Pavel Makarsov against corporations

The night laurel as a phenomenon almost completely disappeared from the streets of large cities, remaining only in the songs of the fashionable performer of the coin, but a few years ago he could be the main point of attraction of the district life: in the afternoon, cigarettes and products were bought in it, at night a completely different, more gloomy activity was boiling around it. The writer Mikhail Bokov, in the framework of his Russian Gothic cycle about a provincial life, tells the story of a typical owner of the grocery stall Pasha Makarsov. Inside: GOP-stop, Mikhail Circle and bizarre entrepreneurial ethics.

Pasha Makarstsov was a daring private entrepreneur of thirty -eight years. Chube Pashin curled boldly. Eyes shone with carelessness and fun. Pasha was the owner of the grocery stall, and did not blow in the mustache. His fate rolled like a lubricated sleigh for Christmas: with a hood, a song, and moonshine dragged with those sled a river.

In the morning, he appeared in the barn to make an order for the day. In the evening he took the revenue. Once a week they considered a shortage with sellers, reduced debit and credit. Pasha sellers often turned out to be weak -lecharacted people and melted the little things: cigarettes, chewing gum, beer. If the consumption turned out to be more than the parish, Pasha, laughing, made people work for free - on the debt. People agreed, there was nowhere to go. Behind the back of the cheerful Pasha stood two gloomy shadows - Borka Smirnov and Kakha, "looking" behind the stall.

Borka left the city boxing section with the title "Candidate for the Master of Sports." At the dawn of the 90s, he went to the "young". This is the name of the shoot of racketeers, many of which have not yet begun to grow. Having become older, "legalized." He offered his services to Pasha Makarsov and other namesakes: now his work was to protect merchants from his recent colleagues - “young”. Borka's face was round-round. Like the sun. And the eyes are blue and blue. Like the sky. In the midst of this splendor, the skull drove into the depths and many times broken nose stuck.

Borka always stood and swayed back and forth-in a boxerly. His fingers - like pink sausages with red hairs - sorted through the parsing. Pars were in high esteem. They hinted at the dark past and rich life experience of the owner. Few, the kid did not turn them in his hands in our town. The pars began to turn already in the elementary grades of the school, and the twists sometimes before retirement.

Borka did not know how to speak. He could only say lingeringly, beautifully and sonorously one phrase: "Well, children, deaths, wanted?" Words, like honey condel, flew out from his mouth: gingerbread cookies and honey, even pick it up and eat. But this phrase was in rosy Borka alone for all occasions. Therefore, Kakha always spoke for him, his accomplice-Georgin.

If it happened to someone to offend Pashin Larok (and this happened, Pasha himself was often to blame for this, which is below), Kakha lifted the offender from the ground. Long, black -haired, in a leather jacket, which has gone on the shoulders, Kakha was a full moon, the Black Sea, anxiety of the distant war. It was impossible to look at his pupils. These were match heads, not pupils. It was rumored that they became such due to the fact that Kakha was indulgent with the veins: a poppy straw, a screw, a cheap gray heroin. When Kakha spoke, the wreckage of his teeth in the crevice of his mouth forced to recall terrible things: how the shark gobbled up a tourist at the Egyptian resort, how the forest animals were gnawed alive.

"Well, guys, deaths wanted?"

Once it happened so that Larok was robbed five times a week. At night, a certain man in a mask went to walk at night. Through a small window, he poked a barrel into the seller and carried away the revenue. Cach’s unprecedented science found him on the seventh day. It was like in the Bible, when God, tired of worries, rested from all his affairs. Only on the contrary: Kakha did not even think to relax, and his labors were just beginning.

When the mask was torn off a person, it turned out that this is a young guy, a former night seller. Pasha Makarstsov once fired him for incompetence. It is difficult to be competent in the night shift in the grocery stall. Pasha Makarsov knew it on his own. At other nights, tired of his wife, he was to work in a barn to the night shift himself. Black Saab parked at the entrance. Pavel Makartsov, a private entrepreneur, arose on the threshold, ringing the bottles of Vermouth "Chinzano". Larok did not have the right to sell strong alcohol, and Pasha was a great lover to Vermouth. Therefore, he had to buy in another place and take with him. The news that the head of the stall - himself - is sitting on a night shift, spread far in the vicinity. Everyone knew: if Pasha Makarstsov, an individual entrepreneur, a seasoned and violent humanity, works - everyone will have fun. Helpers and whores went to the stall from the darkness. “Makar” - that’s the name of the owner of the stall, so lovingly. Makar did not refuse anyone: being already pretty much succumbed, with an eternal cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he distributed beer and cigarettes “in debt”. Who, how much and for what was owed, was eliminated from his memory instantly. Knowing this, Makar tried to record. In the mornings, the boardwalk of a stall Ustila Mountain of Paper with his whimpering, the devil will break his leg, drunken handwriting: columns of illegible numbers, scrapuli, many exclamation marks.

Music played: the Mirage group or Mikhail Krug. The men smoked. They shook sweaty bodies in the dance drunk women. The Mordovian Moon looked at all this and envied alive: the density of their blood, the unbridled of their desires. When then, after a week of night shift, it was time to knock out the results, Debet and a loan, Pavel was gloomy and became gloomy. His mood deteriorated. He tried to hang his shortage with all his might on daytime sellers. He fiddled with a bourgeois, cursed obscenities, went out to smoke.

There were no competent at this work. Women are best for her - elderly and believers. Such do not steal alcohol - unless a thirty -year -old loser is awaiting at home, a baby in pulled training, a bustle and a chronicle. They are indifferent to money and cigarettes. The problem of Pasha Makarsov was that it is difficult to find elderly believers to work in a night stall. Elderly believers after prayer, after prayer, go to bed early. In a dream, they see how a drunken bacchanalia at the stalls like Pashin is smoked at the hellish stake.

Therefore, I had to take those who are given. Restsy, who tied (and not very) drug addicts - one of them was not shy sniffed from the package from the bag directly during night shifts. Or just dashing and notorious people. One of them went to rob Larok after his dismissal.

Pasha Makarstsov with pleasure told how Kakha calculated the offender. At night, sellers cleaned large bills not in the cash desk, but in a box from under Bubble-gum. The box was placed in the far corner, under the cover of boxes with beer. So, the man in the mask knew about this box. Sticking a black hefty gun in a narrow slot of the window, he certainly shouted to get the box. "Box?" - asked, trembling, at the barrel, the seller. “Yes, yes, a box from under the Boob-Guma, which stands left behind you behind a beer box!” - the robber shouted from the street. His hand stuck inside with a gun. Then Pasha sometimes clarified the seller: "And you could not pull her, this hand, and break the dogs to the dicks?" The seller was crumbling, it smelled of glue.

Kakha guessed that the matter was unclean. Who could know about the box? Only the one who worked here. And who worked here recently? The turnover was big, but Kakha still went to addresses. In the first apartment where he appeared, he found evidence: a gun, a mask, a lot of money in a person’s pocket - and a fright. Kakha felt a fright as a three -headed Cerberus, and then a poisonous mucus began to flow from Kaha's mouth. Falling to the floor, she burned holes in linoleum. The task of Cerberus was not to allow the dead to return to the world of the living. Therefore, Kakha dragged the beaten, stinking urine of the boy to Pasha Makarsov in Larok. The guy was afraid that he would give everything. The guy promised to sell his mother’s apartment to pay off the debts and moral humiliation delivered by Pasha Makarsov, Kaha and Borka. So Pasha himself said, sitting on beer boxes with a glass of chinzano in his hand. He looked shining. The face went with a red spot with happiness. A curly Smollyan Chub wounded up like a Cossack. The silk shirt dispersed on the belly. The tip of the Golden Cross peeked out into the cut.

But once Pasha Makarsov still had to sip the sorrows of fate. And he sipped them with a full spoon. The past in the Easter cakes flew to the hell. Black “SAAB” left off the trading. And that spoon still did not end and seemed to Pasha bottomless.

It so happened that large retail chains entered our city. Built the zikgurats - shopping centers. They began to praise the golden calf in the zikgurats. Calls like Pashin clung to the shining zikgurats, like clods of rotten earth to the sole of the boot. The legs stuck out of the stalls. Smerdilo tobacco. It hit the spirit of the fate of human.

Trade centers soared over the anthill of our lives as unattainable standards of cold beauty. Everything in them sparkled, beckoned, promised a new life. It was obvious that the stalls would not stretch for a long time next to the giants.

The first alarming bell rang when the conversations began. The rumor passed among the benches that they would raise excise taxes on cigarettes. And that the commodity base - Mecca, where all small businessmen were found - will stop letting go of the batch of beer to a hundred drawers. “Where do I have a hundred boxes? -the owners of the stalls were indignant, although there was no confirmation of this conversation, but only speculation and forebodings. "Will it be crashed?" In the stalls they sold products with an expired shelf life, it was a matter. And sometimes they clogged the barn under the roof by the boxes, so the seller, locked inside, could not go out either by need or smoke. As long as you sell - sit. Pasha Makarstsov himself, with a whore smile, on the eve of the first of the first time, anted the seller in four walls of the stall. In the eyes of the Pashins, a radiant hope shone: these are holidays, this is how trade will go! But take one hundred boxes every time, every purchase?! Here, the namesakes were already poured with blood: they rot, reptiles, offend honest people.

However, another news soon came - and they forgot about excise taxes with the product base. In the early July morning, when the birds sang and nothing foreshadowed trouble, people from the administration arrived. Serious people in baggy costumes and sharp -legged boots, almost as serious as namesakes, - and handed out a resolution to everyone. On paper, it was written: "Decree."

Pasha sat down to read him, thoughtful and hopped after a night shift. A cigarette hung from his lip. The Orthodox Cross shone in the whole fragment of the moon-the help of an honest businessman. And the longer Pasha read, the lower his lip fell. The cigarette crawled down lower, until Pasha's trousers crashed at all, and then his loud cries announced the space. “But you saw this?! - Pasha jumped out of the stall and showed a gesture in the sky, meaning male horseradish. - But hell to you! " He shouted a lot and for a long time, so the people and the local drunk reached for the sounds. Everyone was interested in what was happening. The drunk hoped that they were pouring under the noise.

Pasha Makarstsov raised and belped the poison. Killed the air with boots. He sprayed saliva. Nobody was poured under the noise. On the contrary, Pasha drove the drunk with kicks away from the stall.

The “Decree” ordered all the owners of the stalls to collect two million rubles a two -week period in order to replace (quote from the resolution) “morally outdated, which does not meet the safety standards of the trade structure to more modern”. In other words, Pasha and everyone else was offered to demolish the old layk, and build a new one in its place. According to no one, this new building was supposed to have an entrance with three steps, a neon sign on the door and a seller with an unimaginated medical book. Total - two million rubles. The consequences of failure to fulfill in terms are immediate demolition.

If there is nothing to cover, if there are no arguments - take the pont, show me an imaginary power, put dust in the eyes

In the evening a consultation gathered. Kakha came, dry Georgians, obviously under high. Borka Smirnov came - and the first thing he stuffed his pockets with cigarettes and chewing gum: how the “roof” had the right. The light was bored. The door was locked. "What are we going to do, lads?" - asked Pasha. The lads, smoke with cigarettes and getting badly, promised to figure it out without enthusiasm.

Days went. Larok continued to work as usual. Passions gradually subsided, and Pasha Makarstsov already thought that the decision was just an attempt by the administration to take him to Pont. He is a private entrepreneur, a person who gives work to unfortunate families. In his head, Pasha is so, with the title letters, determined his noble place. And also, brought up for years with a tough competition, he knew: if there is nothing to cover, if there are no arguments, take the pont, show me an imaginary power, put dust in your eyes. So did everyone in Pashin's world. And now, it seems, the administration decided to do so. “Ha ha,” he began to laugh. “They will demolish us, how can they.”

Then Kakha and Borka came. Damaged. What did not happen to them before. “In short, Pashk. Collect two million, or they will demolish you, ”Kakha said and scratched you. It looks like he was again under the high. Borka looked at Pasha through the eyes of the turquoise sky and put the Malboro block in his pocket. “Such things, brother,” he summed up (which in his case was an obvious linguistic feat). Pasha boiled: “How will they demolish? How? And what did you give to me then, relatives? Lay the question! " “We decided,” Kakha said. - "And what?" - "Without options." - "Why?" - "Because they are a corporation." - “Who are they? Gondons who are sitting in a gray house? " (The Gray House was called the administration.) “No,” Kakha answered and dug up with saliva to the floor. - “Pyaterochka”, “Auchan”, “Crossroad”. You got up with your stall across the throat, Pashk. "

Pasha thought for a second, scratching his resin -stone. Then he took out the Block "Malbore" from the pocket of Borka Smirnov. "Do you know what, reer?" "What?" - asked the roof in chorus. - "Would you go to dick too!" He put out Kahu and then Borka. They did not resist. "No offense, Pashka!" - said Kakha. Pasha slammed the door.

He took part of the necessary money from his acquaintances. No one dared to give him the whole amount. People knew about the violent character of the owner of the stall and his addiction to the vermuth of “Chinzano”. Giving money to Pasha Makarsov, they said goodbye to them forever.

Pasha collected another part of the amount by selling his black SAAB. He helped out a little for the car. In fact, it turned out that the SAAB is broken, and its engine number is on the federal wanted list.

Pasha is a hiding on the suski. He laid his wife's gold in a pawnshop. He laid a gold fixture - in the best years he was sometimes paid in a restaurant, attempted.

By the time the watching arrow, it exceeded midnight and the day of the day came, during which Pasha was supposed to start building a new stall, he still had half a million rubles less in his hands than needed.

The following happened. A beautiful summer dawn rose above the city. Linden fragrant. The air was soaked in a healing ozone so much that it seemed that he could raise the dead from the grave - he was so fresh and exciting.

Pasha Makarstsov lay face in his own vomiting in his stall so far and did not show signs of life. The seller, a new girl who managed to fly under the millstone of Pashin's small business, slowed down his shoulder, trying in vain to wake him up.

At eight thirty in the morning, a commission from the administration arrived. "What? - The representative of the commission was theatrically amazed. "No work has begun yet?"

“None,” the seller girl squeaked in fright. "I will send everyone bitch, fucking!" Pasha croaked in unconsciousness. “Very, very bad,” the representative summed up.

At nine twenty -five, a team of workers arrived at the place. They carefully carried out the drunk Pasha Makarsov and laid it right on the sidewalk. Following this, the workers began to take out the contents of the stall and put it next to Pasha. Blocks of cigarettes, beer boxes, chocolate, chewing gums - all that has long made up the income and what was now out of competition before the impending corporate globalization.

After the stalls were released, one of the workers - the oldest - took up the sledgehammer. He smashed a cast -iron head on a tin wall. The wall responded with a groan, crumpled. Following the main sledgehammer, the rest took up. Methodical blows - in a dozen hands - they brought down the stall in twelve and a half minutes. Sounds scattered throughout the district-bam-bam-bam. The tree crumbled, the glasses crack, dust rose around the workers with a pillar.

The curious came to the noise. First, a drunk permanent Pashin buyer appeared. Then a young woman stopped with a child in a stroller. Then a tired pensioner came up. Then a flock of schoolchildren with ice cream in their hands. Following-a group of students, a lonely unemployed, two girls in short skirts, a builder in an orange helmet, an office employee with a tie-tie, a granny in a faded scarf, still schoolchildren, still students, still hanged erysipelas ... When a nimble with a ginger collapsed under the last blow, this heterogeneous mass gave a simultaneous woeful breath.

In a pile of dust, it became clear that not just a retail outlet, dirty and bald. It took something more. Laryok Pasha Makarsov was a place where the last gossip gathered, acquaintances met, transactions were concluded, meetings were appointed, ships, considerations for three, quarrels, scandals, fights, recognition of love and final, irrevocable explosions. В конце концов, это место вполне заменяло жителям какой-нибудь трактир или клуб. Иные тёрлись у ларька целыми днями, даже не имея денег, — просто ради возможности поговорить. Эти разговоры — дурацкие и бессмысленные для остальных — вероятно, были последней возможностью для кого-то ощутить, что он ещё жив.

Ларёк помнили долго. Говорили о нём с ностальгией и бесконечно пересказывали байки, добавляя к ним всё новые и новые несуществующие подробности.

Впоследствии стало ясно, что цены в сетевом магазине ниже, чем в Пашином ларьке, а обслуживание лучше. В смысле, вы не сталкивались там с бухими продавцами, никто не мог послать вас подальше, люди не размахивали пистолетами у кассы, и голые женщины не танцевали на ящиках с пивом. Торговля стала стерильной и неодушевлённой. И это поначалу отпугнуло часть покупателей от нового магазина. Однако в конце концов ходить туда стали все. Удобство и невысокие цены всё перекрыли.

Про Пашу Макарцова продолжали рассказывать разное. Говорили, что он работает теперь водителем маршрутки, но держится всё равно по-царски, будто до сих пор хозяйничает ларьком. Другие якобы видели Пашу пьяным и опустившимся. Говорили, что его выгнала из дому жена.

Были и те, кто утверждал, что Павел Макарцов, частный предприниматель, сделался юродивым. Что днями сидит он у монастыря, прося милостыню. А вечерами — глядит в окна сетевого магазина, силясь разгадать его тайну. «Божий человек, — говорили про него. — Хохочет и молится, хохочет и молится…»