Red Scare

Hey kids, remember last time when I was getting ready to have my kitchen torn apart? Well, it’s been torn a new one. If the kitchen is the heart of a home, mine is undergoing open heart surgery, and I am at a loss. That kitchen is my room. It’s where I show my love, what with all the baking and cooking and nurturing and happy smells and simmering and from scratch going on in there. But it’s been gutted, down to empty cabinets, no counters, studs on the wall, a skeleton. Eventually, the new pieces will be installed and it will again look like a kitchen, but until that happens, I have to admit, I don’t know what to do with myself or my creative energy.

The other afternoon, the granite guy came to do the templates for the counter tops and the island. We bought granite from a local place that seems legitimate since it has seven locations, but I can’t shake my gut feeling that something just isn’t right. The salesman looked like a standard Southern construction dude, complete with steel toed boots, a camouflage ball cap, wind burned skin, and rough hands. He offered us a great deal, with all sorts of things thrown in, including the kitchen sink, but when it came time to discuss price, suddenly he acted all offended we wanted an itemized quote. It turned out we were paying for everything, even for things we didn’t really want or like. After buying our own fabulous sinks and faucets, we went back to our sleaze ball and renegotiated a better price, and voila, we were ready to have our counters measured, which would be done by the men who actually work with the stone. All the stone men also happen to be Russian.

Now, I would like to say I have nothing against Russians, except they are the reason my great grandparents came to America, so maybe I do have a little something against them. I'm sure they are not all Jew-hating Cossacks, but you never know, do you? This particular group of Russian men could, and might, all be related to each other. They had the same thick eyebrows and necks with the same gold chains, the same heavy Slavic accents, and even the same clouds of cigarette smoke enveloping them. If they weren’t selling granite, they could have been selling ex-Soviet weaponry or a shitload of heroin. Or all of the above.

Last week, I had to go pick out the actual slabs of granite that were going in my kitchen, which meant I had to deal with the Russians. They all looked at me like they are undressing me with their eyes, only not in a good way. Really, they were probably sizing me up, figuring out what kind of a rube I am, and how best to con me before killing me and dumping my body. One of the Russians came to my house a few days later to measure all the counters for templates so they could cut the granite and deliver it, in theory. I watched him from my window as he finished his cigarette and entered the house, bringing his cloud of smoke with him.

He introduced himself and shook my hand, looking deep into my eyes Svengali style. I didn’t know what that look meant, but whatever it made me do would definitely be against my will. He made little heavily accented comments about the things in my home, the kind of comments that workers should never make about your stuff, as if he were Christmas shopping in my living room or, more likely, what he would enjoy when he moved in after my death. Luckily he didn’t take too long before he oozed his way back to his car. His presence was less than reassuring.

The next day, it was back to the granite shop to make sure the measurements fit on the granite slabs, which is referred to as the layout stage, although it wasn’t like we actually put templates on the slabs and picked the best parts. Slabs of granite are kind of heavy and not easily tossed around like, say, a blueprint. The shop manager, another hairy, smoke-cloud enveloped Russian with a gold chain, creepily introduced himself and confirmed that the granite I selected was, in fact, the granite I selected. He made me sign my name on some painter’s tape on each granite slab, and then asked if I had any questions. My only question was when I could expect installation, and he replied with a shoulder shrug and a lopsided grin that let me know how little of a shit he gave.

For the next few days, all I could think of was how scared I was to be alone in the house with a group of hirsute Slavic men. It wasn’t just that I didn’t trust them enough to have them in my home, it was that I didn’t put it past them to do something to me and my home. I don’t mean rape and robbery; I mean dismembering and arson. I spent several sleepless hours imagining my husband being unable to use dental records to identify my body because both my teeth and my face had been removed. I could picture the Russian granite men lighting my faceless, toothless corpse on fire, only to douse the flames with a healthy stream of vodka-laced urine. My gut feeling bordered on the psychotic side of indigestion. I take worry to a whole new level.

I convinced my friend, SF, to stay with me the day my granite was to be installed. If nothing else, she can run faster than me and would be able to identify what I wore last. Her mother agreed it was the right thing to do, since she too felt I would not be safe home alone with a group of Russian granite men. I found that very validating, especially since my husband thought my fears were totally out of proportion to any actual danger in which I might have been.

I am pleased to report that my granite has been installed, and it looks beautiful, and also I am alive and well. The installation was done by Latino men. They even sang Feliz Navidad, among other songs,  while they worked. That was the only song I knew, but SF knew all the other songs, since she is a native Spanish speaker. She not only offered me protection, she also assured me they weren't talking about me. Paranoia and fear are the chicken and the egg of mental disorders.

And the best part was that my hair wasn’t braided and then used to hang my body before I was beheaded and then set on fire.