Issue #13/94, July 6 - 20, 2000 
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RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL MONKS
Every modern traveler upon coming home from a monastery wants to immediately plunge himself into enjoying the fruits of civilization: to take a shower, watch TV, sit on the toilet with a newspaper in hand, and gawk at a nice pair of fine female legs out of the window.
But more than anything else, the returning traveler wants to get obscenely drunk—which is precisely what Matt and I did.
As soon as we got back to my home town of Arzamas, I put on a suit and tie, and decided to take Matt on a tour of the local bars.
“Get dressed,” I barked, bursting into his hotel room. “Let’s go.”
“Go?” asked Matt, observing my suit with horror. “Go where?”
Evidently, he still hadn’t recovered from the monastery.
“You’ll find out later,” I said.
Matt was left with no choice but to get dressed. The American was in a foreign country. In a strange city. And I’m not exactly a relative you can tell to go screw.
So he silently got up and obediently followed me out the door.
“Alexei, where are we going?” my American partner asked plaintively.
“We’re going to a beer bar,” I answered cheerfully. I was in charge now.
“What do you mean, a beer bar!!! You’ve got a $2000 suit on, but all I’ve got on is a T-shirt and jeans. I look like an asshole!”
“You’ll understand later,” I answered.
We entered a regular old beer bar, where the standard beer bar setting greeted us.
A drunk was sleeping under the bar stand.
In the corner, a fight brewing.
Somewhere, someone was banging someone else.
Others were just flat-out drinking.
Having bought a glass of vodka and a mug of beer— five mugs, to be exact— we sat ourselves down at a table with two other men, one of whom was conspicuously covered in bruises.
“What’s that on your face?” asked Matt.
“I’ve got asphalt disease,” the man answered.
“There’s no such disease,” said Matt.
“Sure there is,” our new companion answered. “Have a drink and you’ll catch it, too.”
“Oh yeah? How much do I have to drink?” asked Matt.
“Drink two liters, go out into the street, fall face down on the asphalt, and you’re sure to catch it. We’ll help you.”
Matt broke out laughing— laughing so hard that the mugs of beer began to rattle around the table.
Our second companion was more serious, and right away started to ask who the hell Matt was. With the accent, and all.
Matt piped in before I could answer.
We both lied.
The story, created on the spot, was that Matt was a marine who had been stationed at the U.S. Embassy. But after having gotten drunk one night, he found himself in a Moscow drunk tank. When he was finally hauled out, the embassy’s top brass gave him a choice— either he resigns from the Marine corps or he goes to the monastery to do some hard-core construction work.
After two hours of heavy boozing, everyone around us had bought into the story.
It must be said that we were not the only ones at the bar drinking heavily. Everyone around us was drinking on our tab and to our health.
As we got drunker, the story became more elaborate, with Matt telling everyone who would listen that we, I being his official escort, had escaped from the monastery and were now on the run. He added a few annoying details, saying that he’d joined the Marine Corps after a failed career as an Oceanographer, and that his mother had been killed by a piece of falling space junk. “Crushed her like a grape,” he said.
And everyone believed us. Not only were we offered protection and shelter by the local alkashy, but by the end of the evening men were coming up to me to demand that I write Matt a good recommendation, so he wouldn’t be kicked out of the marines, or transferred to Liberia, as Matt said he soon would be.
“Just make sure he doesn’t get sent to Africa!” bruise man shouted. “Anywhere but there!”
“To hell with him,” I said. “Frankly, he’s starting to annoy me. The man’s an alcoholic. Africa might be good for him.”
When we finally stumbled home to my place, all I could do was fall face down on the bed, leaving my wife to drive the still-standing Matt to the train station.
Normally, people sin first, then go to a monastery. This was the other way around.
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