Yesterday at the exit of one of the night establishments of Tashkent.
Boy (10-12 years old), drunk uncle (45-50 years old): Uncle, buy a strawberry.
Uncle: Well, I haven’t eaten chicken for a long time. He buys a smell, starts a conversation with the boy. What are you doing here so late?
Boy: I help my mom sell the strawberry.
D: Boy, why is it here?
M: There are a lot of rich people here, they can buy a lot of strawberries. I will grow up and be the same. “It laughs.”
D: Logically, just remember – the people here are not happy, they pretend to be happy. Actually, happy people sleep at home with their wives and children. The hell here is full.
M: So you’re not happy either?
D: It bites the smell. and Zhou. He responds very calmly. “Yes, I’m not happy either.
Xxx: In the house next to mine lived a boy, Cole, who always liked to play with us — with the girls. It would be nothing, but Cole then went to the first class, and we were already in the seventh. He once told my friends that when he grew up, he would marry me. Colla smiled confusedly, and we laughed loudly.
In a month I will be 31 years old. Cole, where are you? ?
Yyy: Kolya grew up and became smarter simply.
This conversation took place fifteen years ago. And now I remembered him.
One day, I was taken to a small editorial office. A very small office occupied an ordinary apartment in an old house on the Fountain. Well, and the collective, respectively, was optimized by the economical owner of the publication to the limit - in our homework worked shoulder to shoulder editor, artist Nika, carpenter and advertiser - both Verki, big and small. The necessity of such an element of newspaper activity as a journalist was not placed in the head of the chief. Why is it needed, if so many different texts grow on the massive field of the Internet, and just things - to collect them with the caring hands of the editor. In order not to rush to the revenge of the upset sable-toothed authors, the content slammed in the quiet provincial graphomans and in the pink-girly pimples-covered lyrusches. There was no journalist. But in a separate office painted the nails of stunning beauty and stupidity creature, proudly called himself an office manager. At first, the wise bosses tried to do without a corrector, but boring advertisers recognized this approach as vicious. I had to give in to capital.
In the early days, not yet understanding the peculiarities of editorial policy, I was very surprised, reading the texts received from the editor, the elderly simple-minded Tamara Nikolaevna. I also felt something strange about my employees. Difficulty is not caution, not danger. More specifically, it was a typical female monastery. The only male, the large scattered ficus Vasya, walked on the window, sadly pressing the palms-leaves to the glass. The window, of course, went out into the courtyard of the usual fuzzy appearance.
A couple of weeks later, when everything somehow slowly entered the workload and in the breaks we were chasing tea in the kitchen, I struck the right moment and asked - what was it? The girls looked around and laughed.
As it turns out from their story, I was not the first corrector here. The previous two have made an indelible impression. Both, or rather both, were, as Verka the Great expressed delicately, heracnute. The first dedicated all of her free time to denouncing the cats of impure force, and the lighthearted young employees soon felt uncomfortable. The second was of rare purity. She washed everything. When she washed the ice cream bought in the kiosk under the crane, the girls decided that the eternal search for mistakes has a detrimental effect on the mental health of the correctors.
But I only washed my hands and fruits, with impure force and so on my short leg, as I constantly draw, - in general, all exhaled relieved.
We worked very nice. The people were all joyful and not harmful, common themes - men and children - were always at hand, so there were no reasons for conflict. The only inconvenience arose when the girls thought about television. We should have gathered in the kitchen for a lunch break or for a tea coffee as they stretched behind the controller. I did not protest. I went out for lunch 15 minutes earlier. I drank coffee and read a book. Then the bullshit Verki flooded, splashed on the chairs, the noise-gam-TV began. I calmly took the book, the cup, and went to the quiet harbor, back to work.
My disappearances did not go unnoticed.
One day, when I got up and turned to the exit, the staff approached me with the question – what a fucking thing.
The girls! I just don’t like TV, that’s all.
How is it? I did not understand the big faith.
And for the background? The little girl asked confusedly.
And why? Why do you need a TV in the background? What is “for the background”? – I wondered, in turn, I. Especially since I have been really interested in this strange phenomenon for a long time.
The carpenter suddenly became upset.
Because I do not like silence. I am uncomfortable with her.
Instead, I tried to twist. I want to hear my thoughts. Is it you, doesn’t this gallery hinder them from listening?
There was a heavy pause.
I don’t want to hear my thoughts!
No, how is it without him? Joined Tamara Nikolaevna. And at home?
At home as well.
The girls sang. Television is Oral. I moved from foot to foot.
- Horror... Poor your relatives... - finally stretched the Verka big. You are a tyrant! Even a tyrannosaurus. No, I still do not understand. Why is?! to
I did a terrible nonsense. I went into explanation.
Well look at. Here he turns on – it’s as if suddenly unfamiliar disgusting rays came home to me – oh, wow, like these – and began to swing, discussing the new adventures of singer Valeria or ballerina Volochkova. Putin and Medvedev. Or even worse, the singers themselves with the ballerinas stumbled. And everywhere they throw me in the nose with their dirty underwear, new bullets, and in every way force me to marry in a group. And I sit in my flanel pyjamas with my elephants, my coffee is shrinking, and there is nowhere to go from them. In short, it all interferes with me.
Interfering with what?! to
I thought, I answered shy.
And in their eyes it was clearly read, “This is it! The Corrector! We knew it!”
Verka burkned, silenced (and all according to kiwi):
and dance. You are sick. You need to go to a psychiatrist.
Why to me? Look, you are uncomfortable in silence – why? Because you can’t be alone with your thoughts. Maybe you need to go to a psychiatrist?
Everyone looked at me carefully.
And Verka memberly, clearly explained:
No, we do not need. You need you. Because we are more.
by Tatiana May