The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life)

Giving a slight shake to the white cellophane—to which it responded with a luring clandestine tinkle—he informed it was wine in there because he wisely procured it before the curfew. Would I keep him company? The answer was in the affirmative.

It looked strange to me though, when he turned to the flocks of youngsters streaming to the dance-floor with the repetitive request for a knife to open a bottle. Everyone shook their heads and some even recoiled, scared by the incongruity of the question with the general spirit of concurrent times… But then, maybe, it was his personal form of protest against the Prohibition…

A knife was never found, yet he somehow contrived to tear the plastic cork off by application it against a beam in the bench by which we stood in the alley. He handed the bottle to me. I said it would be better for him to start it because of a certain flaw in my brake system.

"Never mind. I've got another in the bag," insisted he.

Well, I had warned anyway, ain't it? And I killed the 750 ml without a trace.

"Hmm, yes," observed the companion thoughtfully. "I did not get it properly." He uncorked the second bottle, yet refrained passing it to me, just held in his hands, and when we sank onto the bench, he put it between us.

We began to probe each other as to which of manifold philosophical subjects might flag off a friendly conversation. As a rule, after the second glass, you start to give out awesomely smart things, getting astonished yourself by their unexpected wisdom. In the end, of course, everything will slide into the eternal, slippy gash as predicted by the truck crane operator, Ivan Kot, but why not to glitter the sequin of your well-trained mind for a starter?

Alas, the envious malevolent stars forestalled any shining, or sparkling, or glittering… Along the alley, slowly and almost inaudibly, rolled up a van with inscription "militia" on the door. It stopped and 2 gentlemen in cockades jumped out of the cab.

My interlocutor, not waiting for the further development in the upcoming scene, without delay threw himself over the bench and started down the side alley towards the dark building of the city council. I didn’t even think to compete him in this track and field event and, with a bottleful freshly tanked into the hold, I could only admire how quickly he was leaving. Moreover, those 2 bulls were already towering above me.

None of them followed him either, only the older officer tapped his shoe heels against the asphalt in a pretty fast step dance, staying in the same spot though. The performance was accompanied with a strange, possibly, also Irish, air, "Oolyou-lyou!". The border guard accelerated sharply and dissolved in the darkness.

The militiaman dancer picked the open, but still not started, bottle up from the bench. He turned it upside down in his outstretched hand and held so in both sadistic and mournful attitude, while the wine gurgled out to the ground.

"Come on," the second man said to me, nodding at the already open side door in the van… I stuck my head inside. In the dim light of a tiny bulb in the ceiling, those invited before me sat along the blind sidewalls. An elderly militia petty officer sat leaning his back against the partition from the cab, facing the public.

Admiring the impeccable finesse of my own movements, I ascended the interior. The door slammed shut behind me. "Good evening!" amiably and indiscriminately greeted I all the present, and at once got a kick in my ass.

"The prick even 'good-evening' knows!" yelled the petty officer who hit me.

Falling on someone from the previous catch, I automatically exclaimed, "I beg your pardon!" and immediately looked back fearful of another kick. It seemed, I was not going to get it for the "pardon", the officer was too lazy to get up.

The ride was not long. Leaving the vehicle, I recognized the courtyard where The Orpheuses were brought for giving the testimony on the disappearance of the accordion made in DDR, but now I was taken to another building. At the desk in the corridor, there sat a militia Captain. After a couple of questions addressed to my fellow-travelers, they were sent to the cell.

Then he turned to me. Observing that I answered his questions adequately and did not try to push for my rights nor refuted the report of the officers who delivered me, he asked where I worked. Then he called somewhere to verify and after a very short talk as well as checking my proficiency at bending exercises, he finally ordered me to go home. "Straight home! Got it? Nowhere else!"

I went out of the gate. Why do they all push me around? Fuck them! And I obstinately returned to the park and bought a ticket to the dance-floor.

To celebrate the new stage in the on-going anti-alcoholic campaign, the gate was guarded by a militia sergeant and 2 public order enforcers adorned with festively red armbands.

"Did you drink today?" demanded one of them.

"Never!" responded I and proceeded to my bench under the fence to sit there until the end of dancing. Which happened after a couple of numbers…

The letter of advice on my detention reached SMP-615 a month or 2 later. I already forgot about it when the new boss called me from the construction site and demanded to write an explanatory. He obviously made his mind to use the situation to full advantage, and in a week the trade-union committee met to consider my personal case.

With the autumnal chillness setting in, I attended the meeting in my raincoat and hat on.

The new boss, in his jacket and tie, began to expound my transgressions. The freshest of them, attested by the paper from the militia, was my violating directives of the Party and Government on a park bench. That's how I disgraced SMP-615 in the eyes of the public and the authorities! How long to tolerate?!

However, I chose the position of an observer and to all rhetorical questions answered with a shrug of my left shoulder under the raincoat…

And my contemptuous attitude to the management?! Here, if you please – an explanatory written in verse! From the stack of papers on the desk in front of him, the new boss picked up one sheet and shook it in the air.

…wow! I did not know there was accumulated such a dossier on me…

And look at another sample here! The reminder written by me to the trade-union committee (he read it up), "3 months ago I applied for upgrading my bricklayer category. However, till now the qualification commission of SMP-615 neither raise an eyebrow nor move their horns."

The trade-union committee burst in laughter, the new boss, obedient to the herd instinct, also grunted not understanding though what funny was about it…

Besides, it's simply dangerous to be next to me because I was putting an arm under the slab!.

And that’s a fact. On that day there were 4 of us: the overseer Karenin, the carpenter Ivan, the crane operator Vitalya and I. The sun was glaring upon the March snow around the construction site where we were starting a new apartment building. The foundation blocks had been laid in the pit since autumn, and then, throughout the winter, Ivan's job was to look after them. From 8 to 5. He was coming to turn on the heater in the trailer, and watched the silent white snowdrifts outside the window, or considered the cut-outs of cute beauties from girlie magazines that he glued on all the walls to give his hands at least some job… On that March day, he became my hand.

The task was simple – to lay 4 courses of bricks in the short wall of the future staircase-entrance so as to install a stump of a slab over the future doorway to the basement. Standing on the trestle between the foundation blocks, I raised 2 short corners and started laying courses under the shnoorka to finish the stump’s prop of a wall. It was a half-hour task, no more, while the working day ended in an hour plus. However, Vitalya, the crane operator, was impatient to climb down from his perch in the cab of the tower crane and play cards with Ivan till 5. So he shouted from above to the carpenter to hook the concrete slab stump intended for the installation. The stump's one side would rest onto the blocks of the traverse wall, the other side would be supported by the readied corners of the unfinished wall. They'll lap it up! And the remaining gap between the bearing corners would be filled sometime after, in the process of construction.

I tried to bring it home to Ivan, that now it was the most convenient moment for finishing the started wall. Later, to fill the gap left under the stump, the bricklayers would not have the trestle under their feet. Let him better bring the mortar and I'd finish it in 15 minutes, working under such favorable conditions. Yet, Vitalya for Ivan was a closer pal than logic, so he went and hooked the stump as told.

The crane operator raised the load, turned the boom and rolled the tower crane along the railway, carrying the stump to me for insertion as he planned. He yelled from his cab to quickly spread mortar on the corners of the unfinished wall otherwise he would drop it just as is, on dry bricks – they'll lap it up! Instead of mortar, I put my arm on a brick corner so that he did not fulfill his intention.

Vitalya poured hectic curses from his birdhouse in the height, rang the crane bell without interruption, and kept closing in on the arm, with the load. In general, it was a frontal attack of two fighter planes against each other: he who yields was nothing but a snotty chicken.

When the concrete stump neared the arm to about a meter, overseer Karenin awoke from watching the breath-taking battle of two aces and yelled to Vitalya to take the load aside. And there it hung while I finished the wall the way it was right. Overseer Karenin stood on the blocks above my head and asked, "Why did you do it, Sehrguey? He's crazy enough to crush your arm. You'd be a cripple."

"Karenin, my whole life is crushed. All that remains is just my work. I don't want them make a snot of it."

"Where?" asked Ivan standing on the other wall of blocks behind my head. "What's the talk about crushin'?"

"He means it was his written fate from birth," overseer Karenin explained to him.

I was finishing the last course of bricks, like, busy, but I could not let the erudite conversation go without me, "May his hand wither, to that writer!"

Karenin and Ivan instantly got silent, the overseer somehow shrank and turned his eyes aside. And exactly that very moment, squinting my eyes at the rays of the sun descending to the horizon, while spreading mortar for insertion of the slab stump onto the finished wall, I for the first time thought that the particulars of our lives were defined and occurring the way as we recount them in our later life. And it doesn't matter to whom and whether in gossip or writing…

(…it's scary! As it turns out, by that spontaneous curse I wished my own hand to wither away?!. Why? It is so unfair!

..shut up!. who are you to make complaints of unjust treatment?. how else could I show that cheeky puppeteer in his made-in-Germany sleeping bag that I’m not a servile marionette neither a tool to go by his drowsily scintillating blabber meant for reconstructing the past beyond his reach?.

I’m not sure if you can get it though, good news is that at least I can follow myself… however, I’d better shut up now for not to overstrain our brain.

…moreover, if not for this sleeping bag my story might very easily and more than once have ended in the nameless river at the Object…)

Ivan and I inserted the stump. Vitalya got down from the tower crane and still had time for playing cards with Ivan before we went to the road to meet and board on our Seagull. I soon forgot the whole incident, however, the new boss did not omit to add it to the dossier…

"And you all know as well as I do, how often they nab him to the psychiatric hospital… Yet, worse than anything else, he is a chronic violator of labor discipline. 3 occurrences of absenteeism in only one year! That's why I propose to fire him for systematic absenteeism."

That's right – 2 days to Moscow after the train model for Andrey, and 1 day to the publishing house Dnipro in Kiev… At the time of mentioned violations, I fully realized that it was an act of absenteeism. However, it was normal for a workman at SMP-615 to have a week of absenteeism, and a couple of champions had accrued up to 20 days, which fact I considered a guarantee of permissibility to skip 3 days, the grosser violators would serve a cover for my ass. Yet, no go! The integrity of the labor discipline couldn't be bribed by a smartie's calculations!

And now, after 5 consequential records in my workbook marking the gratitude for and appreciation of my labor achievements, on October 18, 1985, the head of personnel department of SMP-615, A. Petukhov, with that same beautiful handwriting wrote that I was fired on the strength of Article 40, for absenteeism without satisfactory excuse. The participants in the meeting of the trade-union committee unanimously raised their hands in favor of the measure proposed by the new boss. Afterward, some of them commented that such a result was exclusively my blunder, I should have stood up, and, hat in hand, humbly ask for mercy and then they would forgive me…

Why did I maintain the role of a monitor to the end and did not make a speech in self-defense, pointing out the absenteeism of others, quite a few, and did not express my bitter regret for my wrong-doings? I simply was fed up. The time had come to seek other grounds for the application of my experimentalism. Not because of so was my plan though. As always, I remained just a tool, an operation-end man executing his orders. The time and Experimentalism were the decision-making bodies…