Dreaming Under the Stars and...Stripes

How about some shellfish on the Upper West Side or tacos in Midtown? Be happy as you are still alive since I might have been your server. Worse, it might be impossible to track down the culprit. I am very illegal, have a heavy Russian accent and used to deal black market currency tricks right out of my underwear. I am a post-Soviet reject in American paradise. I never want to go back. I land in Queens to the utter dismay of unsuspecting and fully legal friends, peddle illegal Iranian oil in New Jersey, and hand-excavate muddy ditches in Chicago while waiting on the shady Rabbi Schmul to burrow a hole through the armour of US immigration. He hails from Brooklyn’s Boro Park and, worse, his accent makes me a British earl by comparison.

Finally free and armed with a work permit, I am a bit drunk on freedom when the New York Church of Christ lurches in. Within, it tastily swirls with Ivy League credentials, gelled hair from Broadway and the most tantalizing prospect of unlimited dating. The entry is more complicated than a health insurance application since I have to denounce Martin Luther, Nelson Mandela and Mother Teresa – all at once!!! Keep reading and you might find out more...