The Interpeter

The only downside to his post-retirement life outside of the huge loss of his beloved wife was a first-time lifting injury. A couple of months after retiring, he was in the gym tearing it up on a shoulders and legs day. He was doing seated military presses with 80-pound dumbbells in each hand. On his last rep of the last set he felt something tear in his shoulder. That dumbbell fell out of his hand and hit the rubber mat on the floor so hard it ripped out a large chunk. Langston instinctively knew what happened. He'd torn his rotator cuff. He held his arm tight to his side and managed to drive himself to the emergency room using one hand. Fortunately, he'd given up on manual transmissions in his '40s and didn't have to shift. That was a good thing because he wasn't sure he could even more a gear shift.

The x-rays confirmed the tear and for the next six months, Langston was largely sidelined and then had to come back very slowly. After a year, he was almost there again but knew he'd have to be careful with that shoulder for life. Other than that, he was the epitome of health and fitness.

Six months later, he was browsing through a Russian-language website on line and noticed an advertisement for a Russian dating service. He initially scrolled on by then went back to it and looked through it. It was actually US-based and the majority of women were from Ukraine, not Russia. That was interesting but academic because pretty much everyone in Ukraine still spoke Russian even though Ukrainian had been the official language for some time. Russia was using the language and culture of one area of the country as a pretext for an incursion making that area essentially a war zone.

As he sat there looking at the profiles of all these beautiful, young Ukrainian women, he remembered his promise to Kim and her dying wish. He decided he was might possibly be ready to start dating again and why not in the former Soviet Union? He was fluent in the language and he hadn't had any success dating in the U.S.

He'd signed up for two different dating services and put his best pics on line along with a profile that laid out who he was and what was looking for. In short order, Langston had all kinds of emails from women ranging from 50-65. "Jesus, are you really THAT old?" he said to himself as he looked through another group of women who all said they liked his profile and wanted to meet. He agreed to get together with several of them and a month later, he'd been on half a dozen first dates but never a second. He just couldn't get used to looking at women his own age. Kim always seem so young and so beautiful to him. She was five years his junior but she was also blessed with great genes and she took such good care of herself. That was another reason her death was hard on him. He was absolutely certain she'd outlive him by 10-20 years and the thought of her dying first never once crossed his mind. Of the women he had gone out with, a couple of them were both pleasant and interesting, but he just couldn't generate any interest in women he thought looked more like his mother than a potential wife. Two of them made it clear he could take them home and fuck them but he wasn't sure he could get it up. After all, other than maybe Oedipus, who wanted to fuck his mother?

After one particularly brutally long date with a woman who'd used pictures that were ten years old when she weighed 30 pounds less, he came home and thought maybe he'd give up dating altogether. He was never going to find another Kim so maybe he'd try an escort service. You know, do the "rent-a-beav" thing. At least that way, he would "date" someone who looked like she was under 40 with a body to match.

As he continued to think about his late wife, it struck him again how she always seemed so young to him. Even into her 40s he still saw her as that young flight attendant at the bar in Pensacola. He'd always prided himself on being a realist but when it came to dating women over 50, he had to admit that reality does indeed bite.

He was having a very unusual third beer one evening when the thought first occurred to him: what if all he really wanted to was to be able to "see" Kim again? To have "her" live with him and go places together with him? He thought of Kim's hair, her eyes, her body, and the way she dressed. He loved the kinds of things she wore that accented her size-C boobs and tight waist. The sex was great but he hadn't had sex in several years now and that wasn't the thing he missed the most. In fact, for whatever reason, he didn't miss it all that much. Well, until he thought about it. He laughed at the thought because while Kim was alive, he couldn't get enough of her—nor she of him. They often had morning sex, bedtime sex, and whenever possible, quickie sex during lunch. He missed Kim. The smell of her perfume. Her silky brunette hair. Those sexy knit tops and form-fitting sweaters and short skirts and high heels she wore for him that drove him crazy. He wanted _that_ back. But he wasn't delusional. He knew he couldn't have that back. Well, not exactly that anyway. What that understood was he couldn't have her. But there had to be many attractive young women who could be enough like her to make life fun and interesting again. Hell, he might even find one willing to indulge his one and only sexual fantasy of letting him watch her have sex with another man. He'd only ever mentioned it to Kim but never followed up. It was a huge turn on but he never actually asked her to consider doing it. He felt confident she would have indulged him had he pressed the issue, but the timing never seemed right. And then, well, they ran out of time. This go 'round however, he might just get lucky. If he did get lucky then, well, maybe...

Trying to decide what the next best thing might be was the hard part. Langston was a problem solver and he was good at it. But this one involved feelings and emotions rather than hard, cold facts and logic. This one might just be the toughest nut he'd ever have to crack. Especially if he ever hoped to actually get a nut again.

No sooner had he finished his thoughts in that regard than he remembered the Russian dating site. "What the hell?" he thought. "How could that be any worse than dating women your own age who look even older?" He paused for a moment then further thought, "What if you could find a beautiful young girl who looked like Kim and who had the same kind of fun-loving disposition?" Again, there had to be women out there like that but out of that set, what subset would date and marry a man his age? Of those, how many wouldn't just be looking for a green card and then bail on him? Finally, of that very small number, how many would be willing to sign a pre-nup to prove she wasn't after his money? He didn't know, but he decided he had to try and find out. Worst case, he'd end up back home hiring escorts or living alone.

That night, he found himself laying in bed daydreaming about a beautiful young woman who was like his Kim. He realized that for the first time since Kim's death, he was feeling an old, familiar stirring somewhere just south of the border. As he lay there in bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning 'round and 'round over his head, all he could think of was some unnamed, beautiful young woman in his bed. His musing turned into more serious thoughts and finally into an obsession. The growing problem between his legs was relentless and for the first time since high school, Langston found himself doing what only Kim or before her, some other girl, had done for him since. The release was immense and yet it was far more than just physical. It was also emotional and psychological. It helped him to began solidifying what was up until now just a generic idea. That idea was beginning to take shape and the prospect of bringing it to fruition was energizing. For the first time in years, Keith Langston was excited. For the first time since Kim died he had...purpose.

The following morning, he spent a little more time browsing around several different sites before settling on one that looked interesting. He was initially a little pissed off at how expensive it was but told himself the site had to pay someone to translate letters and chalked it up to the price of doing business. But ten bucks a freakin' email? You've gotta be shittin' me! And no, he'd learned, they would not let him write emails in Russian and not charge him. Capitalists!

He choose the screen name of Товарищ Иван or Comrade Ivan which allowed him to make use of the call sign he'd been called for many years. He dutifully and honestly answered every question starting with marital status. He felt a twinge as he clicked the box next to the word "widower" then continued until he'd painted a word picture of who he was and what he was looking for less the pre-nuptial agreement. He figured if he ever got close enough to discuss a pre-nup, then she'd be the kind of girl who would sign one.

He uploaded five of the best pictures of himself he could find then clicked "submit." H'd reluctantly had a set taken by a professional when he signed up for the US sites and for a guy his age, he thought he looked pretty good. He'd let his hair grow out from the tight fade he'd worn his entire career on active duty. It was still dark and thick and it seemed to even look better with a little length to it. Kim always loved his Jarhead haircut which was fine with Langston as he had no say in the matter. Unlike their Army and Navy counterparts who could go nearly a month, Marines got a haircut every week—no exceptions.

He was sure there wouldn't be very many American men (or any other nationality) who could speak Russian fluently and he thought that would be a big advantage in possibly finding someone. While his head (and his little head) was completely on board, his heart still wasn't fully into this yet, but he'd failed miserably so far to make good on his promise to Kim and one way or the other, he was going to fulfill it or at least try very hard to do so. Besides, he hadn't promised her he'd marry someone from America or even his own age so what the hell, right?

He spent the next day out on the water bass fishing and didn't check the dating site until late that evening. When he did, he looked at his inbox and noticed he had 23 new emails. "Holy shit!" he said out loud to no one. "How in the hell can I have that many new emails in one day?" What he found when he began opening them had him alternating between feelings that this must be some kind of scam and a faint flicker of something he hadn't felt since before that fateful day in Dr. Hanson's office—hope.

Langston spent the next several weeks reading emails and checking profiles. Most were deleted post haste. Others were put into the "maybe" category. The few that really interested him, he answered immediately. The responses further raised his concerns when every girl he wrote to from the age of 18-30 seemed ready, willing, and able to get married. All of them said something to the effect that age didn't matter and that further made him wonder what was going on. The engineer inside him kept screaming, "How could a 20-year old girl WANT to have sex with a guy who was closing in on 60 no matter what kind of shape he was in?" He also knew she'd want children and he wouldn't. Alarm bells were going off all over the place and he was about to throw in the towel on the mail-order bride thing when he noticed the site was sponsoring a 10-day tour to Kiev. The cost was was just north of $7,500 but he didn't give a shit. He had to meet these women for himself to accurately assess the situation so he signed up for the tour and three weeks later boarded a plane in Savannah, Georgia to catch a non-stop flight out of Dulles in Washington DC.

Agency personnel met him and the other inbound men at the airport in Kiev and provided transportation to the best hotel in the city. Meals and the services of numerous interpreters were all included in the price of the package deal. Langston was thankful he wouldn't need anyone to translate for him and thus inject a lot of uncertainty or misinformation into the conversation.

That evening, about 75 middle-aged men began assembling in one of the large rooms the agency had rented for the event. Langston grabbed a drink and began sizing up the competition. "Holy shit! What a bunch of fat fucks!" he said under his breath as he made his way around the room. He shook hands with several of the other guys and was dumbstruck at how many were grossly overweight, bald, had bad comb overs, bad teeth, or some combination thereof. One theme he kept hearing over and over from these Romeos was how Ukrainian women "weren't like American girls." They supposedly didn't care about a man's age or how he looked. They just wanted to meet a nice guy who could take care of them. Langston knew that was bullshit. No girl from any country wanted to sleep with her father! Hell, he didn't want to sleep with women his own age because they reminded him of his own mother or even worse—his grandmother. No thanks. Why would attractive girls under 30 be any different just because they grew up in another country? Ukraine was a very modern country and nothing like the backwater place those unfamiliar with it thought it was. He realized while it was possible to find a woman like that at his age, when you factored in other things like weight, thick glasses, a lovely combover, and a beer gut, the odds went down dramatically.

He didn't bother trying to set anyone straight. Geniuses of this kind already knew everything so who was he to inject reality into their fantasy? Sure, many of them would spend tens of thousands of dollars looking and never find anyone—and most importantly failing to realize the problem was with them—but that wasn't his concern. He had his own issues to focus on.

For the most part, these girls were smart. Most were very well educated and a fairly high percentage were college graduates or going to college. Nearly all of them were into fitness and fashion. Virtually none of them smoked. Also working in his favor was that the majority of young men in Ukraine either did smoke or abused alcohol, and/or didn't respect women. They had the old Soviet mentality that women were property. Although the men and their attitudes were slowly changing, the women were light years ahead of them.

So while It was true that it was hard to find a decent Ukrainian man who didn't abuse alcohol or believe in doing the same to women, that still didn't mean these beautiful 20-somethings were going to run off and marry a 60-old man with several huge negatives working against them and willingly stay with him after they got their green cards. It just meant they were willing to the lower the bar—a lot in some cases—to find a way to a better life. If they had to kiss (or even fuck) a frog or two on the way, then that was a price some of them were willing to pay. But that didn't mean they were going to fall in love, stay in love, and live happily ever after with some guy who took no pride whatsoever in his personal appearance. He was pretty sure many of these girls had been lured in by the agency with promises of handsome, young, wealthy foreign men. Wealthy? Maybe. A few of them might have money. But young? Langston didn't see anyone under 30 and only a couple of guys under 45. Most were older than that and many looked much older. "Not here, girls," he said to himself. Langston already knew the deal and had made peace with it, but there was no convincing this room full of self-styled Don Juans. They'd just have to learn the hard way.

About this time, the agency's main representative went up on stage and made an announcement. "Gentlemen, we are proud to announce the arrival of over 200 beautiful Ukrainian women who will be entering the room in five minutes." He went on to explain how the process would work with each girl taking a seat. The men would initially be seated across from a girl at random and for the next several hours during Round One as they called it, they would have two minutes to get acquainted, take notes, and move on to the next girl to their right. Each and every girl would have an interpreter with her and we were very encouraged to tip them for their work. Langston smiled at the capitalist angle but he also understood and accepted it for what it was.

A few moments later and the doors opened and through them came a long line of very young and mostly very attractive young girls wearing their Sunday best who paired off with the other very long line of interpreters. Langston was taking mental notes as to which girls he wanted to meet but there were so many, he quickly lost track. He was shuttled around until he finally found a seat and ended sitting across from one of the few girls in the room who was truly overweight and hopelessly unattractive. Langston thought how it wasn't just the men who were delusional. This girl, named Anna, referred to herself as a very beautiful, young Ukrainian girl twice in those two minutes. He knew beauty was in the eye of the beholder but it would take a very kind, very blind eye to find any in her.

After that, he got into the speed-dating routine and actually had a fairly good time. He'd managed to chat with four girls he wanted to spend additional time with the following evening when they would have about twenty minutes each during Round Two to get further acquainted. After that, the men could ask a woman on a date if they so desired. She, of course, could accept or decline. Much to his delight, all four had agreed to a second meeting.

Every woman with whom he spoke was amazed when he told her without an interpreter, <<Я умею говорить по русский совершенно бегло>> which means "I can speak Russian fluently." The girls were all very impressed. They'd never met any foreigner, let alone an American, who could speak Russian that well. Even more impressive that he had just the slightest trace of an accent. Langston remembered watching his fellow language students happily butcher the Russian language when they spoke it at DLI, the Defense Language Institute, in Monterey, California. Oral evals were 1/3 of their grades with reading and listening comprehension making up the other two-thirds. These young soldiers, sailors, and airmen made no attempt to even try and learn the Russian accent. The just slammed out the words in the worst English accent imaginable. All they cared about was graduating and getting to their next assignment which usually meant listening on headphones. So why bother working so hard on speaking correctly was their motto. Not Langston. He asked his instructors to stop him every time he said something wrong grammatically or in terms of pronunciation. Initially, it was brutal, but as the months went by, it was well worth the effort as he was continuously praised by each new Russian instructor who heard him speak. It became common for him hear to this comment. <<Вот американец у кого исчез акцент—почти>> or "here's an American who's accent has (almost) disappeared. Almost." He hated that word but he realized no one could learn a language as an adult and speak with no accent whatsoever. It just wasn't possible no matter what TV show claimed it was after a few weeks of "total immersion." So almost had to be good enough.

The interpreters were not as happy as Langston as they were doing quite well for themselves collecting a buck or two (or more) from most of the men every two minutes. Considering they might earn $200US a month working full-time in Kiev at their regular jobs, this kind of money made in one evening was huge.

The second night, the girls again showed up with their interpreters. In this smaller-scale setting, Langston learned that the agency requires an interpreter whether she is used or not. He also learned that the interpreters' English skills ranged from excellent to downright atrocious. However, if you couldn't speak Russian, you had absolutely no idea what the girl sitting across from you actually said or how well what you said was translated. Therefore, there was often a whole lot of smiling, nodding, many puzzled looks, a few sighs of exasperation, and a whole lot of да, да, да's being thrown around.