Simple stories

Once, working in a cemetery, the artist Nikita Pozdnyakov twisted a portrait of Castaneda instead of a photograph on an abandoned grave and posted a photo on the network. The next day, television channels gathered in the cemetery, dozens of resources wrote about the “mysterious” grave, pilgrims pulled to it. Nikita has a lot of entertaining stories: he is fined for a tattoo on his chest, and this turns into a successful sale of many paintings, so he cheerfully tells about the term in the special cost and everyday life of the janitor in the children's camp, so he scares his grandmothers with chickenpox and invents his own style of painting after a girlfriend’s dancing barefoot on the glass. In the “simple stories” of the artist, the memoirs of youth and maturity are transformed into live, sometimes gloomy, sometimes kind and ironic sketches about the wrong side of life in Russia - traumatic summer entertainments of zero youth, psychedelic trippers, the fate of the cemetery, prison games and bikes of cellmates.

Gandon

Hot Summer 2005. I work in a pioneer camp by a janitor. And so we went with the boys-militias in the field plan. They rolled, used a vodnik in a wooden house in a pine forest, which for some reason was called "Fazenda".

For dinner in the canteen on this day there was a potato casserole. I gobbled up a portion of three. Having fought, we sat on the sand on the shore of the Irtysh. The boys interpreted something, but I could not understand a word. He grabbed some sounds, but could not catch the essence. They launched stolen saucers from a dining room like flying saucers to the river. Someone took out a condom with the aroma of strawberries, and for some reason we began to smell it ...

Ural

We have in the Omsk region the Green Coast. Buses do not go there. You can only swim on the ship. Three hours in one direction, three in the other. And now we went to the country to celebrate someone’s birthday. All college skipped. Then the motor ship "Moscow" went along the route. It was cool on the street in the morning, and all the grandmas of the buckets were packed into the lower closed deck. We settled upstairs. Besides us there was only one grandfather, and he was sitting his back to us. They drank beer, smoked grass, bald.

In the country, we found the Ural motorcycle with a cradle. We bought gasoline from the neighbors and went with the boys all on the field. All on one motorcycle. We walked with a wall. Returning, rolled up and exploded the parachute. The world was beautiful, and we decided to ride a little more in the dachas, while the girls cut salads. They stole circles on the alleys, smoked a cigar. One on all. Made a halt. And at that moment I decided to get into the cradle. I was fucked up somewhere on the side of the wheel to hang out. The people were seven people.

When the halt ended, Glory came up to me. “Nikitos,” he says, “I am heavy, if I sit on top, I will tear. And you are light. Let me go down in the cradle, and you kneel me on my knees. ” I broke, but agreed. Plunged. And then one Kent says: “Pason, I never drove Mocyck. And let me try. " For some reason, they gave him without hesitation. Here - gas, here is the brake.

There are one hundred roads and turn to the right in front of us. If you do not turn - a break of a meter two meters to the river. We gain speed. I look at the driver-he is in a foolishness and is not going to turn. I turn around - the boys are already rolling in dust on the road. And before the cliff lies on his side by a half -dug pipe. The motorcycle from acceleration jumps on this pipe, like on a springboard. At the last moment I am eating. The ass fell to the ground, his legs are already over the cliff. I hear a roar and a scream. I run down. The motorcycle is turned over, fame is lying in the blood in the blood. When he flew forward from the cradle, his legs remained in the cradle, and he tore on both tendons. On the motorcycle, there was still a in front. Glory pierced this glass and cut his arms and legs. Someone dragged the first-aid kit, there was a heap of unknown pills and a bag of streptocide. I fell through them the wounds of fame.

But I should have been in his place.

Shards

I had a charming-humble friend Sasha. We constantly thumped with her in my workshop at night and ate her cyclolay and Aminazin. Nearby was a bakery that worked at night. We went to a stop for beer and ran on the road to scare the bakery workers through the window. There is an employee by the window, the dough is kneaded, and here we jump out. It was fun.

But sometimes Sasha had outbreaks of inadequacy. In one of these outbreaks, she began to beat everything in my workshop: dishes, glasses, mirrors. I was faded, got angry and forced to dance her barefoot on these glasses. Then he sat picking out fragments from her feet with tweezers.

The next morning we began to clean, and I decided not to throw out the spray of mirrors, but to make assemblies from them in the paintings. So one of my successful creative finds appeared.

In the fall, I went to Sasha in a fool on the dates, wore transfers. A dreary place.

Yurik

For three years of my life I worked in the cemetery. Sales manager. My responsibilities were: go to graves with clients, make measurements, advise, make an estimate. But it will not be about me.

The speaker Yurik worked for us. The rooster is still from the youngster. Naturally, he loved to drink. Once a funeral procession arrived, mourning, and found a sweetly sleeping, pissed Yurik in an under -deposited grave. The situation was uncomfortable.

Another time, for some reason, Yurik killed some man in the cemetery. He buried, set a table at this place. No one burned. But he thumped with some youngsters and blabbed them. Then the youngsters killed someone, got caught and handed over to the yurk. He served seven years, now digs again and, of course, settles.

Castaneda

Once, the artist Pavla Markova and I, who worked in our cemetery by a portrait, decided to join. They performed a cermet (oval portrait for graves) with the mug of Carlos Castaneda. They unscrewed the grandmother from some grave, attached Carlos, and fed. Posted on the Internet. And a friend of the journalist writes to me: "Let's do the news?"

He arrived, still television people. I turned on the fool, I tell on the camera, they say, I'm going, I see a familiar face. I looked closely - for sure. He. It is impossible to establish exactly who is buried in this place, because in 2003 the administration house burned down and all the logging magazines with it burned down. Left.

The next day, journalists arrived from two more television channels. I fucked up to unscrew the grandmother, screw the Castaneda and back. In addition to the television channels, dozens of resources, newspapers wrote about the grave, commented on famous bloggers and even a Maltsev politician. In general, it was fun.

The journalist who wrote first confused the name of the cemetery and the number of the alley. We have a northeastern cemetery, and he wrote an old-stand. And the next day, pilgrims reached for the wrong cemetery. They demanded that the administration show them where the thirteenth alley is located, although there were only twelve of them. Mysticism.

Chickenpox

Once my daughter brought chickenpox from the kindergarten. My wife and I immediately fell ill, for in childhood this trouble bypassed us. I did not go to work for a week. They smeared each other with a green. The house was bored, and I began to flood in the morning in the morning. When he went out to the store, he made fun of the old women who got to the meeting. Seeing them, I shouted: “Zinaida Petrovna! How glad I am to see you! ” - and rushed to hug them. I was all in ulcers and green. The old women put their eyes, pulled away. And one as the chirping gave, only the heels sparkled. Schaub I ran so on retirement.

On the last day of illness, Ksyusha’s friend came to a walk to my area. In public, it was uncomfortable to show me, and we went to a small cemetery hiding behind the garages. We were lying on the graves, smoked and looked at the clouds. They collected sweets with which I was happy to drink tea in the evening.

Working in the cemetery, we often refueled with provisions from the graves. Especially on parental day. Tons of fresh products: sweets, fruits, testicles, pancakes, drinking. Eden garden. But in the winter of visitors on the graveyard is a little, and when I had to hang out, I was waiting for a funeral. There are several of them every day. And always on the grave there are a glass of vodka and bread. Sometimes with sausage.

Psilocybin

Somehow we gathered with two friends in my workshop to taste psilocibic mushrooms. As expected on an empty stomach. At first I felt bad, nauseous. After 30 minutes I stood near the table, and I was twisted. That is, the whole body was curved, turned against my will. And I immediately found myself in another world. Everything became magical, as in illustrations for Russian fairy tales. The colors are pleasant, some mint fog swam around. The boys became like gnomes. That is, their faces were the same, but they were distorted as on cartoons. I looked out the window and went nuts. Behind him always were birch and courtyard of the industrial zone. Some rusty zila, anger of metal acceptance. A dull sight. But today it was the most beautiful that I have ever seen. I stood by the window and cursed with delight. Is it all exactly always here?

We drank tea, smoked a shawl, listened to music and talked about terribly philosophical things, about the world order. It seemed to us that we knew the secrets of being, became wise and now we know how to continue to live. Six hours later we were gradually released. My girlfriend returned from work. But I did not know what to talk about with her. The three of us were now united by some kind of understanding, mystery, and it seemed to us a man from another world.

Swastika

I have a tattoo on my chest. Left -sided swastika. I uploaded a photo of the session with a naked torso without hesitation in VKontakte’s garbage social network. And on one rainy autumn day at my registration, my parents, the major came to my parents and left me a summons in the center for combating extremism. At first I thought not to walk. But then he decided: what would happen, to live in uncertainty painfully.

In the morning I appeared in the gray building. The major turned out to be a Caucasian. On the table, he had printouts of my pages VKontakte. He began to ask how long I have been a nationalist. I explained that I am not a Nazi, but a Buddhist, and the swastika in my other direction. But he did not really believe. He began to fill out questionnaires, name of his wife. I am dictated: Pozdnyakova Gulmira Khamzaevna. He raised his eyebrows. Something in his major head did not converge. “Okay,” he says, “we will draw up papers, go to court and finish you a thousand rubles for a public demonstration of Nazi symbols.”

I think: “You, Major, will lose day with me now, yesterday I prepared paper for another day. For half a day, the judge will work, an assistant judge. You eat more money, Oglota than you take from me. ” OK. Let's go to court. We are sitting in the corridor, waiting for the papers to cook there. We talked with the major. He said that four or five children with him. He worked in Chechnya, I bought a car from those money. On the phone, the vidos showed what he shot on Saturday in the park: pensioners and some alcoholics danced on the dance floor. Funny. I told him about Buddhism. “Look,” I say, “there are aunts with piles of folders, papers, completely detached along the corridor. They are not here now, they do not live. At this time, they hover somewhere in the clouds, at home with a dwarf son, they swear in the market, but they are definitely not here and now. And to be here and now there is life. ” The major understood me, nodded his head.

At this time, journalists were already signed on Facebook. I left a post about where I am going. Omsk and because of the hillock, Dmitry Volchek from Radio Liberty wrote. I promised them to call them all as I am free.

The court went very quickly. The judge read materials with a tongue twister. I managed to clumsily insert that my symbolism is not Nazi at all, but no one paid attention to it. Awarded a thousand. I lost more time.

After the meeting, we went out into the street, I wanted to say goodbye, but the major was so imbued with sympathy for me, did not want to part, says: “Wait, let's stand, let's stand.” And he himself does not smoke. I smoked, chatted, warmly said goodbye. It seems to me that on this day he became a little Buddhist. I called reporters.

The next two days were very positive. I could not get up from behind the computer. He gave comments to all kinds of publications. My precedent was the first in Russia when a person was fined for a tattoo. A million articles and notes came out. Or two million. Sympathetic people wrote to me, expressed words of support. Together with me they launched the injustice of the regime. And, of course, they bought paintings.

Red plowman

When my daughter was born, the state paid us about ten thousand rubles. What to spend them on? Of course, I bought myself a motorcycle. The “Sunrise” of 1993 was released as new. Only the carburetor damper was sneaking upstairs, and the motorcycle against your will began to darken to the full and rush headlong. Sometimes I had to jump. The motorcycle fell, rumbled, scratched, but did not break.

One evening, my colleague and I drank the bubble of Roma and went home. But the drunk is not sitting. I say to my wife: "Ida to ride." We rolled out of the garage. I didn't want to start for a long time. Sign. But do not care ... Let's go to the gas station. Night. And then the howls of the siren are. I'm trying to run away, but they, bastards, cut. I wanted to leave through the field, but I was afraid: my wife is behind. There may be holes in the field, or something else. I can’t take risks with her. I give up.

The next day is the court. They gave me five days of imprisonment. The special receiver in Omsk is located on the Krasny Piery Street and has the same name. They took the laces. It’s good that I had a book in my bag. “Count of Dracula”, otherwise it would be completely boring. In the cell, in addition to mine, there were only two books: Detective Daria Dontsova and Tom of the Great Soviet Encyclopedia with the letter “GE”.

There are twelve people in the cell, six bunk scenes. In one corner, the table, in the other, at the very door, a parach, is not closed in any way. Sitting on it, one could maintain a conversation in the hut. Everyone can see you. Once I am sitting, I think the door opens, and a murusor woman enters. Looks at me. Very embarrassed.

All twelve people smoke continuously. There is nothing to do. Smoke is a rocker, it is impossible to breathe. We were taken for a walk every day for half an hour to the paved courtyard. The sun at this time covered only a fence, and we all, like penguins, lined up along it to get at least some kind of energy. While walking, the door to the hut was open, so that at least somehow ventilated. But, returning, I could not take the first breath there. It intercepted everything inside from the rushing of air and stench. But I quickly got used to it, and after five minutes I sat down to smoke.

Once, Vanka-Tsigan and I fell ill, idle. Everyone was sick in the cell. They drank water from one and a half. All: both hepatitis and healthy. They asked the doctor’s robot. The woman came and mockingly asked: "And what, so bad, right?" The Kazakh-Musor, which stood nearby, only giggled disgusting. We managed to beg on the tablet of paracetamol. Nothing else.

There were two windows with muddy glasses and two lattices on each in the cell. The windows were always open, but because of the tails, only a small gap was obtained. It was possible to look at it at the parking lot of the special receiver. This was called "TV". We saw who was unloaded to us. “The mustache was brought,” someone commented on the TV. Near the windows on the upper tier there were the most thieves. One was occupied by Misha, a former prisoner, who had been overdated three years for extortion. In the second thieves place lay the taxi driver Uncle Yura. He had a wife and a mistress, and he was very worried that they would meet when both would bring him transfers.

The camera was driver. That is, everyone flew, because they drove drunk or drunk or under drugs. There were three heroinovs, the rest of the bruises. Heroinovs have a very elected atmosphere. They did not do anything bad, but they suffered very much, looted, and this was transmitted to the rest.

From entertainment on schools under mattresses, games were drawn. On one - backgammon, on the other Mandavoshka, such a prison game. The chips were traffic jams from the bottles. Bread cubes. Domino and chess was made of it. Cardboard cards from packs of tea. The shmon was every day after verification in Prodol. But they did not take the garbage of the game. They did not find sharpening made of an aluminum spoon either. All furniture in the chamber was screwed to the floor. They got used to garbage and did not even try to raise. Under one of the nightstands, sharpening was stored. It was hardly possible to kill anyone with it. But in order to cut bread and sausage from transfers, it was necessary. They fed disgusting, even worse than in a psychiatric hospital. In the morning, cold porridge, in lunch of Baland: water and cabbage. For dinner, they could just give a plate of boiled beets for everyone. Despite the fact that there were a lot of foods from the transfers, I lost five kilograms there. Time was very slow. Misha all the time tried to persuade everyone to play cards for money. No one agreed, but one guy lost two boxes of beer in his backgammon.

At night, light was always burning in the cell. The bulbs were on both sides, and garbage could turn off either one side or another. And then they brought a young guy to us. He was lying on the only free skeleton at the parashi. And in the evening, Misha says to him: "Catch, they say, in the robot, tell the garbage to be turned off my side." And the guy sleeps on another. And the dilemma stood before him: “What the hell should I ask for you? Why will I ask you to turn off your side, not mine? And in general, it is not customary to serve someone in prison. ” And Misha sees: “Well, what are you, not a kid or what? Ask for no way. " The guy will get up, sits down, sweat, does not know what to do, nervous. Everyone is watching with interest. In the end, he knocked, asked. But was it worth doing like that?

Grandfather was still sitting, under me was his school. He in the village of Krasnoyarka went on a scoop for beer. So he was taken, as he was, in the galoshes. In them he was sitting thirty days and was sitting. За что ему вкатали такой срок, непонятно. Всё время рассказывал какие-то байки, как они с подельником сидели тут, в этом же здании, в СИЗО в молодости. Но байки неинтересные.

Ещё один парень расхерачил об здание школы тачку в мясо. Остался цел и был самым позитивным арестантом в камере. По ночам мы делились опытом: кто какие наркотики пробовал, и рассказывали разные истории на эту тему. Ванька-цыган, сидевший за то, что под героином ехал по правам брата-близнеца, поведал, как у него в машине корефан ширнулся и стал отъезжать. Как Ваньке пришлось вытащить его где-то возле колонки и пиздить под струёй холодной воды…

За пять суток у меня набралось море впечатлений. Романтика: шмоны, баланда, заточка. Но больше не хочу. Выпустили меня девятого мая днём. Я зашёл на работу, взял пятьсот рублей аванса и отпраздновал День Победы. В то время этот праздник еще не внушал отвращения.