Sometimes I dreamed of a good job. Like in a movie: in a beautiful stylish office, behind a beautiful computer, in a beautiful strict costume... After all, sitting at the computer in a costume is so respectful!
In my hometown, of course, they said, “Wow!"When I learned that I was working in the cinema, but in the depths of my heart, they considered this sphere to be something of the middle between the circus and the bordel. And my position – a morrow, or a “boy,” seemed to them something very, very light-thinking. In that they were right. And this uncompromising and sympathetic attitude toward a person engaged in such an unserious affair—whether it be bullying or jongling—has touched me. And I dreamed of a real, serious, respectable job. And, most importantly, about the black costume and the white blouse. Definitely. Anyone in the village would see me like that. Otherwise why dream?

A friend called:
Do you have money to borrow?
I was swallowed. I and money are things that rarely and for a short time are compatible. answered :
There will be a thousand three.
“It’s not enough,” she said, “I need two and a half thousand dollars.
I was surprised. She was from the suburb of Moscow, unlike me, did not rent the apartment, and worked stably. And I don’t know why she suddenly got two and a half thousand dollars.
It was all in the year 2005. At the time, a single in Marjino cost $150 a month.
So here, she turned off. Then, at the meeting, shining, she said that the money was needed for some big business, and she found that amount - all cool! Then we talked about something else, and then I forgot about it.
A couple of months. We met, and she suddenly asked: Do I need a job? Good, stable and monetary. and! Very respectful. With very solid people.
My assumption about escort services was indignantly disproved. She said, “If you want this job, forget your stupid jokes.
I have forgotten.
And here, without saying anything about the essence of the work, she intrigued me. And she was a smart girl, serious, educated, not me! I trusted her words and opinions.

Looking at me from head to foot, she said, “You’ll have to change your image. In ETOOM (thickness with Mickey Mouse, ceds and jeans) there is no chance of going through an interview. I need a strict costume. Better than black.
In my head there was an image of the day, with the office, the computer and me, beautiful and elegant to the impossible.
“Everyone will die of jealousy!” I gladly thought, and promised to change the image.

Now it seems very stupid that I agreed to go to the interview without knowing exactly what I was talking about. I trusted that girl. She had a higher education and therefore she was an indisputable authority for me, and she somehow managed to get rid of general phrases. Well, the almost materialized dream played its part...
In the morning, to the subway, to the place of meeting with a friend, I came, imagining myself, at least, the heroine of the movie "Business Woman", - well, with Melanie Griffith and the young still Ford. Business, intentional and serious. I was troubled, indeed, by the fact that I print at a speed of ten words per minute, do not speak English, and do not reach twenty centimeters to the "pleasant appearance" necessary, in my conviction, for a good job. And for a couple of dozen kilos I pull this outward...
“What kind of work is this?” I was disturbed and disturbed by my inner voice. I told him to shut down and wait.
A friend came and looked approvingly at me. She was with a heavy lady. There was less approval in her eyes. She didn’t know how I looked before.
I was as elegant that day as Margaret Thatcher. Not in a suit, indeed, — they all turned out to be worth a rage of money, — but in black pants, black boots on a spike, a white blouse and a black jacket. All these things, purchased separately on the Cherkizov market, came out cheaper than the costume (and categorically did not fit each other...), and I was proud of economy and my own pragmatism.
We were introduced to the lady, - introducing her to me, the friend said, "this is my curator, Elena Petrovna." And we went to the Renaissance Hotel, in the conference room, which, as it turned out, was an interview.
There were a lot of elegant people. Different ages and external data, which pleased me. But all in costumes and white shirts.
We were fifty, and a young man appeared. Even to my inexperienced view, there was too much gold on it. The ring, the clock, the bracelet, the chain... The inner voice put forward the version of the golden tooth. He was asked to silence again.
The young man began the speech. The talk was long, an hour and a half, and emotional. Not only he was emotional, but also the audience. Their excessive enthusiasm aroused concern. They rejoiced, rejoiced, and applauded as if the Church shared the way of making the eternal engine and the philosophical stone at the same time.
For the first 15 minutes, I didn’t understand what he was talking about. It was such a purge of incomprehensible words, pronounced with a joyful speech, that I was astonished to look at the happy enthusiasts around, organizing an ovation every five minutes. The feeling was unusual – that you went crazy and didn’t understand something.
But after twenty minutes of unclear flowing phrases, the meaning began to be drawn.
It was a kind of mutual aid fund, as they called themselves. It is the fund, not the financial pyramid, he emphasized this five times. And the point was this: you brought and gave these people two and a half thousand dollars. They just brought and gave. And for this they had the right to bring their friends and acquaintances there. Each of them had to pay a similar amount. With which you have already paid ten percent. Friends and acquaintances, in turn, had to bring their friends and acquaintances - with these "contributes" your percentage increased to twenty.

When I realized the scheme, I began to look around with fear and amazement. All these people sat down and cheered at the fact that they gave – or will give – their money, that’s why they’re in chains.
I was a poorly dressed village girl. Most of these people were more educated and smarter than me. So what kind of sham I was the only one who broke through the scheme – and the only one who doubted its imperfection and profitability?

Tired of looking at the audience and already an hour of cheering MCH, began to drill a friend's gaze. She should have known that a) I don’t have such money, and b) I’t give it in my life.
She didn’t feel my gaze without tearing her off from the MCH. Which just went to congratulate the newly converted villains. That is, such as me, the frairs brought here, stood up under general applause, stunnedly red and thanked for the invitation and honor to fill, so to speak, the rows (and the pockets of the MP).
I also stood up and waved those people. And then everyone began to break up, and the curator asked when I would bring the money. With a big smile, I told him I never did.
Why is?
I have no such money.
You can borrow from friends.
I refused to work for the needs of other people. Aunt curator, with the help of my friend, fought for ten minutes. I was greedy and relentless. Then they connected heavy artillery: MCH. I was taken to a room where he was sitting with a smart look at the computer. And he persuaded me for a few minutes that giving them money was the only way not to be a fool and a loser. I thought the opposite of what I told him.
MCH uttered a distinctive tirade about the fact that I will remain a liar for the rest of my life. I shrugged my shoulders, turned and left.

He went to the subway and cried under his nose:
Go with your costumes...