We told all the Oksanas and the Seriojas what we were up to, how great things were, and asked them for their diary entries. We exchanged wrappers from chewing gum, chocolate and candy, the smell still lingering on them, and we inhaled, like junkies, the sweet scent of “abroad.” We had two kinds of chocolate wrappers, one was blue with a cow’s face, and the other was yellow with a cup of milk. When guests would come over, they’d bring over a chocolate bar for the kids and a bottle of wine for the grown-ups. The “little Russians” had a hundred different kinds of candy which they called konfeti. In Bulgarian, konfeti was the small colorful paper dots left over in hole punches. Stores would sell it around New Years. We would throw it in the air and it would stay in our hair as a sign of festivity. Here in America, confetti is anticlimactically emptied from the office hole punches into the trash, without a party or hair to adorn. So, to thank Oksana for her gifts, I would send back foil chocolate wrappers, carefully ironed with my index finger.

Shortly after all those transactions, communism fell and I immigrated to New York.

Once I had the stupidity of sending my tips back home to Bulgaria—20 dollars in an envelope. I wrapped them in wax paper, on which I reported how good everything was and how great America felt in person. The tip was a sort of proof that yes, she’s correct. My family in Bulgaria never received that, or any other letter that came from me since. Mailboxes in the building had these holes at the bottom, big enough to push in two index fingers and push other people’s mail up out of the slot. People used to pilfer like that whenever someone received Parallels, a black and white magazine with highly censored reports and photos from around the world. We didn’t think it was the neighbors, though. After all these years, everyone in the building knew everyone else and Parallels was no longer in circulation. There were tons more colorful and interesting magazines that no one could afford, so nothing worth stealing was delivered.

We knew that some aunty in the post office was meticulously combing the international mail for money, finders keepers. She was probably still eating the little Russians’ candy that she withheld once upon a time, leaving only the wrappers, since you were supposed to give something to the kids after all. I imagine the naked candy aligned in rows in front of her, like a communist parade.

More than a million Bulgarians had immigrated in the 90s, so it was a good business venture she had going on in there. Once I wrote on the envelope: “Dear aunty in the post office, there are no money here, please deliver to family so-and-so.” No, she would not. Naturally I stopped writing, and would rather call once or twice a month, if I made enough in tips, since phone cards cost a fortune then.

My family would be very careful about what they said, because they were convinced the phone lines were still being tapped 9 years after communism fell. They wouldn’t tell me if someone divorced or drank too much or lost their job or got sick. Negative information somehow exposed us and we didn’t want to be exposed.
When I told them how much I earned, they started singing to cover up the number so someone wouldn’t come running and kidnap the entire family for ransom. I made like a hundred dollars a week, but it was a fortune in their eyes.

There is this expression in Bulgarian slang, where someone asks you, “How are you?” and you answer, “I’m a bomb!” So my father would say, “Everything is a bomb!” which meant things were great, even though they never were. It is an ironic way of saying
things are as good as they can possibly get under the circumstances. Once he said “We are a bomb!” and we got disconnected. From then on, he’s been convinced the word “bomb” sets off the big brother listening on the other side. They interrupt our conversations, for the sake of the world peace.

So now dad is saying, “Things are as good as ‘that word.’”

“Which word, the one that starts with f?” I would torment him, because sex is another thing we don’t talk about.

“No, the one that starts with B and makes a lot of noise.”

“Baking soda?”