UKRAINIAN MONSTER
AN AMERICAN STORY

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At the end of a warm summer day, our sliver of Earth slips into the

night with a cool breeze wafting out of the window over my desk, 

gently lifting the heat and gravity along with it…bap, bap, bap…

​

“I think those were gunshots,” Jack says behind me, amused, 

breaking our strict code of silence.

​​

Are we in danger? ​​Survival instinct clicks on.

The shots are far enough away, Felony Flats Defiance answers.

​

Mmmh... I don't turn around as I shrug back at Jack. I close all the

windows to quiet the police sirens and return to my desk to write.

Jack pulls his llama blanket back over his knees and goes back to

reading Carl Jung. 

​

Some time later a thin silence prevails, and with it, finally—my 

curiosity. I whisper to Jack, “I’m leaving,” and step out of his

bungalow, cut through his garden, and approach the flashing red and

blue lights on 82nd.

     The familiar calm washes over me—           

you can’t think, and you can’t feel—you’re just here.

 

Neighbors are gathered in front of the yellow “POLICE LINE DO

NOT CROSS” tape. I circle around them to see what’s going on

across the street, but rows of police vehicles block the view. 

I’m left to talk to my neighbors, not knowing any of them. 

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​A group of Russian-speaking[1] mechanics stand in a circle in front

of their salvaged auto repair shop. 

“Zdravstvuite,” I give the formal Russian hello.

 

They give me the Slavic Judgment look—they hear their native

language—but they see an American.

Their eyes drop with suspicion of anything American.

“Privet,” they respond casually and return to their conversation. 

I walk on.

​

Up ahead, in the parking lot of the Mexican tire shop sits a proudly

derelict American-made pickup truck with a kid perched on its open

tailgate in greasy clothes,

talking and laughing with my sister Inna, her pink baseball cap

flicking back and forth with her usual high-strung awareness— 

The back window of the kid's truck reads LOCALS ONLY in large,

delicate cursive—

This is the first time I’ve seen my sister acknowledge anyone on our

street before in my life.

 

“Do you guys know what happened?” I ask.

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“I don’t know…” Inna replies, throwing a hard side-eye at the

standoff.

 

The kid pitches in, the baby fat on his ruddy cheeks bouncing with

his cadence,

“Maaaan, whoever tryna shoot the cops—they cooked.”

     He looks down at us expectantly. 

My sister looks back up at him—bursting with an indignant giggle. 

I leave the two be.

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At the barricade, a man in a light blue golf shirt leans out the window

of a black Chevy Malibu, laughing with an officer as he tries to

negotiate a way out.

​

When they finish talking I approach the open passenger window,

reminding myself that around here, it’s a delicate dance between the

classic Portland “I genuinely care, no matter who you are”

and “I can fuck you up six ways to Sunday.” 

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“Hello…”

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“Hello!” The man returns a relaxed smile.

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“Do you know what happened?” I ask.

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“So, I’m told the guy tried to shoot the cops up ahead there,” he says,

voice low, sardonic, as he gestures to Tire Empire across 82nd.

“Then he took off up the street…” He hugs his wheel,

craning his neck to the right.

“We're blocked off all the way down to Division." 

                  He looks up like he’s sailing in the sunshine. 

“Looks like I’ll be here all night, waiting out this moron.”​​

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We get to talking and he shares about his life,

“I was a carpenter for twenty-eight years. Then my doctor told me it's

time to seek lighter work. Thirty years ago now, I became supervisor

at the trailer park and moved in, right around the corner there—”​​ 

He points to 82nd.

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That’s just a few hundred feet around the corner from where I'd

grown up since 2001, but I’d never heard of him, and never stepped

foot in his trailer park.

     Though from a certain spot on the street, I’d always see,

flying high over one of the trailers,

a weathered Gadsden Don’t Tread on Me flag—

and the fresh TRUMP WON flag.

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The man raises his hand to greet ​a man and woman walking up 82nd. 

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The couple stops, talks to him, but their eyes dart and bodies twitch—

saying one thing: “everyone else can go to hell”—

This is exactly the type you avoid around here.​ 

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“You can still get back into the park—” he tells them.

 

“Oh, ok... ” they give a nod, say goodbye, and walk away.

 

We keep talking. His laughter—and even his gestures—seem to

explode like fireworks. He keeps gripping onto his door handle,

as though to remind himself he's still on Earth—

     I crane my neck to follow our winding conversation through the 

open passenger window.

Finally, I ask if I can sit in his car. 

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“Of course… please, sit,” he replies. 

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“This is how we build community around here!”

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“That’s right—thanks to that genius!” He throws his head back

laughing—every combed white hair stays in perfect order. 

                        “James Sleeper," he introduces himself.​

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We keep talking as across the street the police box truck unloads a

tactical robot.

It glides down the street, disappearing into the standoff.

Civilian cars pass by, seeking detours.

The crowd thins. 

             Behind the flashing lights, a heavy full moon rises

over the dark Clackamas hills.​​

​

James looks out beyond Cooper Street and taps his chest.

“I got a defibrillator implanted right here. It’s brought me back to life

twice. It sends these electric currents to my heart—when it stops

beating...”

     He gently grips his gear shift. “A couple weeks ago, I took a

terrible fall in the shower, dying—and it shocked me back to life.”

​

Our conversation keeps winding. I tell James I write, and he startles 

as though his defibrillator went off again. 

​“I’ve always thought artists solve everyday problems," he says.

He pulls back with a rueful smile, tapping the gear shift with a 

flourish— 

                      the worn silver in his watch catching in the streetlight. 

"My nephew is a painter, and he’s constantly reimagining things at

home—solving problems no one else could. 

​​​

“I think a lot of the time we don’t even see what our problems are...

It’s like asking a fish, ‘What is water?’”​

​

He exhales slowly, as though he’s measuring his breath. “Hell, we do

what we want, but we don't ask, What do I want?”​

 

He looks out again, his blue eyes flickering with something beyond

knowledge, and beyond belief…​

                  “We don’t even know how we got here. How was the

universe created? That’s our last big question…​

And we’ll never know.”​​​

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We keep talking, no, dancing with the language, as though we're 

really asking one another: 

                Where do these words even come from? 

                        What lies beyond them?—What's hiding behind them?

 

​ 

Hours go by.

We don't notice until an officer walks back across 82nd with a look

that says the standoff is over. 

 

A glint flashes in James' eyes and he grabs onto the overhead handle 

and swings out. He slings one arm over the car door and the other over

the open moonroof, calling out—“Did you get ‘em?”

 

The officer responds with a withdrawn nod, “Yes.” 

 

“Next time, you can give him to me—I’ll line him up in front of my

car!” 

 

The officer hangs his head as he turns to help other cars get back on

the road.

 

James holds onto the top of his car and swings back inside. 

We say our goodbyes.

​

I start walking back, my feet readjusting to the ground, when I hear 

James' grin before I turn to see him—“Make trouble, but don’t get

into trouble!”—

​

I throw a salute as his sleek black car disappears around the corner.

 

 

The cool night settles over Cooper Street—

        still—crisp—almost pure.

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The next day, the shooting made the news.

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Jeremy Rivers was on the corner of 82nd Avenue and Cooper Street,

selling meth as Portland Police closed in to arrest him on warrants of

gun charges and sexual assault.

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As officers approached, Rivers pulled his gun—prompting the police

to start firing. Rivers shot back as he fled up the street, barricading

himself in the lobby of Hernandez Auto Repair. 

 

Inside the shop was Manuel Mendoza, a Mexican American

grandfather from Texas,

waiting for his blue Mini Cooper to be repaired.

Manuel ran and hid under the small kitchenette in a fetal position.

 

Jeremy kept shooting at the cops and police returned fire—

repeatedly hitting Manuel’s car in the crossfire. 

 

Video surveillance shows us the gunman pulling on his meth pipe 

as he paces around the shop in red t-shirt, blue jeans, and white tennis

shoes. ​

Garbled voices of police negotiators come through as they attempt to

negotiate with Jeremy for several hours.

 

Manuel remembers thinking, I need to kill this guy before he kills me.

How am I gonna get him?

​

The gunman kept pacing, starting to yell into his phone—

“I don’t care if I die—I want to die.” ​

He began kicking holes into the drywall, trying to escape, only to hit

a brick wall—

and found Manuel. 

“Man, I’m dead,” Manuel whispered.

 

“C’mon man, I’m not gonna hurt you,” the gunman replied.

 

Manuel saw his chance. He’d caught the name from the phone call.

“Jeremy, are you ready to die?”

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“I don’t know,” Jeremy replied.

 

“If you die tonight, is there a guarantee you’re gonna come to

heaven?” 

 

“I don’t know,” he replied again.

 

“Bro, I’m not gonna let you die,” Manuel promised.

 

The gunman thought about that, bowed his head, and set his gun

down. The two men prayed. 

 

Jeremy took a few last drags from his meth pipe and surrendered to

the police.

 

No one was hurt that night.

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[1] Many Russian-speaking immigrants in Portland are Ukrainian by origin.

Before the war in Ukraine escalated in 2022, “Russian” and “Ukrainian” were often

used interchangeably—by choice, by habit, or to keep things simple. 

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