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

people do not drink at their workplace, in this case the aforesaid trench. Of course, I knew perfectly well that they drink anywhere and with anything on and kicking against the obvious was a lousy weak standpoint, however, on that particular occasion, I felt like embracing an idealistic stance, on the grounds of an unclear reason…

On my return to Konotop after the business trip, when I was offered a drink in the trailer, I still stuck to the role of a fighter for ideal, declaring that I did not drink at work, although I wanted it. There followed a reasonable argument, that the trailer was not the workplace. I had to make corrections to the principle's formula which ended up as "I do not drink when in my work garb". So, they offered, in the form of a compromise, to change into clean clothes, have a swig and then change back. With time, the procedure was reduced. I simply got undressed and, in my underpants and tank-top, fuddled, just to be polite, and put my spetzovka back on.

In our team, the principles were treated with respect, and I was tolerated in even such a negligee. Only the crane operator Vitalya used to explore and lose his temper, "Why share to him? He'll sell us!"

"No, he's not a snitch."

"When the superintendent drops in and sees his underwear, can't he get it what we are up to?"

But a crane operator was not a member of our team, and Vitalya wasn't even a Konotoper. He came to work from Bakhmuch, and just had that sort of frantic temperament. Once at the midday break, he started to make fun, "Got stuck again into that Vsesvit of yours? Come on, have a drink! But don't undress, I also have my principles."

He giggled, gaily flashed his eyes, grabbing the bottle with his hand missing a finger, and poured only for himself and Kyrpa…

One good turn deserves another. For the next midday break, I bought a bottle of "Golden Autumn" and a bar of chocolate from the grocery store because Vitalya and Kyrpa were playing cards in the trailer.

I slowly stripped myself to the underwear and started sharing to the colleagues an exalted example of the sybaritic attitude to life by taking desultory sips from the bottle for 1 ruble 28 kopecks and nibbling at the bar of expensive chocolate.

(…it was not revenging at all, but an act of purely remedial education…)

Vitalya kept himself in check for quite a long but, eventually, his temperament took over, "Fuck! Snacking the mutter-mumbler swill with "Alenka"! What a pervert!"

But that, of course, was out of envy, in all his life he never tried it that way. And I calmly drank the whole bottle and did not share it even to Kyrpa, who was backing Vitalya's giggles the day before.

(…however, at times, there still creep some doubts in if that indeed was unalloyed pedagogy or, after all, a sort of vengeful exhibitionism?..)

However, occasions of such kind were merely exceptions, rare and far apart, until the Prohibition shattered my indifference to alcoholic matters…

~ ~ ~

On Thursday, I stayed in the steam room a little longer and left the bathhouse at something past seven. Before Gorbachev’s coming to power, I would not even notice it—the blissful don't follow the flow of time—however, the Prohibition brought about rigid temporal limitations for the sale of alcohol. But my after-bath quota?!.

In the beer bar on the opposite side of Square of Konotop Divisions, instead of the usual bright radiance of its fluorescent lamps, a measly yellow spot of a single bulb left on inside. In deject despondence, I was passing by when the bar door opened and two men climbed down the tall porch way of the facility. Well, well, well!. The situation called for closer inspection…

The unlocked door yielded willingly to the light pressure. And indeed, just one 100-watt bulb was lit inside, above the beer tap. Yet, the beer was still flowing from the tap into glasses! Men were grabbing them and retreating to hang on about the tall round tables. If not for the scanty illumination, all was like in good ol’ dry-lawless times!

Not everything though. The noise and din of warm friendly conversations were missing. The barman in a white smock kept warning, over and over again, from behind the counter, "Keep quiet, mujiks! And be quick, we're being breaching it."

There's no buzz in booze under the whip-clicks of a stopwatch… Here, in the murky half-dark dungeon room, where you couldn't make out the face of a man standing at the table opposite, we were like the last handful of Knights Templar after their order was crushed and pronounced anathema. Here, we hid ourselves away from the alcohol-free spies and informers. Any low-grade trader could point at you and yell, "Lay hands on him! Hold fast! Call the militia!" We were outlaws…

Honestly, I do not really like beer bars. You stand in the line and watch how tipsy scumbags approach the mujiks queuing ahead of you, "Bro, and a couple for me, eh?" And instead of one line, you have to stand, in fact, thru 2 or 3. Even more disgusting, when already quite close to the tap, you feel a jab in your ribs and a guy who you, like, have seen someplace, giggles and winks at you, "Don't forget? I asked three mugs." No, next time I'd rather go to a café where they sell only bottled, more expensive, beer but without those impudent tail-clingers… And on the following bath-day Thursday, I haughtily passed by the beer bar and stomped to the café.

"We've got no beer."

Damn! Okay, I can go to Peace Square… But in the café next to the cinema there also was no beer. The railway station restaurant remained my last chance. Same story. But it's Thursday!

That way I was made buy a bottle of white wine. The tables in the restaurant were big, for about ten persons each, surrounded by heavy chairs in leather upholstery, yet almost