stepping outside, the police are arresting a man with plastic zip lock bags, turning his pockets inside out like his pants had ears, we’re against the marble columns and he tells me that since Lenin died he’s worn through two jackets and a pair of pants, something about the embalming fluid, and how once a year they strip him naked, swab black spots from his body, I nod, but it’s too dark for him to catch the gesture, and the shorter cop has dropped his fur hat and they’re both kicking the fuck out of the zip lock bag man, and did I know that his jacket goes to the dry cleaners in a motorcade and when they shake it off small clumps of skin fall onto the floor