Happy Life
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Rubbing his hands to warm them up, Genzik sets to work on both tasks.
- So, one evening I'm walking along, all my chores are done, not thinking about much, I glance to the side—and I see a body lying there. Some guy, face down in the sand in a ditch, not moving. I look—is he a goner? I approach, and the smell of booze is hitting me from ten paces away. I flipped the fellow over, slapped his cheeks—buddy, I say, come on, know your limit. If they see you, you'll be shamed to death, they'll send a protector for you. He manages to pry his eyes open, hissing something unintelligible. I leaned in, caught a "waaaater...". Alright, you poor soul, just stay put. I stepped into a nearby eatery, begged them for a drink, brought it back, and he gulped it down so greedily that he gradually came to his senses. "Want me to walk you home, friend?"—"nooo, I'll make it... sorry, had one too many." Here, he says, for your reward—he fumbles through his pockets and eventually hands me, get this, a paperclip, for holding papers. Well, I didn't press him, just said "bye-bye," he wandered off somehow, and I went home.
As he tells the story, his hands move slowly and confidently, doing their job.
- The next day I'm walking and I see someone lurking behind a tree, glancing here and there, thinking he's hidden, but he looks incredibly suspicious. I whistled at him—brother, what are you doing there? Lost your keys? He panicked, tensed up, but didn't run. He beckoned me over, despair written all over his face. I approach and see a man standing there, shaking—looks normal, a worker in overalls, and he's holding up his pants with both hands—I look, and they're torn at the waist, won't stay up. Almost with tears in his eyes, he recounts the story of how he went here, then there, tripped here, caught on something there and tumbled head over heels, and ended up sitting behind this tree, a total comedy. Well, I laughed at him, of course—you're having a rough streak, pal—but I thought, really, a man wandering the city without trousers is not right. It clicked in my head, I pulled out that very paperclip—try this. He tries—nearly broke it, but he managed to fasten it, and they sat tight as a rock. He wants to hug me—you saved me, I don't know what I would've done, I'd have sat here until dark. Here, he says, take my hammer—might come in handy, it's old and decommissioned, I have no use for it. Why do I need your hammer, man? —take it, take it, maybe you'll ward someone off, I live by karma. Well alright, I took it, and we parted ways.
The massaging motions of the hands were replaced by the gentlest chopping with the edges of the palms.
- Guess what happened the next day. Exactly—more nonsense. I went outside the city, and I see a broken wagon, a fat guy tinkering with it, red as a tomato, sweating buckets, looking like he's about to have a heart attack. What are we doing?—I ask. He noticed me, turned pale—no, no, I'm just, you know. I squinted at him, approached, crouched down—I see the wheel on the axle is all twisted, that thing definitely won't roll. So it's broken, meaning it needs fixing—I tell him—"I-it broke... hit a stone...". Well, I caught on immediately this time, pulled out the hammer in one motion, took aim, gave it a couple of powerful strikes—looked like it straightened out. I toss it to him—take it, pops, might be useful again, it looks a bit flimsy. Out of surprise, he tries to catch it, juggling it, like a circus act, but he managed to hold on. I look at him, he looks at me. He starts fussing again, babbling—I'm, you know, hauling goods, here, take this. He gives me a chain for my wrist, like yours. "A merchant, then... looks expensive, you sure?"—"No-no, just a trinket, worth 20 rem at most, all my wares are like that"—he jumped onto his wagon and was gone. I don't know why he got so twitchy at the sight of me, maybe he was in a hurry.
The hands begin to cover new, as yet untouched, territories.
- Fourth day. I see a young lad sitting on a bench, head hanging, sighing. Well, I immediately figured—my turn. I sit beside him: why the long face, kid? But he doesn't even look up from the floor, his voice sounding dead—"I need to get a gift for my mom, her anniversary, but I have no money... She carried me and my sister on her back for so many years, worked three jobs, and now she's fallen ill..."—and he pours out his whole life story, long, but quite touching. I pull out that bracelet and place it in his hand. I thought I'd give it to some girl, but whatever. He froze, then looked at me for the first time in the whole conversation—"n-no, but how can I..."—"well, what else are you going to do, write a card, build a birdhouse? take it, take it, a mother is sacred, especially an anniversary, it doesn't happen every day. Let her realize on this day how much you appreciate her." He practically beamed, thank you, thank you, and pulls out some rather strange-looking idol, a little statuette. He says—take it, it brings luck, and I've already hit my limit for today. And he hopped away happily.
- On the fifth day... everything went quietly. And on the sixth too, and the seventh. That's when I realized—my quest had come to an end. I put it in the office to please the eye, and what do you know, my luck really turned. Everything was a breeze, all problems solved in an instant. And then I walked in one day and didn't see it. Turned out one of our guys, a fool, pawned it, and then blew all the money in a casino with zero return. That's how it goes—turn your back on luck, and it turns its back on you. And for that screw-up, he spent the whole month scrubbing the floors, ha-ha-ha!—fondly remembering those days, Gen gives a final slap to the treated body. —Quite an unusual case.
- So, one evening I'm walking along, all my chores are done, not thinking about much, I glance to the side—and I see a body lying there. Some guy, face down in the sand in a ditch, not moving. I look—is he a goner? I approach, and the smell of booze is hitting me from ten paces away. I flipped the fellow over, slapped his cheeks—buddy, I say, come on, know your limit. If they see you, you'll be shamed to death, they'll send a protector for you. He manages to pry his eyes open, hissing something unintelligible. I leaned in, caught a "waaaater...". Alright, you poor soul, just stay put. I stepped into a nearby eatery, begged them for a drink, brought it back, and he gulped it down so greedily that he gradually came to his senses. "Want me to walk you home, friend?"—"nooo, I'll make it... sorry, had one too many." Here, he says, for your reward—he fumbles through his pockets and eventually hands me, get this, a paperclip, for holding papers. Well, I didn't press him, just said "bye-bye," he wandered off somehow, and I went home.
As he tells the story, his hands move slowly and confidently, doing their job.
- The next day I'm walking and I see someone lurking behind a tree, glancing here and there, thinking he's hidden, but he looks incredibly suspicious. I whistled at him—brother, what are you doing there? Lost your keys? He panicked, tensed up, but didn't run. He beckoned me over, despair written all over his face. I approach and see a man standing there, shaking—looks normal, a worker in overalls, and he's holding up his pants with both hands—I look, and they're torn at the waist, won't stay up. Almost with tears in his eyes, he recounts the story of how he went here, then there, tripped here, caught on something there and tumbled head over heels, and ended up sitting behind this tree, a total comedy. Well, I laughed at him, of course—you're having a rough streak, pal—but I thought, really, a man wandering the city without trousers is not right. It clicked in my head, I pulled out that very paperclip—try this. He tries—nearly broke it, but he managed to fasten it, and they sat tight as a rock. He wants to hug me—you saved me, I don't know what I would've done, I'd have sat here until dark. Here, he says, take my hammer—might come in handy, it's old and decommissioned, I have no use for it. Why do I need your hammer, man? —take it, take it, maybe you'll ward someone off, I live by karma. Well alright, I took it, and we parted ways.
The massaging motions of the hands were replaced by the gentlest chopping with the edges of the palms.
- Guess what happened the next day. Exactly—more nonsense. I went outside the city, and I see a broken wagon, a fat guy tinkering with it, red as a tomato, sweating buckets, looking like he's about to have a heart attack. What are we doing?—I ask. He noticed me, turned pale—no, no, I'm just, you know. I squinted at him, approached, crouched down—I see the wheel on the axle is all twisted, that thing definitely won't roll. So it's broken, meaning it needs fixing—I tell him—"I-it broke... hit a stone...". Well, I caught on immediately this time, pulled out the hammer in one motion, took aim, gave it a couple of powerful strikes—looked like it straightened out. I toss it to him—take it, pops, might be useful again, it looks a bit flimsy. Out of surprise, he tries to catch it, juggling it, like a circus act, but he managed to hold on. I look at him, he looks at me. He starts fussing again, babbling—I'm, you know, hauling goods, here, take this. He gives me a chain for my wrist, like yours. "A merchant, then... looks expensive, you sure?"—"No-no, just a trinket, worth 20 rem at most, all my wares are like that"—he jumped onto his wagon and was gone. I don't know why he got so twitchy at the sight of me, maybe he was in a hurry.
The hands begin to cover new, as yet untouched, territories.
- Fourth day. I see a young lad sitting on a bench, head hanging, sighing. Well, I immediately figured—my turn. I sit beside him: why the long face, kid? But he doesn't even look up from the floor, his voice sounding dead—"I need to get a gift for my mom, her anniversary, but I have no money... She carried me and my sister on her back for so many years, worked three jobs, and now she's fallen ill..."—and he pours out his whole life story, long, but quite touching. I pull out that bracelet and place it in his hand. I thought I'd give it to some girl, but whatever. He froze, then looked at me for the first time in the whole conversation—"n-no, but how can I..."—"well, what else are you going to do, write a card, build a birdhouse? take it, take it, a mother is sacred, especially an anniversary, it doesn't happen every day. Let her realize on this day how much you appreciate her." He practically beamed, thank you, thank you, and pulls out some rather strange-looking idol, a little statuette. He says—take it, it brings luck, and I've already hit my limit for today. And he hopped away happily.
- On the fifth day... everything went quietly. And on the sixth too, and the seventh. That's when I realized—my quest had come to an end. I put it in the office to please the eye, and what do you know, my luck really turned. Everything was a breeze, all problems solved in an instant. And then I walked in one day and didn't see it. Turned out one of our guys, a fool, pawned it, and then blew all the money in a casino with zero return. That's how it goes—turn your back on luck, and it turns its back on you. And for that screw-up, he spent the whole month scrubbing the floors, ha-ha-ha!—fondly remembering those days, Gen gives a final slap to the treated body. —Quite an unusual case.
My sword, my trusted ally, unphased by my aspect.
