Podolsky junkman. First person story

    It is eight in the morning and our city is still sleeping . At eight in the morning everyone is sleeping, except for the baker Ivan Nikonorovich, the evonious brother and worst enemy Pavel Nikonorovich. They were not spilled, the bakery was common, but brother Paul was jealous of Ivan to his wife, although he lived a happy life with their uncle. Paul poisoned his wife and opened his bakery, and there they went.

    The barber Ioan Moiseevich does not sleep, that from gout it is necessary to take baths every morning, the whole city knows this. A doctor discharged from the capital, appointed him a strict regime. So they became friends with the doctor that he often began to visit us in the city. Rumor has it that it’s not so much to the barber, but to the interest in his young wife.

    Butcher Aleshka, two days later, also does not sleep on the third, preparing to open a shop. He usually scores in the evening. The howl stands for the whole district, so that already in the morning he has a turn for fresh meat. He calls it advertising, gives animals torment, monster.

    I do not sleep in the usual sense of the word. I love to watch the city wake up. Usually I try to quietly go out through the attic window to the roof and from here I can see everything. I like to go out early, the lights have already gone out, and in the houses the light is still off. Fresh morning air, still humid from the night. Although the end of August, the air is already truly autumn. He really wants to get a full chest. At such moments, you feel that it is autumn, and winter is coming soon. A thick blanket, clubs of ice vapor from the mountains, from somewhere in the north a cold is already approaching the peaceful city, but this is all in the future. That is why the last days of summer, especially the fine, I feel so sharply, as if something is slipping out of my hands, and you are trying to catch it. This year's summer was very short, and really did not have time to swim. They found a drowned man in a pond, then it rained, and then there's the news about cat colds. Have you heard of cat colds? Gorodnichny invented this with us, in order to distract people from hard life. It’s getting worse, immediately in a local newspaper on the first page about a cat's cold. The school is being closed, parents of children are once again afraid to let out. That is how we live.

    The city we drink, they really do not drink anyhow, but culturally. All have their own moonshine. “This is a product, not the rubbish that is poured into a wineglass.” That's what my father says. My father is disabled, he does not have a left foot below the knee, it was he who unsuccessfully in his youth tried to jump onto the bandwagon of the train. When he is sober, you can even talk to him, however, the last time it was a long time ago. That is how we live.

    I like Vasilisa, the daughter of a junkman. She is older than me, but not by much. I used to catch a glimpse of her in the city. I don’t know if this is love, but I like it so much that I can’t look at it for a long time, everything is compressed inside me. To have a reason to see her more often, I got a job as an apprentice to her father Ivan Pavlovich. He is a junkman, a flea marketer, and a usurer. My responsibilities are not good news. Before school, I go in and help bring a shop window out of the shop to the street, and after school I help to understand the trash. For thirty years of work Skarba has accumulated so much that the upper floor above the bench, which used to be residential, was busy with things, and the whole family huddled in one room.

    Classes will begin in a week, so now all students can walk at least all day. Most recently, I found a diving suit in the back room. Although our city is a port, it is a very rare thing.

    The helmet struck me the most, it was all made of copper, it smelled of the smell of the sea. You hold it in your hands and you already feel it shaking you on the waves, a tart bog hits your nose, and the surf is noisy in your ears. From him breathed adventures, sunken ships and drowned.

    A wild thought hit me in the head. I told Ivan Pavlovich about the book I recently read. It told about the car of happiness, which was built by the old master. I thought that we have such a gray city, such sad people with drooping faces. I wish we could make a car of happiness. The book had a description, so it was not difficult to assemble a car.

    Somewhere I miscalculated, but I do not know where. According to the description, it was required: a 5 horsepower steam engine, five meter copper tubes, five incandescent lamps, tinted glass, thirty two bearings, two gears with thirty teeth, six gears with six teeth, a gramophone. Xylophone and three inch nozzles. In general, I found something, but many details had to be replaced. Instead of new copper tubes, I straightened the coil from my father’s moonshine still, I had only three incandescent lamps, I had to smoke darkened glass, I found only two more cloves of large gears.

    The machine of happiness did not work, instead the machine of truth turned out. Putting on the diving helmet of a car of happiness, you fall into your dream. Everything works as in a book, with rare exceptions, if you are lying to yourself in something - you have to admit it, otherwise you won’t be happy, you just get hung up on your lies and cannot see your dream.

    For a week, all the inhabitants of the city came to the garage to the junkman and tried our car. Everyone responded differently, and it depended only on themselves, but people did not understand this, or did not want to understand. We take from life what we need, we ourselves decide our fate, we are the creators of our happiness. How sad it was to see the sad faces taking off the helmet, I realized that people have a secret, a lie. A lie in which they themselves do not believe, but they hope to live with it.

    This continued until yesterday, until Gorodnichy decided to come to us. When I saw the face of the Gorodnichy, after the car, I realized that we could not escape trouble. Either the work that is being done on our officials in the Ministry of Truth is not so effective, or Gorodnichy is among our special ones. He was full of lies. This is normal for an official; it is abnormal that he did not believe in her. A cat's cold, an increase in people's well-being, roads with pits for safe movement, and so on and so forth.

    Panfil Igorych said nothing, Gorodnichny simply left his helmet and left, and I realized that I could not escape the trouble. And so it happened. Yesterday it was already late at night, when I was completing the fallen off monocular in the car, I smelled of burning, it was burning the garage. A garage near the house of the junkman, a garage with one exit, or rather a garage with one exit closed from the outside.

    I burned, burned and the junkman and his wife and daughter, burned all his rubbish, burned the car of happiness, the car of dreams and the car of truth. Everything burned down, there was only a story about it.

    PS: Either our air is bad, or it was a long time ago, but all the heroes of the story died. So it happens, life is that meanwhile we are making plans and trying in vain to realize them. We say to bring plans to life, but in reality our life is embodied in plans.

    Author: Vyacheslav Golitsyn

    Also popular now: