The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
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Perfectly happy with the accomplishment, I hurried to Dr. Grisha and proudly presented the moisture impounded (with so much a-do) within the tight glass walls.
He took off his doctor’s white smock, grabbed his large soft briefcase, and we left his office… On that day, his briefcase could be observed in different and wide apart points in the Nezhyn city, accompanied by the sensual roll of Dr. Grisha's buttocks on one side, and my gait of morose moose on the other. The test tube made the constant fourth to the company, keeping the still unchecked semen out of sight in the hip pocket of my jeans. It seemed that Grisha wanted to help in earnest. Only the day turned out to be such that venereal dispensary did not work, in some laboratory someone left for somewhere else, in another they had run out of something and so on.
About 2 in the afternoon, our harmonious foursome (Grisha, the briefcase, I and the tube) appeared for some reason at the station where we decided that it was enough because the symptoms matched all the same, without any needless checking.
I dropped the test tube into the gray tubular garbage urn located by the large white bust of Lenin nearby the payphone booth in its thick red-and-yellow paint coat, halfway between the station and the high platform for the local trains of Kiev destination.
Dumping the thing was kinda pity, like, we were not complete strangers anymore after going together thru all we had to since our first meeting, however, there was no good reason to keep it on any further…
I went to the Hosty and then returned to the station because the week was over and I needed to show up in Konotop so that my parents would not worry. There were still 10 minutes before the local train to Konotop and, all of a sudden, I was simply pulled to pay a visit to the bust of Lenin.
What I saw there literally dumbfounded me. From the wide circular orifice of the gray urn, a thick bunch of green pliant shoots was vigorously sticking up. I did not immediately get it that while I was away, they trimmed the bushes around the pedestal upholding the bust.
The local train pulled by and, crossing over the platform to the car, I gave the urn one last and proud glance – bushes or no bushes but that f-f..er..I mean, frivolous semen was full of real pep, by Jove! Of course, when abstracting from certain minor details…
Except for imparting a very vivid color to my urine, the Rifadin from Grisha had no other straight or side effects. Thanks to the capsules, I pissed with gleeful scarlet and, overcoming itching and burning, cursed my stupid rakishness with Lucy Mancini.
Maria treacherously washed her hands of me, like, being offended that I preferred some glass tube to her natural vase…
I got cured by Eera. She simply led me to an elderly woman in the barrack-like children hospital. The woman in white took me behind a screen in the corridor to hide from the looks of the queue. I downed my pants a little bit, stooped, got the bite of a shot in my buttock, and… And that's all! Nothing more was required. That’s how the summer came…
~ ~ ~
How did I spend the summer? Like any other decent, diligent, hardworking lad… First of all, I became a plant breeder. Among the beds of turned soil at the end of the garden at 13 Decemberists, there began to rise and boost the crisp growth of cannabis whose seeds provided the last year's loot from the neighbor. The term "bushes" did not seem right for the plants. They looked more like sprouting seedlings of young trees. And those trees were growing like one united family, rushing upwards, turning into a dense thicket, which, of course, called for thinning out by the selection culling.
From the street, that coppice was not visible, screened by the fruit trees, but nothing could evade the attentive neighbors. The neighbor on the right asked my mother about the purpose of the cultivated crop.
My mother replied, that hemp produced a lot of seeds (such small, round, oily looking, beads, you know) and at Bazaar the canary keepers were simply scrambling to get that perfect food for their feathered singers…
Oh, the ingenuity of maternal love! I'd hardly drive a fool of so subtle nature! Most likely, I'd give out some stuff about compresses and foot baths from varicose veins aggravated by salts deposition. And that would be a dangerous mistake because canary keeping was a rare sport in the Settlement when compared to the plenty of labor veterans with deteriorated health. Is it too hard to imagine an honored vet with a loving teenager relative, who’s ready to sacrifice half of his night repose and bring home a remedy to his Grandpa's ailing from a not too faraway plantation?. Okay, let's drop spooking ourselves with nightmares… Anyway, excessive advertising sometimes might damage the growth of business.
And, by the by, the question was asked by the wife of the robbed neighbor who, in addition to his pension, had also the job of a watchman in the nearby Track Machine Station, aka PMS.
(…and it's not my unseemliness that the organization's name in Russian, when abbreviated, coincides with that of Premenstrual Syndrome…)
I did not have much scruples about expropriating his cannabis because after the raid there was left enough to keep him up till the following season.
(…it's only now, in retrospect, I think of a possibility that he might have had his clients with canaries…)
By that time, it was several years since my mother left the KEMZ Plant and got a job in the RepBase pre-assembly unit. I gather it, they were checking the availability of helicopter spare parts there. Physically, her job
