The Well Dressed Vladimir Karlov

“Do not spill a drop of that or I shall sell you to the gypsies,” twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov threatened. His mother was anxiously hanging over a pot of boiling soup, trying to pour some into a platinum thermos. “I spent three hours last night making that delicacy you're fumbling with and I'll not have a fool-handed mistress of the night ruin it for me.”

On any other day Vladimir would have held his tongue, for he was a firm believer in the classical household hierarchy. However, any other day was not the first day of school.

The year prior was a fretful one, a mixture of benign teachers holding hands with benign children. Circles and squares on chalkboards. Backwards mathematics. Unintelligible cursive with oversized loops and heart-shaped dots.

When asked the answer to a simple geometric equation, a girl named Elisa mentioned that her favorite color was blue. When a boy named Tyler was asked the same question he began talking about soccer and pepperoni pizza. Then the old bag turned to Vlad.

“Can you help us out, Vlad?”

“I cannot simpleton? For you and your union of dim-witted hags are beyond help. I'll not learn about asymmetrical circles and slanted squares that adorn a beaten chalkboard and fill these scraps you call books. Did they not teach you of a compass in your club, old lady? Has there been no mention of rulers? No, gray-haired governess, I'll not say a thing, I'll not say a word.”

“It seems you already have. And quite a lot at that.” She smiled at her wit and the kids shared in it, with echoing laughter that filled the classroom. Vladimir stood atop his desk and puffed out his chest, pointing his fingers to the peons below.

“Laugh it up, trolls. Laugh till you wet yourselves and forget the name on your book bags. You bore me with your stories of circular cheese and longhaired dolls. Your stained paints and knotted hair. Your colorful lunch pails and individual servings of pudding. Are you aware of what you're eating, you buffoons? Are you aware of anything at all!?”

Vladimir walked east, soup in tow, thinking about the year before. At least the old bag is gone he thought, “at least the old bag is gone.”

The school was a massive wall of cracking red. Brick with granite in between. As Vladimir approached the building, he assumed a conversation with the graying security guard. “How dare they allow, let alone expect, children to enter the confines of this looming disaster.”

“Seems they think it's best for you, Vlad. Keeps you off the streets I guess.”

“Seems the district has spent too much money on prostituting our local squares for giant monuments of pointy scrap metal in honor of some hack who's decided his adolescent doodling is high art.”

“Seems you don't like school, Vlad.”

“Seems you might just want to turn your back when I sneak out this very gate after homeroom.”

Seems you might just get stopped, Vlad.”

Vladimir realized his scheme to disappear before the brunt of first period and the dragging day to follow had a minor fault.

“You're a tall man, Sir and I barely reach your waist. Surely you wouldn't notice such a small one passing by.”

“I may be tall, Vlad, but I'm always looking down.”

“Then look down no more, Gray Beard, for I'll not fraternize with a communist another moment. Your shirt and pants may be blue and black, but your eyes and tongue are red.”

Vladimir stomps off, as the security guard stares no higher than his waist.

Inside, the halls reek of linoleum and bleach and the yelling of his classmates resound off the “Welcome Back” walls. He walks with disdain for the posters, knowing they'll be gone by the following week, when the teacher's joy of being back will have dissipated as much as their students' had.

Vladimir carries his thermos tight to his body, walking as close to the Crayola propaganda as he can. The hall rushes with blond-haired boys and red-haired girls and in Vladimir's experience, blond-haired boys and red-haired girls were never one for manners.

At the age of eleven, while Vladimir was walking through the woods in search of a Huron Indian burial ground, he happened upon first year teens Maura Finnegan and Kyle Kolemann. Maura was a freckled-faced redhead with an obsession for green whose parents must have convinced her the adage “all red heads look good in green” was true, for she went wild on the idea, and though Vladimir would usually agree with this statement, Maura was the unfortunate exception. Her freckles and pale skin were so obviously green in their heritage that the Kelly addition made it hard to look at her, let alone do what Kyle Kolemann, the blond-haired soccer player was doing. It seems his Nazi poster child heritage meshed so well with the smell of wet potatoes that neither of them could resist each other any longer and they had no choice but to fall down and grope one another's non-gropable sexual parts right where the Huron's were once laid to rest.

Vladimir noticed that Maura's shirt and training bra had been strewn atop a group of stones that could have once covered the body of a Huron child, but seeing as Vladimir was all of a sudden quite aroused by the scene that was unfolding before his eyes, he couldn't help but hold back his emotions at the outrage of the historical raping. Still he thought, to make sure no bones were being trampled upon, “I should go in for a closer look.”

At his feet, scattered amongst the dirt were ancient arrowheads and a pair of boys' Fruit of the Looms. They were white and small, like a childish cartoon character, and Vladimir couldn't get over it. While the two drunken nations continued their abomination of childhood innocence, Vladimir stared at the small white underwear, fearing that perhaps his own Fruit of the Looms looked just as small when lying around his room. Or was it the dirt and stone environment that made them look so small? An overwhelming fear rushed over Vladimir and before he could stop himself, he grabbed for the underwear and turned to make a break for it. However, his luck proved to be as bad as his coordination, and he fell over himself, landing amongst the pile of sin.

Vladimir, underwear in hand, went on the offensive before the two could say a word.

“This is a place of worship and remembrance, not of debauchery and sin.”

“A place of heroes and courage, not of weak will and faint heart.”

“Of honor and contemplation, not of fast hands and skinny thighs, petite breasts and wet navels, arched backs and long necks, pubic hair and –”

The Huron burial ground was a soft bed and when Vladimir came to, he had one black eye and a welt on the back of his head from the tombstone he had chose for a pillow. He stood up slowly and tried to shake off the dirt that was embedded into his hair and twill jacket, but his head hurt too much for the shaking. Then, after confirmation of all working parts, he searched for a small piece of cotton. Five minutes later he quit, nothing had been left behind. The selfish voyeurs had taken everything they brought, not leaving a single thing for their guest; something he learned in Victorian Manner's Class was the first sign that a person had no manners.

Homeroom was a raging affair. Kids on their desks and paper flying in all directions. Several misguided paper airplanes hit Vladimir and with each offense his threats to the engineers got worse.

“Nikkos you Grecian sloth, as if your weight and smell weren't offensive enough, now you've taken to aeronautical paper mischief. Hit me again with one of your devilish contraptions and I'll see to it that your parents and siblings don't see the outside of a South African gold mine as long as they live.”

Moments later another hit Vladimir on the cheek.

“David, you fop of a king's man. I'll not be attacked by such a weak-minded zealot. Hold your tongue and hand, you prince of karaoke law and dance hall scripture, or I shall steal your father's hats and robes and sell them back to dandies in the boys' district where they belong.”

Both David and Nikkos teamed up and began to approach Vladimir for a more intimate offensive, but a striking Italian woman with full brown hair, half pulled into a ponytail, came bursting into the room, delaying the boys' angry steps.

She wore a clay-colored blouse and flowing black skirt and she smelled as if she just came in from the vineyards. Vladimir's nostrils cleared and grapes came pouring in. He had never breathed so deep. After setting her fashionably beaten handbag on her desk, she began writing on the chalkboard with long exaggerated motions. The letters were in cursive and it took a moment for Vladimir to make it out. “The two god damnit, the two,” he cursed aloud.

“That's the letter Q,” she said, ignoring Vladimir's cursing, “and it all spells out Quaranta.”

Quaranta, he thought, Quaranta, “it all spells out Quaranta.”

“That's right, Young Sir, and what may I ask is your name?”

“Vladimir Soft Fists Karlov,” Tyler yelled aloud. It seemed the pepperoni-pizza-loving misfit had somehow passed the fifth grade.

Vladimir played it cool, hoping the pacifist approach would impress his new seductress.

“My name is Vladimir Karlov, and I assure you my lady, my fists, like many parts of my body, are by no means soft.”

Vladimir took Ms. Quaranta's shocked reaction as a good sign. It meant she knew all about those parts in boys' pants that went purple and red and blue when she bent over and fixed her heel or put a loose hair behind her ear. That ass could sit on the chalk board ledge, Vladimir thought, “That ass could sit on the chalk board ledge.”

Though she didn't blush at either comment, Vladimir was confident that there were other pink parts on her body becoming quite flush.

The next hour was spent calling roll and assigning desks. The boys said their names and told Ms. Quaranta about soccer and football and baseball while the girls told her about purses and singers and makeup, but all Vladimir could think of was the busty Mediterranean before him.

When Vladimir was finally called on, he stood, unbuttoned his velvet suit jacket, and cleared his throat with a cough. “My name is Vladimir Karlov and I know nothing of soccer or football or baseball. I know nothing of purses or singers or makeup, but I do know how to pleasure. Yes, my Roman senior, I do know how to pleasure.”

Vladimir was sure he saw some pink.

Moments later Vladimir was walking to the principle's office with a note describing his sexual comments. It was folded and placed in an envelope, which Ms. Quaranta, eyes shut, licked to seal.

“It's worth the punishment to see just that,” Vladimir said, “it's worth the punishment for that.”

And he was walking down the hall with her tongue on his mind and an erection tearing through his pants.

“Turns out she doesn't like compliments, turns out she's just a prude.”

“Turns out you said some things here Vlad, some things one might call lewd.”

Vladimir was pleading his case to Henry who was reading the note with heavy brow from behind a large oak desk. A bottle of scotch sat between them.

“I only meant to speak highly.”

“Speaking highly, this is assumed?”

“And I hold her at the greatest heights.”

“But this moistness is all presumed?”

Vladimir pulled his chair in closer to the desk.

“Pour me another and I'll tell you more, pour me another and I'll show you her door.”

Henry poured the heavy scotch into a copper mug and Vladimir took it down in haste.

“It may be over ice but it still heats my loins.”

Vladimir pushed forward the mug.

“Fill it again ‘til I can't feel my loins.”

As he gave himself a tug.

Henry set the note aside and looked over the desk, watching Vladimir pull down pour after pour.

“You're approaching it all wrong, Vlad.”

“Of course I am. Of course.”

“You're not giving her what she wants, Vlad.”

“Of course, I'll go right for the source.”

Vladimir stands up holding his pride in his hand.

“I shall march in and shower her with love.”

“Vlad, the Italian wants more.”

“I shall march in and shower her with hugs.”

“Vlad, the Italian wants more.”

“What can I do?” Vladimir pleads, drinking another pour down, “what can I do,” on his knees, “and not be just another clown?”

“Perhaps she likes humor, Vlad, perhaps she likes all the rest.”

“You mean like David and Tyler and Nikkos, my friend?”

“Perhaps she likes them the best.”

“But they speak of nothing and nothing, and act all the same.”

“And if you keep doing nothing and nothing, your act is all in vain.”

“Henry, I acted before my walk, my walk to come see you.”

“Vlad, your act was just a joke, and that's all she sees in you.”

Vladimir stood up, the bottle empty and dry, desperately trying to figure out what Henry had meant this time.

His eyes raced around the room ‘til they fell upon a giant golden trophy that was protected by a newly streak-free-shined pain of glass. Vladimir puffed out his chest and tightened his belt a notch.

“These walls will cave before I die, Henry they'll crash and break, but I'll have the Italian before they fall, Henry make no mistake.”

Vladimir stood outside the classroom looking through the long pane of glass that extended the length of the door. The top poured out her hair, the bottom carved her calves, and the middle saw bust and butt. Her skirt swung around getting caught on her own full ass when she made any movement other than forward. Vladimir watched and waited for each turn to the board or desk, then back to the students again. He watched in agony, throbbing in loin and lip, for the scotch did nothing to cure the bursting below.

“She wants trophies, Vlad, she wants gold.”

“I'll give her as many as I can.”

“She wants more than you can offer, Vlad, the Italian wants a man.”

Vladimir burst into the room, slamming the door to the board, while the class stared with wide eyes, as Vladimir brandished his sword.

He then jumped atop his desk, pointing his burning youth at Ms. Quaranta who dropped the book in her hand.

“Roman temptress come handle me, come wrap me in your skirt. Roman temptress, come ravage me, no longer be just a flirt.”

But Vladimir was losing his voice and his head was beginning to ache, and he looked around to find Henry as his legs began to shake. And as he hit the ground he caught a glimpse, of vineyards he once dreamed, where her thick black hair curled around his neck, and her smell was all that it seemed.