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

I borrowed The Adventures of Captain Blood from the Club library but couldn't read even a half of the rubbish which once upon a time was my regular thrill…

"What do you keep in the newspaper atop the wardrobe?" asked Olga.

"A spike condom. Wanna try?"

"Nah!"

I was sure though she had checked it before asking, or did I overestimate her?.

At our having a walk, she introduced me to an unknown squirt in the running by civvy commonality—her co-worker from the brick factory who we met near Deli 1. A mujik over 30 said his name, I answered with mine, and we immediately forgot the just heard sounds. I did not like his smile that bared the over-worn gums receding to the teeth roots. Besides, some uneasiness about him made it clear that the meeting and new acquaintance was no good news to him, I regretted we had come up to him at all…

And on the other side of the Under-Overpass, near Deli 5, it was already we to be approached by a half-acquaintance Halimonenko, handled Halimon, who demanded of Olga a private talk. She asked me to wait and walked with him 4 meters aside on the same two-step porch in front of Deli 5. Some scraps of words in their conference: "militia", "get not a little" were reaching me. It was unpleasant to stand pushed aside that way, but so I’d been asked.

(…another of my pesky traits is doing what they've asked me without giving it a thought and starting to think when it's too late…)

Their conversation ended and she returned to me followed by his owner-like "I told you!". Olga explained that someone attempted at stealing Halimon's motorcycle from his khutta's shed and he mistakenly concluded she had anything to do with all that.

(…myths are different. There are useful ones, like the myths of ancient Greece, and useless as, for instance, that the army turns young men into manly men.

Bullshit! Were it so, I'd say to Halimon, "This is my woman, talk to me!" It's not that I was afraid of him, it simply never occurred to me to say so. The army hadn't made a man of me…)

Olga suggested going to the Plant Park on Saturday, where the dances were played by The Pesnedary, a group from Bakhmuch. Their native town was the fourth stop of a local train in the Konotop-Kiev route, so it took just a half-hour ride to get there. What kind of group could be from such a backwater? Yet, Olga said they still played well, besides, at the dances, she'd introduce me to Valentin Batrak, handled Lyalka, the brother of Vitya Batrak, handled Slave.

The lahboohs from Bakhmuch sounded very good thanks to their keyboard player – a long guy sporting the hairstyle of Angela Davis. They quite decently performed "Smoke on the Water" of The Deep Purple, as well as "Mexico" of The Chicago band. Then we were approached by Lyalka and Olga introduced us to each other.

Tall and skinny, with the long fair hair slightly cocked up at his pate, he had a same-colored nail-beard à la Cardinal Richelieu. A single look at each other's enlightened eyes prompted us that we needed a more secluded place than the dance-floor. Such a place was found and there we exchanged the credentials and reached consensus in the estimation of the sampled weed's quality, which contributed to establishing relations of friendly cooperation in the years to come…

~ ~ ~

My father disclosed his strategic plans how to implement the skills acquired by me in the army. His project called for adding one more room as well as the veranda to the recently bought half-khutta, and also paneling its walls from outside with brick and, since we're at it, construction of a brick shed in the yard, of two sections, one to keep firewood and coal for winter, and the other residential, kinda summer room.

I felt reluctant to clarify that all the training got at the military service made me a qualified trencher well versed in application of shovel and breaker, without further building skills. Not that I was ashamed of the fact, but because he was so happy at the prospect of realization of his fondly mapped designs. I couldn't tell him that "bricklayer" standing in my military ID was a standard bullshit. So I said, yes, of course, no problems…

A truckload of bricks was bought at the brick factory, followed by a truckload of sand, a half-ton of cement and – off went the construction works of the century! The water source, regrettably, was farther away from the khutta than once in Nezhyn Street, besides, the running water system hadn't reached the outskirts of the Settlement and you had to turn the crank, round and round, above a hell-deep well, spooling the multi-meter iron chain onto the windlass barrel to bring to the daylight a pailful of water.

That summer was really hot, both in weather and zest of the labor efforts that turned my father's plans into the tangible reality. As for the quality…Well, the seams in the masonry were thicker than ideal, but the plumb-line test of jambs and corners won’t make me blush till now….

On his arrival home, a dembel had to report to the Military Commissariat and get registered there, spiffed for the occasion in his parade-crap. After those proceedings, I sent the parcel with the uniform to its owner at the military detachment 41769, after thrusting a three-ruble banknote into the jacket's inner pocket. Had the money reached the buddy? My mother told me she also had been putting a three-ruble bill along with each of her letters to me. Stuff it! Why did she never mention it at least a single time?! I would forbid so senseless practices because all that reached me were just vanilla letters. Well, they also were my relief, of course…

Soon after, I received a letter from Stavropol sent