Blazer

We left unloading in the evening. Seryoga stood at the gate of the sawmill and brushed off the dust from his sweatpants with his hand. Then, shaking himself off, he straightened up, coughed relishfully at his feet and said:

- The weather is shit.

I nodded, finished brushing myself off and stood tiredly staring at the sky, gray and rainy. It was still light. Because of the rain, all my pants were covered in mud, and my sneakers had a second sole made of lumps of clay. I didn't want to talk. My arms and back ached. The rain got heavier. Seryoga went under the roof, squatted down and lit a cigarette.

- Give me a cigarette.

Seryoga raised his head, looked at me displeased, then handed me a pack of red Maxim. I sat down next to him and flicked my lighter.

- Well, that's rubbish.

“Well, excuse me,” Seryoga muttered.

While we were smoking, Andrei, the warehouse manager, came out of a one-story yellow building that looked like a hangar and jogged through the mud towards us, hiding his head under his jacket pulled over the back of his head.

- Here, boys, let's mow today. - He handed a bill to everyone.

“Yeah...” Seryoga mumbled, putting the money in his pocket, “what time tomorrow?”

- Let's go at eight. There will be more.

- What about the money?

- Well, about one and a half.

- Nice.

Seryoga stood up, spat out the cigarette butt on the ground, it fell into a puddle and went out. I got up too.

- Well, that's it then. Come on guys, thank you.

We shook hands and walked towards the rusty gates of the warehouse complex. I put on my hood. Our feet sank into the mud, and when we left the warehouses on the asphalt street, we wiped our soles on the road and curbs for several minutes, and then washed them in the puddle.

- Shall we go to Kruzhka? - asked Seryoga

- Come on.

There was no one on the streets. Usually, when we returned, crowds of people were always swarming around. Mothers with children, schoolchildren on vacation. Grandmothers sold greens. Now, because of the rain, the street seems to have died out. Only cars occasionally rushed past, spraying dirty splashes on the sidewalks.

At such moments Seryoga invariably cursed:

-Bitch, deer!

We slowly hobbled along the narrow footpath. I don’t know about Seryoga, but I was very tired and it was hard to walk. Somehow even lazy. I wanted to sit on a bench, light a cigarette and stare somewhere at the wall for a long, long time. I was still terribly hungry. Seryoga, as if reading my thoughts, said:

- I want to eat so much.

- Yeah.

As we walked, I kept stopping for a few seconds and adjusting the leg of my sweatpants. The damned three stripes always slid down the back of my calf when they should have been on the side. It looked ugly and I had already cursed the Uzbek from whom I bought them a hundred times. For a long time I wanted to cut them off into shorts or throw them out altogether, but then I would only have jeans and shorts. There would be nothing to work with; I had to stop like this every five minutes and pull these strips to the side. When I stopped again Seryoga suddenly turned and said:

- Yes, you're sick of it. Why are you like this? Nobody is looking at you. Like a chick.

- Kiss my ass.

- Let's go faster.

“Kruzhka” is the cheapest pub in the area and was rarely empty. When we were just approaching the nine-story building, on the ground floor of which, to the displeasure of all the local residents, there were the always open doors of a pub, we could already hear bad music and drunken swearing. The entrance to the "Mug" was from the end of the house. As Seryoga approached, he half nodded to the guards sitting in a black top ten with the private security company logo. They always stood here to break up fights until the cops arrived, who still came if someone was robbed or beaten in the area.

"The Mug" was a small establishment. Immediately opposite the door, about five meters away, there was a small bar counter behind which, changing, sat either the old and ugly Katya, or the young and still not beautiful Inna. To the left and right of the door there were plastic tables, with which only the narrow corridor from the door to the taps was not occupied. The best seats were to the right and left of the counter. It was always semi-dark, no one walked around, no one saw you there, and in order to ask for more, you didn’t have to get up from your chair - you could reach the counter with your hand. These tables were occupied by some drunks when we approached the counter and looked at them.

- Inna, hello. Give me some Czech one and some salted nuts. - said Seryoga.

- What about you? — Inna looked at me with displeasure. She wore a pink tank top that hugged her sagging breasts.

- German and crackers.

“You have 90,” she said to Seryoga, then she put the glass of dark wine on the counter and turned to me: “You have 60.”

We paid and sat at the left window, from where we could see the passing narrow street and rows of houses. This nine-story building, which included a pub, was a rarity for the area. Mostly there were five-story panel houses and former dormitories, or even Stalinist two-story barracks. The nine-story building was square, short, with only two entrances, which is why it was called a “candle.”

I literally fell onto a plastic chair; it felt a noticeable spring beneath me. I took a long sip of beer. The cold liquid rolled down the esophagus into the stomach, spreading a pleasant coolness. Inna put the ashtray on the table. I lit a cigarette and followed her with my gaze, looking at her fat legs with visible blue veins. I remember when I first came to Kruzhka I felt somehow uneasy. The sour smell of spilled beer and the stuffiness did not create comfort. So it seemed to me then. But that was a long time ago, even before the army. Then somehow I slowly got used to it and got involved.

We quickly sipped the first mug and took another. The time was approaching six. At intervals of several minutes, tired men with bags under their eyes came in, took two or three bottles of draft and went home to their wives and children. I didn’t have a wife, so I was in no hurry.

Having finished the second, I went for the third, bought cigarettes and, returning, lit a cigarette while staring out the window. The traffic light turned red. Two grandmothers slowly crawled across the road. There is a chic black Lexus table at the crossing. It's rare to see a car like this in this area. I thought that they were probably going somewhere out of town. A young red-haired girl of about twenty was sitting behind the wheel. In the passenger seat was a young guy in a jacket with some kind of fashionable haircut. He was animatedly telling the girl something, she laughed, so beautifully, neatly. Not like Inna. When she laughed, she showed everyone rows of crooked, rotten and yellowed teeth from smoking. This redhead had fine teeth. In general, she was somehow small, neat, well-groomed, and happy. I looked at the guy. He also seemed neat and well-groomed. I thought, with some envy, that it must be good to wear a suit, drive a Lexus with such a beautiful girl somewhere out of town, have fun with the same friends, drink expensive beer. I wonder if he is her boyfriend, friend or brother?

- Sanya, what’s there? - Seryoga suddenly asked hoarsely.

“Look,” I nodded my head towards the car, “so young, and already in a Lexus.”

“Yes, whores,” Seryoga hissed biliously, “majors, bitch.” I’m telling you, they haven’t worked a day. Dad bought everything, who in the nineties fucked up Soviet goods. They are all like that.

“Yeah,” I nodded weakly.

The Lexus started moving, the laughing girl and the neat guy in the jacket went about their neat business. I straightened my pant leg, pulling the strips that had slipped back.

Seryoga was a socialist. He constantly dreamed of the USSR, in which he lived for only a few years and of those, of course, did not remember anything. Although it seemed to Seryoga himself that he was much older than his age. Therefore, he always remembered how everything was before. In the “Mug,” by the way, this topic has never lost its relevance. Iron rule: if there is nothing to talk about, remember the USSR and scold the bourgeoisie. Once on the eve of the elections, my neighbor and I were smoking on the staircase. My neighbor was a student. He said that beggars vote for communists because they at least meant something in the union, because working professions were held in high esteem. That is, the state respected these people, but they weren’t particularly rich. At least it was impossible to see a Lexus on the street. They, the poor, felt some kind of strength and recognition of themselves. And now, they say, this is not the case. Get out of it however you want. And then the student added that the communists know about this and therefore rely on the workers, on the poor. There are many of them. They vote for them. And it’s good for them, on the parliamentary ration of 400 thousand a month.

- In general, all the parties are crap. And this country has always been poor, and will always be so. - the student concluded then.

- Well, yes

- Here. So, vote or not, you will still get...

- And I don’t vote.

We sometimes chatted with that student. Then he moved. Sometimes he told me some interesting things from history. About the war, Stalin. He studied at the history department. By the way, he also sometimes wore a jacket. Smart kid.

Seryoga and I finished our beer and went home. You can't get too drunk today. On the way I bought some dumplings. While I was walking from the grocery store to my five-story dorm, I kept thinking about those guys from the Lexus. That's how they do it? Where did they get it from? The more I thought, the more jealous I became. When I entered my dorm and again looked at the shabby walls, grub on the floor and seed peels, I was completely upset. On the staircase, familiar boys were smoking and drinking gin and tonic.

- Sanya, why are you so gloomy?

- Yes, my head hurts.

“Here, have a drink,” Nikita, a seventeen-year-old guy, handed me the bottle. He studied at the sharaga to become a gas worker.

I refused and went home. After eating, I collapsed on the sofa and watched hockey. That red-haired girl kept coming back to mind. I haven't had a girlfriend for a year and a half now. At twenty-three, it’s time to get back on your feet and not work as a loader at a sawmill. Although I usually earned fifteen thousand a month. True, he paid half for the apartment. Sometimes I thought that I needed to return to my parents in Verkhneuralsk. But the only work there is in shops and sowing. I’ve been thinking about returning for two years now, but I never returned, working here and there. The golden time was last summer, when we worked at a private construction site. I thought about unlearning my license, but the construction site was closed after two months. I ate the accumulated spot until I settled down in a new way. These thoughts made me completely sick. I went out to the entrance to have a drink with Nikita, but they had already left. I returned home upset and fell asleep listening to hockey.

The next day we worked for one and a half thousand. On Thursday for 800 rubles. On Friday for a thousand. The whole time we were working, I kept thinking about money and prosperity. Like everyone else, I decided that if I became rich, I would buy my mother what she wanted: perfume, a dress, gold earrings. A trip to the sea. They were only in Crimea, and then thirty years ago. I'll buy myself a car. In my dreams, I ran an oil refinery and built houses. Yes, anyone, as long as they have the money to also drive a Lexus, with a beautiful girl, and sit not in a pub, but in a pub. Relax not on the beach of the local reservoir, but on the sea. Life is normal. At such moments, I would get angry with myself and adjust this pant leg, thinking how ugly I looked. On the Internet, I began to look for another workplace. Well, well, I knew how to work. I've been doing this since childhood. Even instead of childhood. And yet, I never thought about the fact that there are rules for writing a resume, interview tactics, rules for appearance. I spent the whole Thursday evening sitting at the computer and looking through one job advertisement after another. I thought I could get a job as a manager at a hardware store. “Career growth prospects,” the ad read. I sent several resumes to Eldorado and M - Video. Just in case, I sent it to Posuda Center and Metro. On Friday I received a call from the Posuda Center and was invited for an interview. Not the best place to work, I thought, but that's it. Salary from 15 to 20 thousand plus a percentage of sales, career growth. It's still better than now. Besides, there will finally be a reason to get out of this part of the city.

I thought that I should go to an interview in good clothes. The ideal would be to look like the guy from the car. Solid and neat. I spent the entire evening surfing the Internet looking for recommendations on what to wear for an interview. “And, of course, don’t even think about coming to an interview wearing three rubles abibas, even if you’re getting a job in a warehouse. Remember, when you go to the warehouse, you think of yourself as a warehouse manager. You must always be respectable, then people will believe it,” wrote a specialist on the forum. I looked at the pants that were hanging on the chair and smiled sadly.

On Saturday I put on clean jeans, a T-shirt, shoes, took the money and went outside. The weather was clear, but not hot. I decided to go buy a shirt and some jacket. I got disappointed pretty quickly. In clothing stores, shirts cost from eight hundred rubles. Jackets are even more expensive. Having climbed around a few, I realized that they are like this everywhere. Even at the thrift store they turned out to be incredibly expensive. The saleswomen assured that theirs was the cheapest. I didn’t want to go to the center, where there are more shops. I thought it was quite expensive there. To the market after these damned pants too. On the way home, I ran around the entire area, all the shops and one trading house, and was at a loss and in some kind of despair. Suddenly I suddenly remembered how Seryoga told me about second-hand stores, where he often gets good things for cheap. I decided to go to the first one I came across. Fortunately, there were enough of them in our area. I thought that the principle here was the same as that of the communists.

I went down to the basement of the store. There was a smell of washing powder, and a bright electric light hit my eyes. In a small room, a grandmother sat at a desk in the corner and read a newspaper. A variety of things were hung on hangers around the perimeter of the room. I said hello and, catching my eye on the jackets, headed towards them.

As soon as grandma noticed that I was going towards the jackets, she jumped up from her seat.

- You know, they brought us such good jackets, this one here, look, right at you. - She took a gray jacket from the hanger, then, after standing for a while, two more blue ones.

After choosing for a long time, I ended up taking a blue jacket, which looked almost unworn, for three hundred rubles, and a white shirt for two hundred and fifty. When I got home I decided to try on some new clothes. They smelled strongly of washing powder. I ironed the shirt and, while using the iron, found a small hole at the collar. At first I was a little upset, but I thought that, in general, she was not visible.

Having finished preparing, I put on jeans, shoes, a shirt, a jacket and went to a small mirror that hung in my small shower room combined with a toilet. I looked ugly. There was nothing in common between me and the guy in the foreign car. I looked at my ridiculous hairstyle, from which it was immediately clear that I did not go to the hairdresser, but simply cut my hair once every two months. In your arms. Scratched, with crooked fingers, ugly. Teeth. A face scarred from fights. Crooked nose. Beer belly. Faded jeans. Shoes. Poor. It was all so unbearably wretched that I felt so uncomfortable, ashamed, and sad. I tried to remember if I had ever seen my father in a suit. Saw. Once. In a wedding photograph. The rest of the time he wore a crane operator's overalls. It suited him. Me too. It didn't make me look like a freak. And now, in this suit, funny, cheap, shabby, I looked funny and ridiculous. If the director of this “Posuda-Center” saw me now, he would immediately recognize me as a simple loader from a sawmill who is trying to take the wrong place. Maybe it was destined for me? Drink beer in the evenings, ride the bus, vote for the communists. To each his own. For her, the redhead, a Lexus and a sweet boy, for me - a sawmill, a groove and a “Mug”. I was angry. While I was unloading logs, carrying cinder blocks, trampling the parade ground in a unit near Smolensk, my dad bought this redhead and her friend a car. I bought an expensive suit. Cologne. And I bought a used one. And my cologne is cheap. And sometimes when I forget to wash my socks, I have to walk around in dirty ones, smelling this vomit smell. That's the whole difference. Who are you, who am I. That's it.

All Saturday I, like a woman, twirled in front of the mirror, trying to see in myself at least some semblance of a respectable person. By evening, I was so annoyed by this that I threw my jacket and shirt into a corner, took some of the money I had saved for the apartment and bought myself a beer. I spent the whole night, half-drunk, losing in counter.

On Sunday I put on my jacket again and soberly and calmly became convinced that everyone in this life has their own specific place, their own clothes, a niche. I was not born for Lexus and jackets. And there is no point in even trying to crawl outside of your habitat. It looks ridiculous. Like a four-year-old girl wearing makeup. Like a boy in heels. To each his own. For me - a sawmill.

In the evening I gave the jacket to Nikita. He didn't take the shirt. He said why does he need it torn.

On Monday I put on my three-shirts and went to the sawmill, no longer correcting the slipped strips. There was a lot of work. We only finished at seven. They gave us one and a half. There will be no work on Tuesday and Wednesday - no deliveries are expected. Only on Thursday.

“You can get drunk for two days,” Seryoga grinned.

It started to rain.

— To the “Mug”? - I asked him.

- Come on, let’s drink away our pay, why aren’t we human?

We were walking down the street. There were no people. Seryoga cursed at the cars. In the “Mug”, out of some kind of stupid anger, envy, despair, I got drunk like I hadn’t gotten drunk in a long time. I started to feel sick. Seryoga took me outside to breathe. We squatted against the wall of the house, facing the roadway. I lit a strong Maxim, which, I don’t know why, I bought on purpose, even though I had the money. A white Audi drove slowly down the street, a guy of about twenty-five in a suit was driving. He was talking to someone on the phone.

“You scum,” I nodded my head towards the car.

“Whores,” Seryoga corrected me, “bourgeois whores.”

I nodded in agreement, finished smoking and extinguished the light with spit.