He was the first, even if he wasn't

Three "philosophers", one bar and an attempt to crack the code of reality

Scene: bar, half full or half empty, depending on the mood.

On the wall is a poster of Neil Armstrong with the caption “He was the first, even if he wasn’t.” Behind the counter is a star chart with the Moon labeled “Area 51-bis.”

Characters:

— Venya (alcoholic with a notebook with cognac stains instead of notes).

— Vitya (a mystic in black glasses, drinks white tea “Silver Needles”, claiming that it is “an extract of lunar dust.” He believes that reality is a matrix, and the Moon is its glitch).

— Sasha (a former professor, now a bartender. He talks about the metaphysics of space, adjusting his glasses and wiping a glass with the inscription “USSR”).

Venya (knocks an empty glass on the counter, addressing Sasha):

- Pour, Sasha, the last one... No, not the “last one” - the penultimate one! Like that American who stepped into eternity and remained stuck between “was” and “wasn’t.” They say that the footprint of his sole on the Moon is a fake, cast in Hollywood from an alloy of lies and patriotism. And our lunar rover? Yes, he’s still there, Sash, digging in the crater, like Chichikov in “Dead Souls”! Only lunar souls are ephemeral, like alcohol vapor...

Vitya (with a grin, rotating the “moonstone” - a piece of sugar) in his hands):

- Venya, as always, you confuse the layers. Hollywood is just the lowest level of simulation. The real Moon is in the sixth dimension, where Buzz Aldrin meditates with the Dalai Lama and Armstrong trades in dreams of greatness. Russians? They broke through the orbit of the matrix, but forgot the password and now cannot return back. That’s why the lunar rover is silent - waiting for some Sergei Shnurov to sing him the access code...
Sasha (sighs, places a decanter with the inscription “Rocket Fuel 1969” in front of Venya):

- Guys, you are both right, as always. The moon is a mirror that reflects not space and the Earth, but our thirst for myth. The Americans poured it into the concrete of their ambitions, we poured it into the steel of doubt. High and low are an ambivalent whole, as in Erofeev. Here is our lunar rover - it is both an artifact and a parody. Like a treatise on hiccups, dressed in Latin in the language of Cicero...

Venya (interrupts, waving a stub of a pencil):

- Parody? Yes, we, Sash, are all parodies! Take, for example, my dialogue yesterday with my guardian angel... He asks: “Venichka, do you believe that people were on the Moon?” And I told him: “I believe it, just as I believe that the vodka is running out!” An angel hiccups - here's your proof...

Vitya (takes out a black cube with a flashing LED from his pocket):

- And I performed the ritual. I asked ChatGPT: “Have Americans been on the Moon?” He replied, “The data is conflicting, but your faith shapes reality.” So, if we all shout in unison “They were!”, Hollywood will come to life, and the lunar rover will sing “Earth in the Porthole”...

Sasha (pours herself a “metaphysical cocktail” of absinthe and holy water):

“You both forget the main thing: the Moon is not a place, but a state.” The Russians reached it when Gagarin smiled through his fear. Americans - when Armstrong stumbled over his own pathos. And the truth... (pause, looks at the ceiling where the model of the satellite hangs) - it is that our dispute is eternal, like the hiccups of the Universe.

Venya (raises his glass):

- Then let's drink to the hiccups! For the one that brought us together in this bar - the last outpost of reason before the abyss...

Vitya (raises his cup):

- And for a matrix that will one day give us the correct answer.

Sasha (clink glasses with them):

- And for the Moon, which, like God, is silent - because it has already said everything