Grigoriy grabbed the box of tools and walked them over to the back of the truck, putting them down on another box that was already there. On his way back he passed his friend, who was walking towards the back of the truck as well. This was how he spent his days - lifting boxes from one place to the other and earning a small bit of money while doing so. Some days he earned a dollar or two, some days he earned merely twenty cents. But Grigoriy wasn't one to complain. He knew there were people that were itching to get his job. For every employee there were five people waiting for him to get fired so they can take his place.

Besides that, many of the people in charge were unwilling to hire Russians, something Grigoriy didn't really understand. Were they not hard workers? Sure, many didn't speak the language well. But there were always a few that spoke a few words and that could translate. It boggled Grigoriys mind. Instead they hired many Italians, whom generally spoke the language better and were fine with working for even less than the Russians. 

Suddenly a bell rang, signalling that the work day was over. Grigoriy put down the last box in the truck before tapping the top of the cabin and walking off of the truck. The truck drove off, the driver still smoking his cigarette as he had been doing the entire time they were loading it in with tools. “Ghaa, chyort.” he cussed at the truck driver. “He never helps, that guy.” he said to his friend, in Russian. His mate laughed and walked off towards the docks. Grigoriy took off his gloves and put them on a box before following suit. He sniffed in the air of the sea, the saltiness was something he always favored over the smog in the city. Not to say that there was no smog here, ofcourse.. it was just less noticeable. 

Outside, they met one of their friends. Grigoriy smiled at him and shook his hand. “Privet, brat, kak dela?”, or otherwise asking him how he was. The man answered that he was well, and that he had made arrangements for them to visit a small restaurant and entertainment place that still served alcohol. “Good, very good comrade. It's time for a drink.. I went two weeks without in this place.” They laughed and walked off, conversing and laughing, slapping backs and making fun of eachother like real pals. Poverty hadn't gotten the best of them yet. 

They entered the club, loudly conversing in Russian as they entered. They didn't pay much mind to what was going on around them, the girls, the guys throwing angry and aggressive looks their way. They sat down at the bar area, not far from the Scotsman, but far enough to be unable to hear his conversation. The bartender soon came towards them, though it was obvious that he had no real interest in the Russians. He sighed loudly before asking them what they wanted. The two other Russians looked at Grigoriy who translated it for them. The men smiled at the bartender afterwards and said in unison, “Vodka.” The bartender sighed, once again. Why did he even bother to ask them what they want - the answer would always be vodka. But money was money so he went and got them three vodka's. The men thanked him in Russian, and though the bartender couldn't understand he understood the meaning of it. He nodded and walked off again after taking his money. 6 dollars for three vodka. You could almost call that a fortune. But Grigoriy nor his friends had to take care of a family - the money was there for them to spend as they pleased and they pleased themselves some vodka. Besides, Grigoriy had already sent back some money to his parents. This was not a time to feel guilty.