The American

 In his native America, he'd always had a shady reputation. As a young man, he worked as muscle for hire, worked as a bouncer in gambling houses and brothels, and always had a side hustle moving drugs or weapons. He could always be counted on to find a buyer for stolen goods, too. He was smart enough to see the cracks forming in the government long before most. Within days of the First Attack, he'd made plans to leave the country. Some of his cohorts with Sicilian lineage helped him get to Europe. From there he was on his own.

He managed to bring along a tidy sum in cash and jewels. This gave him the advantage of time to form new contacts. He was told time and time again that the capital of Bulgaria - Sofia - would be a good place to set himself up. There were gangs there who could make use of his skills, and provided he kept out of trouble and his name out of the local gossip, he would do fine. 

And he did.

He pretty much became, as he liked to call himself, a consultant. He never touched the goods, hell he rarely even saw them. He would be presented with a problem, and he would find the right people to solve the problem. For this, he was paid consistent with the amount of trouble he saved other people. 

He did alright.

He managed to buy a small apartment in Lyulin. Nothing fancy, but close enough to his work to stay busy. 

By his sixties, his lifestyle was catching up to him. Bad joints, stomach problems, and the early stages of emphysema. He could still solve problems for people, but many were becoming concerned that his health could be a liability. He was called upon less and less - until the calls stopped coming at all.

With his finances slowly dwindling, he sold his apartment and moved into a one bedroom flat in one of the less-attractive districts in Lyulin. Having never fully mastered the language, he spent more and more time alone. He often stayed in, watching old films and listening to the music of his youth. The neighbors called him Amerikanetsŭt (The American), if they called him anything. 

Bulgarians are some of the sweetest and friendliest people on the planet, once they warm up to you. His neighbors never really took to him, with the exception of an old woman down the hall. Baba Vera knew by looking at him that he wasn't healthy. Once in a while, she would pound on his door until he answered. Then she would hand him a plastic container of soup and say, "Za teb, supa! Tryabva da yadesh, choveche!" which he learned meant "It's soup, for you! You must eat, man!". A couple of times she sent a man, he presumed her son, with a bottle of homemade rakia. He at least spoke a little English. 

"For you. Rakia. Baba sent it. Good stuff!" 

The American thanked him in French, "Merci". He invited him in once. Baba's son later said he felt like he'd travelled to a different country crossing the threshold. An old flag on one wall. Old photos from a different place and time. Books in English, and always playing either old American music or opera. Conversation was a struggle as neither had a strong command of the other's language. But, a drink was shared and The American thanked him again. 

One day while walking to the local pazar, The American saw a new restaurant opening. He couldn't believe his eyes. The name of the place was written in Cyrillic, but he read it well enough to know what it said. The Dinor. He peeked in the window and saw an old American flag on the wall, along with old movie poster reproductions. Old films like Casablanca and Pulp Fiction. There was a Marilyn Monroe poster on one wall. Whoever owned the place was definitely going for authenticity. 

He made a note to stop in once the place looked like it was up and running.

His first visit was a few weeks later.

He entered the place and was greeted immediately by a tall, striking, strong-looking woman. Her Bulgarian sounded good, but with a definite American accent. It sounded Midwestern to him. 

He grabbed a seat at the counter and was handed a menu. The woman began suggesting menu items for him, when he stopped her.

In English, he asked, "Excuse me, miss - are you American?"

The look on her face froze. It was replaced with an immediate combination of surprise, confusion, and a trace of fear.

"Why yes, I am. You sound like you are too..." She responded, pausing as if to wait for The American to introduce himself. 

Not one to freely give his name, he just chuckled softly. Finally he said, "Damn. I haven't heard an American voice - face to face - in years. What the hell brought you here, of all places?"

She briefly explained that life in America had gone from bad to worse after the States were downgraded to Territories. She said that anything he might have heard on the news probably didn't even begin to describe how bad things were. The government was mad with power, there were plagues galore, and the war with Canada was a never-ending pissing contest between the two neighbors.

The American admitted he hadn't really been paying attention to the news much since he came to Bulgaria. When she asked what had brought him, he answered simply.

"Business."

He ordered a bowl of the chili. He hadn't had any in years, and wondered if it could be as good as 'back home'. This was a thought he hadn't consciously had in ages, although his dwelling would make that hard to believe. 

It was good. Nice and spicy, the way he liked it - or used to like it. It was already aggravating his stomach. The woman suggested a piece of apple pie. He couldn't believe his ears. 

'As American as apple pie'...the old saying ran through his head. He thought of baseball games, bowling alleys, and his old life. He had to stop a tear from forming in his eye. He agreed to a slice. 

As he savored each bite, the woman went about her business, tending to other customers, shouting orders (in English!) back to the kitchen, and generally making herself indispensable to everyone in the room. He asked for a cup of coffee. This would be the real test.

Authentic American coffee or Bulgarian, the good stuff. 

Much to his delight, it was the latter. She apologized, half-joking, in advance. It's probably not the hot cup of Joe you're expecting. The two shared a brief laugh over the exceptional quality of European, and especially Bulgarian, coffee. She excused herself for a moment to serve another customer. She noticed she spoke to this one in English. 

The place seemed to be doing good business. 

The American asked for his bill. The prices were good. Cheap by American standards. Maybe average for Bulgaria. He gave her two twenty lev notes and told her "Keep the change."

As she thanked him, he asked about the other English speaking customer, and whoever was in the kitchen she was speaking English to. 

"Geez, I thought you lived around here. Either that, or you just don't get out much."

The American wasn't sure what she meant, so he asked.

"Hon," she replied, "this neighborhood is turning into what the locals call Americatown. Kinda like Chinatown back home, but here - and full of Americans." She gave herself a good chuckle describing it.

The American felt out of touch with his own reality. He had been spending too much time in his little flat, watching old movies and listening to scratchy old records. The world was changing around him and he suddenly wasn't sure if it was necessarily for the better. Too many Americans in one area could be bad. Might not be a major problem, but it had the potential for trouble. 

The American thanked the woman for the excellent food, the conversation, and the memories it all brought back. He tried to be as sincere as possible. She smiled and said "Y'all come back!"

He assured her he probably would.

He returned to his flat, locked the door, and sat in silence - trying to make sense of what was happening. Was there really a mass influx of Americans to Bulgaria? Had things really gotten that bad back home? 'Back home'...it hit him again. The only place he'd ever really known as home. From what the lady at The Dinor was telling him, it sounded like everything he had known was really, finally gone. For the first time since childhood, he sat and cried. When he thought he was finished, he looked at the old flag on his wall, the old stars and stripes, and the tears came again. 

The next day, the old baba down the hall pounded on his door to give him an old plastic butter container of moussaka. "Manja za teb!" She practically shouted, as if he was deaf. She grumbled something incomprehensible as she left.

He took the food to the kitchen, and placed it in the fridge. Normally he liked moussaka, but today it just seemed alien. His mind turned to his old favorites. Spaghetti, meatball hoagies, pizza, and a nice, inch-thick Porterhouse steak with a baked potato. He started wondering what other old, homestyle delicacies awaited at The Dinor. Pancakes, maybe? French toast? A reuben sandwich? He made up his mind to make another trip, soon.

Over the next few weeks, The American stopped at The Dinor at least a couple times a week.  He got to know the menu well. Lots of old American favorites, as well as a surprising number of local faves. The Bulgarians love their salads, and this place made sure they could have them any time they wanted one. He always ordered a slice of the apple pie. Always. 

It turned out that apple pie and chili were becoming popular with the locals too. The American didn't think it was possible to not enjoy the pie with a hot cup of good coffee. It was a match made in heaven. 

He always sat at the counter. Never a table. Never a booth. If someone near him spoke English, he would make small talk with them. Never a big conversationalist, it felt good to speak English with another American. 

One day, a young gypsy he knew from one of the gangs stopped him. He was recognized immediately.

"Hey Amerikanetsŭt! Kak si?!" the gypsy youth said to him. 

The American replied in Bulgarian that he was simply having a meal, and reminded the young man he didn't work anymore. This was met with a derisive laugh and "OK". This made him feel uncomfortable. 

The woman who ran The Dinor was surprised that these two knew each other, and how well The American conversed in Bulgarian. After the gypsy left, she stepped over to The American and said,

"Business, eh? It's OK. I get it. We do what we have to." She patted his hand and moved to walk away.

The American stopped her, and asked if he could get a slice of pie boxed up to go. "For my neighbor. She always feeding me." He gave a small, but honest smile.

"Sure thing, hon. " she said. "This one's on the house."

Then she asked if maybe the neighbor might know where to get some pumpkins. She was planning to throw a Thanksgiving dinner at The Dinor, and would like to make some pumpkin pies. The American assured her he would ask. She then told him he was invited. 

"You remember when Thanksgiving is, right?" She gave him a smile and wink with this. He assured her he did, and he would put it on his calendar. 

He took the pie back to his building, and pounded on his neighbor Baba's door. When the old woman answered, she looked surprised to see him. He handed her the box with the slice of pie.

"American Apple Pie, za teb!" He said this with a big grin. 

Still seeming slightly confused, the old woman accepted the pie, thanked him, and closed the door on him.

He chuckled as he walked down the hall to his flat. 'Good old American hospitality' he thought to himself.

He wore a smile the rest of the day. He tidied up his flat, ran the Hoover (a rarity for a bachelor), and bagged up trash to take down to the dumpster. He stood and looked at the old flag for a minute before he took the trash out. He realized he was feeling better than he had in a long time.

He carried his trash bags down the back stairs, and out to the dumpster. He was thinking about how long it had been since he'd had a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings.

As he threw in the last bag, he heard the gypsy youth's voice.

"Hey Amerikanetsŭt. No more work? Veche ne si polezen."

He felt a sharp pain as the knife pierced his chest. He felt the warmth of his blood as it poured out. The world felt like it slowed to a crawl as he started to fall to the ground. The last thing he saw was the gypsy youth walk away and ride off in a car. 

copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger