sam said, pushing a travel kit satchel at him. “Scissors, mirror, tweezers, nail clippers.”

“I can’t take any of this,” he argued.

“Look,” Sam said. “You’ll need this shit when the job ends in July.”

Andrew faced him. “The job ends in July?”

“Yeah, after the Fourth, they hire a trendy band for the mid-summer tourists. We return in September when our boring regulars get back from their Miami vacays.” Sam stopped filling his bag with folded towels and looked at him. “You didn’t know the gig was seasonal?”

Andrew sat on the bed without answering.

“Save your checks to pay your rent and score costly crap like soap, shampoo, and clothes from my brother.” Sam opened the closet. “These are his old roommate’s clothes. I think he’s my size, and I’m your size. So, it all works out,”

Andrew blinked. “Boy, you are not my size,”

“You best shut up, twinkzilla,” said Sam.

“You’re like, three of me,”

“What did I just say?” Sam warned with a grin.

Against his better judgment, Andrew took what he could carry; two sheet sets, a comforter, pillows with cases, two sticks of deodorant, two pads of paper, and a pack of pens. Sam, meanwhile, snatched up a small color television with a game console attached.

The roommate’s clothes were too high-end for Andrew, and not one of the mostly three-piece suits and designers socks fit Samil. After a time, they’d filled enough bags and were preparing to leave when Andrew spotted something under the bed.

It was a worn leather violin case.

Sam stood over him as he unlocked its dingy nickel clasps. The instrument’s honeyed varnish gleamed under blackened ribs and a scroll. Dark maple stripes ran down its two-piece back, their fine yet uneven grain native to a Vladimir Pilar.

“That ain’t my brother’s,” Sam whispered, admiring it. “Konni don’t play anything except Nintendo and cards.”

Andrew pressed his cheek to the instrument’s back.

Samil bent over and looked him in the eyes. “Magical wood, huh?”

“Something like that,” Andrew said, face hot. “Are you taking this home?”

“The strings on that wood are too small,” Sam spoke like a true cellist. “Listen, for me, playing the strings is a paycheck. For you, it’s clearly a sexual orientation.”

Andrew gently placed the piece back in its case.

“I can’t take this,” he whispered, caressing its fingerboard.

Sam said, “It’s you or the police,”

“They would auction a Pilar,” said Andrew. “They wouldn’t burn it, right?”

“We’re talking about the NYPD,” Sam said. “That shit’s getting burned,”

Andrew trekked back to Saint Mark’s with the violin under his arm and two overloaded trash bags in his hands.

The usual nighttime crowd loitered near the front entry, eyeing him and Sam, a bag on his back, as they passed through with their loot.

Once locked inside, Sam decreed his room as the perfect hide-out.

Slavic blood compelled them to tack several colorful quilts to the wall, hiding the peeled paint and cracked plaster. The hotel’s ratty sheets lay in a bundle on the floor, replaced by midnight blue satin and an oversized white comforter. Sam tossed two large square pillows at Andrew, who anticipated snuggling them to stave off the AC’s cold. This was his best day in New York despite the spontaneous larceny.