Anatoly Petrovich was a citizen of Moscow, USSR, with all the challenges that entailed, most notably, his wife Irina. There was nothing really wrong with Irina, other than her unrealistic dreams, like wanting to have meat once or twice a week. She was always bugging Anatoly for meat, so that he would often try to sneak out of their apartment early so he wouldn’t have to hear her constant complaint.
One particular Wednesday, or maybe it was a Friday, Irina cornered him before he could slip out and put her foot down. “No,” she told him. “No factory, no tavern. You will go one place today: the store. You will wait at the window as long as it takes and you will bring me some meat!”
Anatoly knew his wife well, and knew at that moment he would be missing his shift at the factory (and his friends at the tavern). He left the apartment with a sigh and trudged to the store, where a long line of people waited at the window.
Hour after hour, Anatoly waited as, one by one, people were sold parcels of meat. Finally, as the sun was going down, he approached the window, but just as he got there, the woman behind it said, “I’m sorry, comrade, that’s all the meat today,” and slammed the window shut.
This was too much. He began pounding on the window. “No! This is shit!” he shouted. “I am a good Soviet citizen, a veteran of the Great Patriotic War! My shift group has met every production goal at the factory this year! I know you have meat in there, set aside for the Party bigwigs! Damn it, I want that meat!”
The people around him moved away quickly, terrified of what such language would bring down. Finally, a nondescript fellow in a rumpled trench coat approached and laid a hand on Anatoly’s arm.
“Comrade, calm yourself,” the man said softly. “It’s true that Comrade Gorbachov’s reforms aren’t fully realized and we still occasionally have problems with supplies, but just think of the new freedoms you’re enjoying. Why, not long ago, if you had spoken thus, someone like me would have simply put a bullet in you. Now, go home an enjoy your supper. Perhaps there will be meat tomorrow.”
Anatoly yanked his arm away and stormed off, swearing. He stormed and he swore all the way home and up the stairs. Irina, hearing him coming, met him on the landing.
“Ah,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t even need to tell me. They’re out of meat again.”
“Worse!” shouted Anatoly, throwing up his hands. “They’re out of bullets!”
