Short Story Time

The following is a short story I composed for the sake of completing something. Recently, I have expanded the concept and begun to turn it into a novel:

Left Behinds and Belongings
“Every day, I see this! And every day it gets worse.” A pair of worn, spotty hands shake, palms up, in frustration. “These kids, they…they just leave their garbage on the seat…like it’s somebody else’s job to clean it all up!” He flusters about in his place.
“Calm down already, Mikhail, it is barely eight and you’re already in a huff.” Geni said this as he removed a worn thermos from his pack, which had been tucked beneath him for the duration of the train ride.
“I am calm, I am calm. I just, I cannot take the way children here treat things. It’s always ‘I want this’ or ‘I want that’! Never ‘hello sir’ or ‘hello miss’ or ‘can I take your jacket sir?’.” Mikhail’s hands continued to tremor.
“Well children here are different, Mikhail. They have privileges.”
“Bah! Privileges! You earn privileges; you do work to get privileges. They watch television and eat, and run around like rioters. These things do not make privileges, Ignatova.”
Geni Jurekovich Ignatova was a man in his early fifties, and an easy-going one at that. He had moved to the States from Kasimov, a burg just along the Oka River, when he was twenty-six.
“Again,” Geni made a gesture with his hands for emphasis, “things are different here, okay? They do not have as strict of morals as we did.”

Mikhail again brought his palms up to show the extent of his exasperation,
“Morals? This man speaks of morality? Ha! All Americans do is talk about their morals! Their entitlement.”

Geni met Mikhail Vissarionovich Bezuhov in a diner on the 1100th Block of Western Avenue in the winter of 1983. They were sitting in booths across the aisle from each other. Geni overheard Mikhail talking about a one Mr. Anatoly Ofonasii, whom Geni went to primary school with. As it turned out, Mikhail was from Gus’-Zeheleznyy, a town not more than twenty-five kilometers from Kasimov. From that day forward they had done a great many things together.

“Age has made you bitter; a cynic.” Geni condescended over his spectacles.

“Ha! When you are old, you earn the right to become a cynic. At that stage in your life,” he brings his fingers to his eyes in a pronged, horizontal peace sign, “you have seen enough things to make you understand how horrible it really is to be alive.”

Mikhail, now at the age of sixty-two, was a bit older than Geni and had a certain proclivity for being a curmudgeon in times of nuisance. When he was younger, Mikhail was more of a free spirit. He had been one of those fellows at a bar who insists on becoming a close friend to all present, warmly embracing each patron with every successive sip of ale. The bartenders were welcoming as well. His manner was not that of a lush, but as one who has zest for the life they live.

“Perhaps, but at what age do you earn the right to be a pessimist?” Geni pointed a triumphant index finger at a high-45

“You earn the right,” he paused, “to be a pessimist,” another pause. Geni looked at him with mounting anticipation. “When you grab hold of your life,” Mikhail scrunched his hands into fists, “and pull your head,” he thrust his fists back with great conviction, “out of your ass.”

Mikhail, after finishing this, burst into a wild laughter which lasted about five seconds. Geni had a smirk, but refused to issue such a guffaw as Bezuhov did.

“And now who has the scowl, Geni?” Mikhail gave him a hearty slap on the back.
These were the best moments for Mikhail. Yes, they weren’t necessarily entirely authentic in their make-up, but beggars can’t be choosers. It seemed that he would only return to his once jovial state when insulting someone; when he satiated his morose appetite.
“Come on! You were just telling me how unpleasant I am, and now you yourself are being a grumbler.”
Geni did give a chuckle, but barely a titter, and sighed, “Sure, fine; okay.”
Mikhail’s smile slowly slipped from his face, supplanted with his usual grimace. He dug his hands deep within the pockets of his pea-coat and slumped back against the window of the train car. A few moments of silence passed when Geni spoke up.
“You see? Misery is your business Mikhail. You’ve nothing to say unless it is to belittle another.” He retrieved his pack from beneath the seat and tucked the thermos into it. The train slowed and he got up, slinging the pack across his shoulder as he did so. He picked up the garbage on the seat opposite to he and Mikhail. The train halted and the doors opened in the usual hurried commuter fashion.
Geni turned his head to Mikhail and said, “Poskolku delaete svo krovat, takim obrazom budete spat.”
The doors closed as Geni made his way down the platform to the stairs as Mikhail sat, defeated, and with a look of trouble smeared on his face. The words had stuck, and not just the final ones, either. He began to stare at the passing urban landscape in a contemplative awe. The car rattled on down the track, headed to who knows where.