Chronicle of the courtyard

Almost everyone needs friendship. Especially if he is a teenager spending a lot of time in the yard.

Suppose he, a teenager, is not averse to making friendship with a company of decent guys who not only read and discuss different interesting books among themselves and go to the chess circle, but also quite know how to defend their dignity and the right to be what they want to be in small and large skirmishes with a span. They are cheerful and relaxed. He wants to them, and this is understandable.

But they gently, but firmly let him know that if he wants to be friends with them, let him read at least a few books, so that he would be at least a little interesting with him. Let him not try to entertain the company with children's jokes about the “crazy house” and let him stop stupidly laughing with the only appearance of the unfortunate mentally retarded and always smiling thirty -year -old baby Zhenya in his stupid panama and with an eternal lollipop behind the cheek - this is not funny, funny completely different. They are not averse to accepting him in his company, but let him still try to overcome the habit of lying for any reason and even without reason. And most importantly, let him once and for all forget about his claims to become the most important in this company - they do not have the main ones here. And so - let him try, they do not mind.

But to try to teenager Valera Sevidov (it was necessary-nevertheless remembered!) Horror as reluctance. It’s easier for him as the elder and therefore the most long and the most powerful to lead the company of the thieving, shuttle and sophisticated young nerds, who love to peep with the help of their father’s trophy binoculars in the window of the female bath, pick up the notes under the lantern, pull the verah invisible in the dark, pushing the staging, squeeze out a blindfold The ice creammate, slipping him three -skin coins instead of the two -warn ones, and tease the elderly and nervous male of Buyan, attached at the store.

And this Valera, of course, cannot forgive those who did not take him to their company. And he, of course, as he can be dirty. Both so little, and in a large way. No, not by himself personally, but with the hands of the same filthy shallow, in which he is considered the main one.

And he knows, this Valera, that each of them can sell and betray him at any moment, but what to do - the choice is made, this is his, so to speak, social base, this is his, if you like, the target audience. And the other is not. And it can no longer be. Childhood will pass, and this will remain. And this is most likely forever.

That's it seems to be all.

But I know: the reader is waiting for "rhyme". Perhaps he would like to think that the author did not finish his story at all, because the story, you see, continues with the enthusiasm of the teenage hero - albeit a completely different name that grew up in a completely different yard and bearing a completely different name - with spy films and idiotic books from the Library of Military Adventures, because he did not learn decent books. And then the cherished dream of a cold head, a hot heart and hastily washed after a night interrogation, cannot but arise.

I also want to, perhaps, to hear the reader that dreams sometimes not only come true, but also bring the dreamer there, in those dreaming spheres that he never dared to imagine. And the fact that, even having become the will of unthinkable circumstances, the main chief of the large and clumsy territory, the territory of incomparably more extensive, but much less coveted than the courtyard of his childhood, our hero forever remains the very teenager who was never taken and will never take into a decent company.

Or maybe the reader is waiting for even more large -scale generalizations and thinks that all this more than a common and not at all original story is a story about the fact that not only individuals exist in the world, but also entire states, who have not managed to find themselves and their place in history, finding it only in geography, and therefore they are constantly likened to the teenager, which ... Well, and so on, and so on.

No, the author did not mean anything like that. And why? Firstly, this is clear. And secondly, each private story, although rather typical, but unique in its unique, and therefore unforgettable details or personal intonations of the narrator, is always more interesting and ultimately instructive than meaningful and, alas, obvious conclusions from it.