About eccentrics

By the way, the writer became difficult. Who to write about? Universal compulsory education, unification of the lifestyle, the disappearance of the village, dialects and dialects, the pressing of the media, the transformation of people into “Office Plankton” lead to the fact that modern cities and their inhabitants become similar to each other. Such people want predictability, not adventures. Political correctness is good for life, but destructive for literature. The modern world gives rise to few eccentrics, people with a twist, but without them it is done somehow dreary and uninteresting.

***

Among the pre -war Japanese there were many eccentric and non -prudent people. There was a mycologist at Kumagusu, a mycologist, studied the Slyzer. He lived in America and England, then returned to Japan, a donkey in the mountains. He was a big original, a drunkard and a bully. At that time, the government decided to unite small Shinto sanctuaries into large ones; The minakata was against it because he loved the little, not a big one. Otherwise, he would study elephants.

At a meeting in a local school, where an important official made a report on the merger of the sanctuaries, the minakat did not find anything better than launch a bag with his mucous membranes in it. For hooliganism he was put for 18 days. In prison, the Minakat liked it, he gathered his favorite mold on the damp walls and did not want to go out from there on the grounds that this is a great place to work: a pleasant coolness, no one bothers. He happened to his scientific opponents, he wrote gross letters. Some of his biographers believe that in the moments of their compositions he was drunk, while others think that he was tormented by a hangover. This problem is still waiting for its thoughtful researcher. In any case, the minakata was not an office scientist and loved mushrooms in all their manifestations. On these issues, disagreements do not arise in the academic community.

***

"He served in the army?" - Strictly asked me at a gouged bus stop a veteran of the Spanish, Finnish and German wars. He was shod in thin boots, a star was burning on an army cap. I shook my head. “So he didn’t come out with health,” he said contemptuously. Turning away from a idle man, he blurted out dust, which in a military person stuck under his fifth. I felt like a creature that dies in his pentagram and the unworthy title of mammal.

Thinking about my unfortunate fate, I am waiting for the bus. Bushed “Lada” flies up from the lane, black smoke is falling from the exhaust pipe. Coal, or what, are they seasoned? The face shows from the window: "Hey father, where is Moscow to the right or left here?" Masha to the right. It seems that the face was expected by another. Thinking. Finally asks: "Do you get the girls here from?" Remembering that kilometers in forty are a knitted factory, Masha to the left. Thinking, the face there and rushed.

I spoke and repeat once again: such people cannot be defeated, but they cannot win.

***

There should be the same capital in a unique country. In this capital, there should be the same mayor. There is no need to go far for examples. That mayor wore a common cap, and he had a hobby - bees. At the All -Russian Congress of beekeepers, he made an incendiary speech: “Now for us the main task is to preserve the Central Russian bee and prevent it from artificially fertilizing. And then we are thrown here by the Caucasian bee. They say she does not bite. She does not bite to bite, but she is lazy, clumsy and thieving. And now what to do our uterus - to substitute? " At these words, the mayor depicted a woman that lay on his back. For the anniversary, the mayor was presented with a map of Russia compiled from precious stones with an amber bee that had saddled it. I don’t know what the donors wanted to say to this. Therefore, I will say about the meaning that is intelligible to me: the bee independently collects nectar, and the townspeople themselves willingly carry the copper to the mayor.

On New Year's Eve, the mayor came up with such an entertainment: the statue of Yuri Dolgoruky, who is visible from the windows of his palace, was Ratched by Santa Claus. He put an acute hat with the edge on his helmet, threw a red mantle, which hid the famous cast -iron eggs of the princely horse. The prince was buried in Kyiv by misunderstanding, his moans in Moscow were not heard.

***

My country neighbor Nicodemus is a simple person, but still special. Some years ago, he crushed his grandmother on his honored “Lada”. I crossed the street in an wrong place and thought about my own. Here is Nicodemus and knocked her to death. He did not experience remorse, because, according to the rules of the road, he was almost right. But “almost” is not considered, he was sentenced to prison year. He could appeal, but made another decision: "than to wind it on the courts, I’d better sit a year old." He returned very satisfied and greeted. After all, he did not take a year in his mouth. It seems that for health improvement, this year is not hurt by a Russian person.

I want to say that nicodemus does not like people. And he had the same weeded temper. They called the fluff. Castrated. Pooh, fluff ... did not allow anyone to his territory. Deprived of sexual instincts, he and my cat persecuted ruthlessly, although her intentions were purely lyrical. And now - he died.

Nicodemus himself does not go to the doctors, relies on fate. When the cat is pierced, he carried him on the same criminal “Lada” to the veterinarian, the radioma of the luminaries, and did the injection. It did not help. “So fate is such. It’s still a pity, he lived with me for thirteen years. ” Having said, cried. He buried in a love way-he laid a rag in a wooden box, threw a pine tree on a grave of pebbles. Nicodemus is not alone. The Nazis also loved their shepherds more people. Lenin also stroked the cat. It can be seen that even without love, even a cannibal does not go out. In times, long -standing, Orthodox, inability to shed silent tears qualified as “dryness” and was condemned.

***

The knee fell ill, slammed, went down from the stairs painfully. I remembered: I drive the ball with the village children, on the full run, the right knee cup suddenly jumps right, and you are also on full run - you insert your palms into place and run, run, run ... And now it was affected, and the grinding that the doctors appointed me did not help.

And only Misha, on the business card of which was written “maestro massage”, coped with lameness. The maestro looked wild, his gaze froze at some kind of inner point invisible to you, the meaning of his speeches was poorly given to me. He interpreted about karma and chakras, I answered him equally vaguely, and then Misha was inflamed and once even promised me immortality. But his hands were magical. I wanted him to feel you from the top of the head to the heels. Finally, I believed him when I found out that an octopus of Jewish blood was flowing in him. In my understanding, Jews and Germans help best from Russian diseases. The Germans - by virtue of their pedantry and scholarship, and the Jews - because they themselves are very ill and know the course of the disease firsthand.

Misha’s life story found out later: he was a flutist, in his own entrance he was attacked, robbed, beaten. "It is guilty - he lost his vigilance." How did they write in Russian chronicles? The Tatars came and destroyed such and such “according to their sins” ...

Misha could no longer play on the pipe - after a minute he lost consciousness. But his hands are still golden. At the same time, there is no modesty. “I am a re -educated left -handed person. I can not sleep: my hemisphere works, and another rests; To disconnect me, the killer needs to get into both of them at once. ”

Misha promised me immortality, but remained a bad opinion about me. Seeing the offered chair in front of the computer and breathing in the smoky apartment air, he cut off severely: "For good health, you do only one thing - you drink green tea." I looked at his frayed veins and sipped from the cup. In general, Misha could not provide immortality to me, but after his conversations and passes I no longer limped.

***

At one time, I worked as a translator. Railing to Japan were short, but still assumed a mandatory visit to the Soviet embassy. Polyansky ambassador was the largest boss and at the same time perhaps the largest asshole with whom I had to deal. True, the peak of his career was left behind - he was exiled to Japan directly from the Politburo, where he oversaw the collapsed agriculture. But no one took away four orders of Lenin. Throughout Japan, he liked the struggle of Sumo most of all, and during large tournaments, which were shown on TV, Polyansky had a seriously ill, adhered to the screen, abolished the meetings, did not read and did not sign it. From all of Japanese art that he saw in six years of stay in Japan, he liked only a cow's written oil, drawn in full height and with a swollen shift. At the time of the noisy admiration for this canvas, he probably recalled the long -standing happiness that he delivered to him on the brochure “We will turn the Kuban into a factory of meat and milk” (1957, 40 pages). But still, livestock breeding is not a priority type of economic activity for Japan. Perhaps that is why the next place of the diplomatic service of Dmitry Stepanovich was Norway, where a living cow is much easier to see than a Norwegian. I hope that his corporal films were completely satisfied.

***

Once again, by the way, I just had a book “Notes of the Protection Age” in the Hyperion publishing house, in which everyone, I hope, will find stories to their liking. ”

Alexander Meshcheryakov