Ment
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– At one time, starting pistols were banned in theaters. It was strictly mandated to use prop weapons on stage and to trigger the shots from behind the wings.
In one theater, a bound Komsomol member stands at the edge of a quarry, while a fascist aims a pistol at him.
The stage manager behind the scenes hesitated. The shot didn't come. The fascist waited and waited, and in confusion, scratched his temple with the barrel of the gun.
At that very moment, the stage manager's clapper snapped! Being an artist of the realistic school, the "fascunist" dropped dead.
Then the Komsomol member, realizing all responsibility for the finale now rested on him, shouted "I won't be taken alive!" and threw himself into the shaft.
Curtain.
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Some welders decided to celebrate a colleague's birthday. To avoid getting caught during the workday, they stuffed their overalls with rags, tied the welding torch to the hand, and left the dummy up high to create the appearance of work in progress. The wind blew, the electrode holder swayed, the dummy pretended to weld—while the welders were drinking. The bosses came out of the cafeteria; everything looked normal, everyone was busy. And then a gust of wind blew the dummy off from a height of 70 meters. All the bosses clutched their hearts and ran toward it. A welder, seeing this scene, climbed down, threw the dummy away, and lay down in its place. The bosses arrived and saw the welder stand up, dust himself off, and say: [censored] I'm never going back up there!!!!
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For the collection on rats.
An acquaintance told me this. It was back in the 70s—of the last century now—he was working as a blaster on road construction. Many things were simpler in those years, but that's not the point. It was a warm summer day, and there was an occasion, so a company of blasters settled in the shade of a warehouse. The warehouse, naturally, contained everything a "blast-gang" is supposed to have. How much they had drunk doesn't matter; they spoke quietly so as not to attract attention. Then someone noticed a rat crawl out from under the warehouse wall. Every man has at least a drop of hunter in him, and there were actual hunters here; in short, they caught the creature. Professional blasters, while tipsy, couldn't think of anything better than to douse it in diesel fuel and set it on fire. The rat first ran in circles around the clearing and then dove into the warehouse. They sobered up instantly. First everyone jumped up, then they flopped back onto the grass. As my acquaintance told it, the first thought was—run. Then each of them mentally calculated the amount of explosives stored there, and it turned out the blast would be slightly smaller than in Hiroshima, so there was no point in running. No one knows how long they sat there—time seemed to stop. Glancing at each other, they all rushed to the warehouse doors, tore off the lock somehow, and burst inside. It smelled of burnt fur, but nothing had exploded or caught fire. They searched the entire warehouse thoroughly but found no rat anywhere. An engineer ran up:
- What are you doing! Why did you tear off the lock? What are you doing here?
- Well, we're just sitting here; we smell something burning from the warehouse, and by the time you run for the key or explain things, it might blow.
The engineer sniffed the air and started running through the warehouse himself. In short, as you can imagine, no one confessed then.
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I had something similar in Denmark.
Around 3 a.m. on the main street of a provincial town, my son (19 years old, tall—important) and I came across a hedgehog. We thought it would be crushed [censored], so my son took off his t-shirt and wrapped it up (a big, prickly hedgehog). We brought it home. And then what? We decided to take it to the police station. We took a plastic basin with handles, put it inside, and carried it. The station was at the end of a dead-end street, and the lighting was poor. We saw the silhouettes of two uniformed men by the door. My son held the basin out at arm's length. I acted as the one for negotiations with authority. But I didn't know the language, let alone "hedgehog," especially in Danish. As we approached, I said something loudly, pretending it was English. The policemen got spooked and followed protocol: an Esperanto-style shout of "stop!" and they stepped aside. We stopped. "What do you have in your hands?" - "A basin" - "And in the basin?" -"Who [censored] knows what this is called?" - "Put the basin on the ground, step aside, and don't move!" - "OK". One cop stayed on guard, while the other cautiously, almost on tiptoes, approached and looked into the basin. Catharsis. Everyone who was in the station came out—about five people.
They laughed for a long time. They gave us a city map with a marked spot where we should release the hedgehog and drew a route. They expressed gratitude orally on behalf of the Queen, but finally told us not to touch hedgehogs anymore. Let them be crushed, because there are too many of them now.
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Told by a man who gave me a ride home.
About 2 years ago in St. Petersburg, they were relaying asphalt on Grazhdansky Avenue. Naturally, no one thought about logistical flows, so the unimaginable was happening—not even just in terms of traffic jams, but in the sense that it was unclear how to get around at all. I'm driving home around 10 p.m. and realize that all the temporary signs are sending me as far from my destination as possible, and then, as luck would have it, a patrol car tails me... Well, I think: bastards—they're waiting for me to break a rule so they can shake me down for money. So after another unsuccessful attempt to turn where I needed to, I stop and get out of the car... The patrol officers stopped too... I gather my courage, approach them, and say:
- Do you know how to get out of here?
I get the answer:
- Listen—we've been driving around for 20 minutes ourselves; we thought you were a local and followed you—hoping you'd lead us out!
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A true story, but not mine; an acquaintance told it about her son.
In their Akademgorodok, there was an astronomical site in the summer—anyone could come by and look through a telescope at the celestial bodies for free, and even get a consultation from the student astronomers on duty. Well, as it started to get dark, a small crowd of people wanting to see through the telescope formed, mostly parents with children. A full moon rose over the horizon. Five-year-old Ilyusha commented:
- The moon has risen; it's round, like a cat's eye.
Well—he wasn't the only child from an intellectual family here, this is Akademgorodok after all, and another boy, slightly older, authoritatively declared in response:
- A cat's eye isn't round at all.
But Ilyusha isn't so easily swayed; his mother is a physiologist, and she never refuses to answer his childhood questions, so regarding the structure of eyes and various other organs, he's better equipped than some ten-year-olds.
He calmly replied:
- If you pull it out—it's round.
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I have a friend, a guy who is 100% restless and reckless—preamble.
We are driving in my car through Kharkiv looking for a house with a specific number; we are traveling along Poltavsky Shlyakh (those who know, know). After the bridge, there are cops. I think I'll park and ask where house number so-and-so is... I slow down near a young cop, while another one slightly to the side further up the street is chatting actively on his mobile... well, I opened the passenger window and asked through Drulya something like: Where is this street, where is this house... he tries to explain something but deflects, saying the senior knows better... the one who's talking on the phone... we roll up to him, and before I can ask, my buddy shouts out the window—listen, Captain, the young guy has no change from his cell, give us fifty [kopeks/rubles], the other looked in his pockets without stopping his conversation, pulled out a fifty, unclipped it, Drulya took it, and we drove off... then I avoided that road for a week...
I don't even know if that's a good thing or not.
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Today, before my eyes, a pack of dogs decided to cross the avenue.
They had some chance, but the avenue is very wide. The lead dog, the most determined, waited for a gap and shot through it like a bullet. The others tried to follow but hesitated. And so they scrambled in the middle of the road under the wheels, like a flock of sheep. Screeching brakes, drivers swearing—horror. The last dog, the largest, was an indeterminate breed based on a German Shepherd. He stayed on the shoulder, barked strictly at everyone, and trotted perpendicularly—along the sidewalk. Into the pedestrian underpass...
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About teeth and heredity
Yesterday, after some fussing here and there, I went with the kid to the dentist.
This was as part of the medical exam before school.
Checking teeth before school is priority one. Everyone knows you can't do anything in school without good teeth. The kid has very good teeth (knock on wood). Unlike his father. Well, he doesn't chug liters of coffee at night and doesn't smoke three packs. So his teeth evoke healthy envy. I didn't even have such teeth at his age. And no holes.
The most important thing, of course—no holes.
The gaps between the teeth come from his mother. Good teeth from Grandpa Vitya, but gaps from mom. (From me—two crowns, for those who understand)
I don't even know what's more important for a boy. In my childhood, I had no gaps, and I always envied those who did. With a gap, you can make a good clicking sound and spit long and satisfyingly. While making a contemptuous face. Especially when it hurts. It comes off as quite manly. Otherwise, no matter how hard you try, if it hurts—your face looks sour anyway. But if you have a gap, you click, spit contemptuously, and suddenly the look is different. Brave, slightly foolish, and dashing. People with such an expression were always respected, in all times and in any company.
The kid doesn't know how to click and spit yet, well, he's not even going to school yet. When he goes—they'll teach him. That's what school is for.
So, we go to the dentist, and the kid is so curious about where-what-why.
I explain.
They'll check your teeth to see if everything is okay. If it is—they'll give you a certificate. If not—they'll take you behind the clinic and shoot you.
He laughs. He asks—and how will they check? How exactly will they check?
I say—they'll give you a special copper wire. If you can bite through it, everything is okay. If not—pack your things.
He laughs again. But now, not very confidently. You can tell that while he's laughing, he's mentally calculating whether he can bite through it or not?
This is a kind of test for a sense of humor. Because God forbid he inherited his sense of humor from his grandmother. Then being shot behind the clinic would be the most humane option. Because living with such a sense of humor is just torture.
I've already told you about his grandma's sense of humor, Tatyana Ivanovna. And possibly more than once. Because well, one could write a book about it. A veeeery thick one. Before, when they didn't tape my mouth shut before visiting the mother-in-law, I didn't pay much attention to this. And I used to joke. Yes, there is such a predicament—my jokes aren't always and not entirely understood (for some reason). But with Tatyana Ivanovna, I always tried to joke in a gentle mode, even trying to emphasize with my face that "right now I am indeed joking." Until I was told that Tatyana Ivanovna is a person who lacks a sense of humor as such. Like an appendix, for example. An appendix is either there or it isn't. That's how Tatyana Ivanovna's sense of humor is. No matter what face you make, it's not there, and that's it. No intermediate options.
Due to ignorance of this simple fact, various troubles occurred at first, and there were even victims.
Take Jack, for example.
Tatyana Ivanovna had a dog, a shepherd named Jack. Also without a sense of humor, by the way. He died later, fortunately. Why fortunately? Because if there is a doggy heaven in the skies, Jack got in directly, without limits and out of turn. For that, it was enough for him to simply say—I'm from Tatyana Ivanovna. And that's it.
Anyway, I once came back from fishing, sitting in the kitchen having lunch.
Three of us at home: me, Tatyana Ivanovna, and Jack.
So I'm eating lunch, Tatyana Ivanovna is by the stove, and Jack is in the hallway. He's also eating, for company. Not so much hungry as he's afraid I might swap plates. Because our food is basically the same, but there's significantly more meat in his bowl. For some reason. And always!
So we're sitting, eating, and Jack occasionally scratches himself. It was apparent that Tatyana Ivanovna felt awkward about this uncultured behavior during a meal, about these scratchings.
And she says:
- Oh, what haven't I tried with these fleas. I bought one medicine, then another... Nothing helps! He just keeps scratching and scratching.
I say:
- Tatyana Ivanovna, for heaven's sake! What medicines?! That's all a complete scam!
- Really? But how then?...
- Simple! You take the vacuum cleaner...
- Oh, come on! - Tatyana Ivanovna waves her hand and giggles just in case. Just like the kid did recently when I mentioned the wire.
- Well, laugh, laugh. And keep giving your money to charlatans. Have you seen Syoma scratch?
- No... - she thinks. - I haven't!
- Exactly! And Syoma's fur is nothing like your big lug's. Eh?
Tatyana Ivanovna makes an interested face. She trusts the black terrier Syoma significantly more than me. And not without reason.
- Well, go on?... - she says hopefully.
At this point, I realize the hook is already behind the lip; it's time to set and calmly reel in. And as I finish my soup, slowly, with a sense of self-//dignity and appropriate pauses, I share the secrets of dog breeding.
- Well? Vacuum cleaner on full power and go for it. Morning, evening, and after walks. Especially thoroughly here and here. Three days—and not a single flea. The main thing is don't forget to clean the dust bag after each procedure. Only when you shake out the bag, don't shake it immediately; let it lie. So the fleas can jump out. Otherwise they'll all jump on you, and you'll bring them right back.
It's a good thing we left the next day, and I only know the rest from Grandpa's stories. In telling it, Grandpa peppered his emotional speech with swear words like dumplings with pepper. So I'll put it in my own words.
At first, Jack snapped and tried to bite. First the brush, then the owner. But against Tatyana Ivanovna with a vacuum cleaner, even a Bengal tiger is a tiny bug. Cornered, Jack whimpered, shrieked, and peed himself. With the apparatus running at maximum power, none of this was audible. During the execution, Grandpa simply plugged his ears and ran to the garage, swearing loudly. It all ended abruptly on the third day. Left alone at home, Jack entered the bedroom where the torture device was stored under the bed, and... Nothing remained of the hose. Only the plug remained of the cord. Mangled remains of brushes lay across the room. The vacuum cleaner as such no longer existed. And for another week, Jack shat plastic fragments. Strangely, but nonetheless, his fleas disappeared too! Apparently, dog blood spoiled so much from the vacuum torture that it became unfit for food.
Understand me correctly, I didn't expect such a resolution at all. The thing is that phlegmatic Syoma reacted to the vacuum completely differently. As soon as he heard the humming, he would sprawl on the carpet and stick out his belly, rolling under the brush like shashlik on a skewer. He liked this procedure very much. To vacuum the room, I had to kick him into the kitchen. So I had no malicious intent whatsoever. A joke was just a joke. Who knew Jack would turn out to be such a nervous pesticide?
We bought them a new vacuum later, of course, no problem. But the scar in Tatyana Ivanovna's soul, as they say, remained for life.
Now, I hope you understand even a little bit why I'm so concerned about the child having a sense of humor? With such heredity.
We reached the clinic.
In the office were two old ladies. Well, ladies clearly of retirement age: the doctor and the nurse.
It's clear all the youth have run off to private clinics. I wonder if these will last until they retire, who will be left?
I handed them the kid and said:
- May I... wait in the hallway?
- Why is that?
- Well, I have this...
- What "THIS"? - one asks sternly over her glasses, looking up from filling out a chart.
- This... how do you call it... abstinence syndrome! - I say with a smart look, using the first medical term that came to mind. - Basically, your machines make me nauseous.
- Ah! - looking respectfully and softening her face, she nods understandingly. - Abstinence, that's understandable. Of course! Sit in the hallway then. Maybe you need a pill? How are you feeling?
People with abstinence syndrome—I noticed long ago—especially those who know and can articulately pronounce this term, for some reason enjoy the understanding and sympathy of elderly medical workers.
- No, thank you! - I say and slip out the door.
Seven minutes later, they returned the kid to me safe and sound, and even with all his teeth.
- What are you teaching the child, father! - the doctor shouted at me, holding the kid by the shoulder.
- What's wrong? - I wondered.
- What on earth is this copper wire?
- I was joking. - I said meekly, making a guilty face.
- "Joking," he says! We know such jokers! A father brings in his child, and all the incisors are chipped. We ask—what happened? And he says—Ah! That's how I open beer for daddy when we watch football!
- I don't drink beer. - I say.
- Watch me! - the doctor threatens with a finger. - The boy has very good teeth; such teeth must be preserved.
- Thank you, we will preserve them.
When we passed the security guard, tossed the shoe covers into the ashtray, and finally stepped out into the fresh air, I grabbed the kid by the scruff of his neck, shook him well, and asked threateningly:
- Why did you tell the grandma-doctor about the wire, you little pig, eh?
The kid didn't answer, but his face spread into a wide, satisfied smile, and a neat little hole appeared in the gap between two incisors.
- You need to learn how to click.
- How do you click?
- I'll show you at home. Just don't tell your mother.
- I won't.
He won't. He said "I won't," and he won't. He wouldn't have anyway. You can't squeeze an extra word out of him. I haven't yet figured out who he inherited this secretive nature from. Perhaps from the late Great-Grandmother Nina. We'll figure it out; there's time.
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My father had a good friend—Uncle Gena. I don't know how they met, but they were friends for a long time. Unremarkable in appearance, Uncle Gena was a remarkable unlucky man. In the sense that he had bad luck. Not always, but exclusively during fishing trips.
He had bad luck with water—for example, when men walk across a frozen river—everyone gets through, Uncle Gena falls into a hole; he wants to show off a new Chinese thermos—he pours hot tea on himself and drops the thermos on the ice—goodbye mirror flask...
He had bad luck with fire too—once, just before returning to the car from a distant river, the men warmed themselves by the campfire one last time. It was about seven kilometers (oh, fans of winter fishing...) along the wind-swept riverbed. Everyone was frozen through, except Gena, who walked at the rear and smirked—why are you all so cold?!... Gennady's heat resistance was simply explained—his new padded jacket was quietly smoldering on his back. The stronger the wind, the warmer he got... Or take this: he decided to show everyone that the new Polish tent bought through connections was fireproof—the result was a puddle of melted plastic where the tent had been. Naturally, everywhere and always, the catalyst for all events was vodka, which Gena loved dearly in nature (in the city, he didn't even drink on holidays).
The most significant streak of bad luck made him give up fishing for about five years: one day the following happened: during the day he fell out of a rubber boat, tore a new net, was scalded by hot broth from an exploding can of stew that he had put to warm over the coals and forgot to poke a hole in... in the evening he burned his boots in the campfire; somehow, inexplicably, dirt got into a can of navy-style pasta brought from home, but he really wanted to eat—or rather, have a snack—and Gena winced at the gritty crunch of soil, but he finished the can... in the morning it turned out that the pasta was untouched—in his intoxication and lack of lighting, the poor fellow had eaten a can of worms...
Rushing to brush his teeth, Uncle Gena, in haste and with a hangover, squeezed not toothpaste onto the brush, but a wonderful mosquito repellent—"Deta" (anyone remember that?). In an attempt to rinse his mouth, he poured a full mug from the pot of leftovers of tea brewed the evening before and drunk by him yesterday, and discovered at the bottom of the pot the lost socks from his burned boots.... The man's shock lasted about two hours....
As I already said, after this Uncle Gena quit fishing and vodka for a long time...
...He was a good guy. And he left on a good note—during one week he visited all his friends, paid off his debts, went to the sauna, put on his best suit, came home, kissed his wife, lay down on the sofa, and died...
Well... It's kind of sad...
– At one time, starting pistols were banned in theaters. It was strictly mandated to use prop weapons on stage and to trigger the shots from behind the wings.
In one theater, a bound Komsomol member stands at the edge of a quarry, while a fascist aims a pistol at him.
The stage manager behind the scenes hesitated. The shot didn't come. The fascist waited and waited, and in confusion, scratched his temple with the barrel of the gun.
At that very moment, the stage manager's clapper snapped! Being an artist of the realistic school, the "fascunist" dropped dead.
Then the Komsomol member, realizing all responsibility for the finale now rested on him, shouted "I won't be taken alive!" and threw himself into the shaft.
Curtain.
------
Some welders decided to celebrate a colleague's birthday. To avoid getting caught during the workday, they stuffed their overalls with rags, tied the welding torch to the hand, and left the dummy up high to create the appearance of work in progress. The wind blew, the electrode holder swayed, the dummy pretended to weld—while the welders were drinking. The bosses came out of the cafeteria; everything looked normal, everyone was busy. And then a gust of wind blew the dummy off from a height of 70 meters. All the bosses clutched their hearts and ran toward it. A welder, seeing this scene, climbed down, threw the dummy away, and lay down in its place. The bosses arrived and saw the welder stand up, dust himself off, and say: [censored] I'm never going back up there!!!!
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For the collection on rats.
An acquaintance told me this. It was back in the 70s—of the last century now—he was working as a blaster on road construction. Many things were simpler in those years, but that's not the point. It was a warm summer day, and there was an occasion, so a company of blasters settled in the shade of a warehouse. The warehouse, naturally, contained everything a "blast-gang" is supposed to have. How much they had drunk doesn't matter; they spoke quietly so as not to attract attention. Then someone noticed a rat crawl out from under the warehouse wall. Every man has at least a drop of hunter in him, and there were actual hunters here; in short, they caught the creature. Professional blasters, while tipsy, couldn't think of anything better than to douse it in diesel fuel and set it on fire. The rat first ran in circles around the clearing and then dove into the warehouse. They sobered up instantly. First everyone jumped up, then they flopped back onto the grass. As my acquaintance told it, the first thought was—run. Then each of them mentally calculated the amount of explosives stored there, and it turned out the blast would be slightly smaller than in Hiroshima, so there was no point in running. No one knows how long they sat there—time seemed to stop. Glancing at each other, they all rushed to the warehouse doors, tore off the lock somehow, and burst inside. It smelled of burnt fur, but nothing had exploded or caught fire. They searched the entire warehouse thoroughly but found no rat anywhere. An engineer ran up:
- What are you doing! Why did you tear off the lock? What are you doing here?
- Well, we're just sitting here; we smell something burning from the warehouse, and by the time you run for the key or explain things, it might blow.
The engineer sniffed the air and started running through the warehouse himself. In short, as you can imagine, no one confessed then.
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I had something similar in Denmark.
Around 3 a.m. on the main street of a provincial town, my son (19 years old, tall—important) and I came across a hedgehog. We thought it would be crushed [censored], so my son took off his t-shirt and wrapped it up (a big, prickly hedgehog). We brought it home. And then what? We decided to take it to the police station. We took a plastic basin with handles, put it inside, and carried it. The station was at the end of a dead-end street, and the lighting was poor. We saw the silhouettes of two uniformed men by the door. My son held the basin out at arm's length. I acted as the one for negotiations with authority. But I didn't know the language, let alone "hedgehog," especially in Danish. As we approached, I said something loudly, pretending it was English. The policemen got spooked and followed protocol: an Esperanto-style shout of "stop!" and they stepped aside. We stopped. "What do you have in your hands?" - "A basin" - "And in the basin?" -"Who [censored] knows what this is called?" - "Put the basin on the ground, step aside, and don't move!" - "OK". One cop stayed on guard, while the other cautiously, almost on tiptoes, approached and looked into the basin. Catharsis. Everyone who was in the station came out—about five people.
They laughed for a long time. They gave us a city map with a marked spot where we should release the hedgehog and drew a route. They expressed gratitude orally on behalf of the Queen, but finally told us not to touch hedgehogs anymore. Let them be crushed, because there are too many of them now.
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Told by a man who gave me a ride home.
About 2 years ago in St. Petersburg, they were relaying asphalt on Grazhdansky Avenue. Naturally, no one thought about logistical flows, so the unimaginable was happening—not even just in terms of traffic jams, but in the sense that it was unclear how to get around at all. I'm driving home around 10 p.m. and realize that all the temporary signs are sending me as far from my destination as possible, and then, as luck would have it, a patrol car tails me... Well, I think: bastards—they're waiting for me to break a rule so they can shake me down for money. So after another unsuccessful attempt to turn where I needed to, I stop and get out of the car... The patrol officers stopped too... I gather my courage, approach them, and say:
- Do you know how to get out of here?
I get the answer:
- Listen—we've been driving around for 20 minutes ourselves; we thought you were a local and followed you—hoping you'd lead us out!
------------
A true story, but not mine; an acquaintance told it about her son.
In their Akademgorodok, there was an astronomical site in the summer—anyone could come by and look through a telescope at the celestial bodies for free, and even get a consultation from the student astronomers on duty. Well, as it started to get dark, a small crowd of people wanting to see through the telescope formed, mostly parents with children. A full moon rose over the horizon. Five-year-old Ilyusha commented:
- The moon has risen; it's round, like a cat's eye.
Well—he wasn't the only child from an intellectual family here, this is Akademgorodok after all, and another boy, slightly older, authoritatively declared in response:
- A cat's eye isn't round at all.
But Ilyusha isn't so easily swayed; his mother is a physiologist, and she never refuses to answer his childhood questions, so regarding the structure of eyes and various other organs, he's better equipped than some ten-year-olds.
He calmly replied:
- If you pull it out—it's round.
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I have a friend, a guy who is 100% restless and reckless—preamble.
We are driving in my car through Kharkiv looking for a house with a specific number; we are traveling along Poltavsky Shlyakh (those who know, know). After the bridge, there are cops. I think I'll park and ask where house number so-and-so is... I slow down near a young cop, while another one slightly to the side further up the street is chatting actively on his mobile... well, I opened the passenger window and asked through Drulya something like: Where is this street, where is this house... he tries to explain something but deflects, saying the senior knows better... the one who's talking on the phone... we roll up to him, and before I can ask, my buddy shouts out the window—listen, Captain, the young guy has no change from his cell, give us fifty [kopeks/rubles], the other looked in his pockets without stopping his conversation, pulled out a fifty, unclipped it, Drulya took it, and we drove off... then I avoided that road for a week...
I don't even know if that's a good thing or not.
-------
Today, before my eyes, a pack of dogs decided to cross the avenue.
They had some chance, but the avenue is very wide. The lead dog, the most determined, waited for a gap and shot through it like a bullet. The others tried to follow but hesitated. And so they scrambled in the middle of the road under the wheels, like a flock of sheep. Screeching brakes, drivers swearing—horror. The last dog, the largest, was an indeterminate breed based on a German Shepherd. He stayed on the shoulder, barked strictly at everyone, and trotted perpendicularly—along the sidewalk. Into the pedestrian underpass...
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About teeth and heredity
Yesterday, after some fussing here and there, I went with the kid to the dentist.
This was as part of the medical exam before school.
Checking teeth before school is priority one. Everyone knows you can't do anything in school without good teeth. The kid has very good teeth (knock on wood). Unlike his father. Well, he doesn't chug liters of coffee at night and doesn't smoke three packs. So his teeth evoke healthy envy. I didn't even have such teeth at his age. And no holes.
The most important thing, of course—no holes.
The gaps between the teeth come from his mother. Good teeth from Grandpa Vitya, but gaps from mom. (From me—two crowns, for those who understand)
I don't even know what's more important for a boy. In my childhood, I had no gaps, and I always envied those who did. With a gap, you can make a good clicking sound and spit long and satisfyingly. While making a contemptuous face. Especially when it hurts. It comes off as quite manly. Otherwise, no matter how hard you try, if it hurts—your face looks sour anyway. But if you have a gap, you click, spit contemptuously, and suddenly the look is different. Brave, slightly foolish, and dashing. People with such an expression were always respected, in all times and in any company.
The kid doesn't know how to click and spit yet, well, he's not even going to school yet. When he goes—they'll teach him. That's what school is for.
So, we go to the dentist, and the kid is so curious about where-what-why.
I explain.
They'll check your teeth to see if everything is okay. If it is—they'll give you a certificate. If not—they'll take you behind the clinic and shoot you.
He laughs. He asks—and how will they check? How exactly will they check?
I say—they'll give you a special copper wire. If you can bite through it, everything is okay. If not—pack your things.
He laughs again. But now, not very confidently. You can tell that while he's laughing, he's mentally calculating whether he can bite through it or not?
This is a kind of test for a sense of humor. Because God forbid he inherited his sense of humor from his grandmother. Then being shot behind the clinic would be the most humane option. Because living with such a sense of humor is just torture.
I've already told you about his grandma's sense of humor, Tatyana Ivanovna. And possibly more than once. Because well, one could write a book about it. A veeeery thick one. Before, when they didn't tape my mouth shut before visiting the mother-in-law, I didn't pay much attention to this. And I used to joke. Yes, there is such a predicament—my jokes aren't always and not entirely understood (for some reason). But with Tatyana Ivanovna, I always tried to joke in a gentle mode, even trying to emphasize with my face that "right now I am indeed joking." Until I was told that Tatyana Ivanovna is a person who lacks a sense of humor as such. Like an appendix, for example. An appendix is either there or it isn't. That's how Tatyana Ivanovna's sense of humor is. No matter what face you make, it's not there, and that's it. No intermediate options.
Due to ignorance of this simple fact, various troubles occurred at first, and there were even victims.
Take Jack, for example.
Tatyana Ivanovna had a dog, a shepherd named Jack. Also without a sense of humor, by the way. He died later, fortunately. Why fortunately? Because if there is a doggy heaven in the skies, Jack got in directly, without limits and out of turn. For that, it was enough for him to simply say—I'm from Tatyana Ivanovna. And that's it.
Anyway, I once came back from fishing, sitting in the kitchen having lunch.
Three of us at home: me, Tatyana Ivanovna, and Jack.
So I'm eating lunch, Tatyana Ivanovna is by the stove, and Jack is in the hallway. He's also eating, for company. Not so much hungry as he's afraid I might swap plates. Because our food is basically the same, but there's significantly more meat in his bowl. For some reason. And always!
So we're sitting, eating, and Jack occasionally scratches himself. It was apparent that Tatyana Ivanovna felt awkward about this uncultured behavior during a meal, about these scratchings.
And she says:
- Oh, what haven't I tried with these fleas. I bought one medicine, then another... Nothing helps! He just keeps scratching and scratching.
I say:
- Tatyana Ivanovna, for heaven's sake! What medicines?! That's all a complete scam!
- Really? But how then?...
- Simple! You take the vacuum cleaner...
- Oh, come on! - Tatyana Ivanovna waves her hand and giggles just in case. Just like the kid did recently when I mentioned the wire.
- Well, laugh, laugh. And keep giving your money to charlatans. Have you seen Syoma scratch?
- No... - she thinks. - I haven't!
- Exactly! And Syoma's fur is nothing like your big lug's. Eh?
Tatyana Ivanovna makes an interested face. She trusts the black terrier Syoma significantly more than me. And not without reason.
- Well, go on?... - she says hopefully.
At this point, I realize the hook is already behind the lip; it's time to set and calmly reel in. And as I finish my soup, slowly, with a sense of self-//dignity and appropriate pauses, I share the secrets of dog breeding.
- Well? Vacuum cleaner on full power and go for it. Morning, evening, and after walks. Especially thoroughly here and here. Three days—and not a single flea. The main thing is don't forget to clean the dust bag after each procedure. Only when you shake out the bag, don't shake it immediately; let it lie. So the fleas can jump out. Otherwise they'll all jump on you, and you'll bring them right back.
It's a good thing we left the next day, and I only know the rest from Grandpa's stories. In telling it, Grandpa peppered his emotional speech with swear words like dumplings with pepper. So I'll put it in my own words.
At first, Jack snapped and tried to bite. First the brush, then the owner. But against Tatyana Ivanovna with a vacuum cleaner, even a Bengal tiger is a tiny bug. Cornered, Jack whimpered, shrieked, and peed himself. With the apparatus running at maximum power, none of this was audible. During the execution, Grandpa simply plugged his ears and ran to the garage, swearing loudly. It all ended abruptly on the third day. Left alone at home, Jack entered the bedroom where the torture device was stored under the bed, and... Nothing remained of the hose. Only the plug remained of the cord. Mangled remains of brushes lay across the room. The vacuum cleaner as such no longer existed. And for another week, Jack shat plastic fragments. Strangely, but nonetheless, his fleas disappeared too! Apparently, dog blood spoiled so much from the vacuum torture that it became unfit for food.
Understand me correctly, I didn't expect such a resolution at all. The thing is that phlegmatic Syoma reacted to the vacuum completely differently. As soon as he heard the humming, he would sprawl on the carpet and stick out his belly, rolling under the brush like shashlik on a skewer. He liked this procedure very much. To vacuum the room, I had to kick him into the kitchen. So I had no malicious intent whatsoever. A joke was just a joke. Who knew Jack would turn out to be such a nervous pesticide?
We bought them a new vacuum later, of course, no problem. But the scar in Tatyana Ivanovna's soul, as they say, remained for life.
Now, I hope you understand even a little bit why I'm so concerned about the child having a sense of humor? With such heredity.
We reached the clinic.
In the office were two old ladies. Well, ladies clearly of retirement age: the doctor and the nurse.
It's clear all the youth have run off to private clinics. I wonder if these will last until they retire, who will be left?
I handed them the kid and said:
- May I... wait in the hallway?
- Why is that?
- Well, I have this...
- What "THIS"? - one asks sternly over her glasses, looking up from filling out a chart.
- This... how do you call it... abstinence syndrome! - I say with a smart look, using the first medical term that came to mind. - Basically, your machines make me nauseous.
- Ah! - looking respectfully and softening her face, she nods understandingly. - Abstinence, that's understandable. Of course! Sit in the hallway then. Maybe you need a pill? How are you feeling?
People with abstinence syndrome—I noticed long ago—especially those who know and can articulately pronounce this term, for some reason enjoy the understanding and sympathy of elderly medical workers.
- No, thank you! - I say and slip out the door.
Seven minutes later, they returned the kid to me safe and sound, and even with all his teeth.
- What are you teaching the child, father! - the doctor shouted at me, holding the kid by the shoulder.
- What's wrong? - I wondered.
- What on earth is this copper wire?
- I was joking. - I said meekly, making a guilty face.
- "Joking," he says! We know such jokers! A father brings in his child, and all the incisors are chipped. We ask—what happened? And he says—Ah! That's how I open beer for daddy when we watch football!
- I don't drink beer. - I say.
- Watch me! - the doctor threatens with a finger. - The boy has very good teeth; such teeth must be preserved.
- Thank you, we will preserve them.
When we passed the security guard, tossed the shoe covers into the ashtray, and finally stepped out into the fresh air, I grabbed the kid by the scruff of his neck, shook him well, and asked threateningly:
- Why did you tell the grandma-doctor about the wire, you little pig, eh?
The kid didn't answer, but his face spread into a wide, satisfied smile, and a neat little hole appeared in the gap between two incisors.
- You need to learn how to click.
- How do you click?
- I'll show you at home. Just don't tell your mother.
- I won't.
He won't. He said "I won't," and he won't. He wouldn't have anyway. You can't squeeze an extra word out of him. I haven't yet figured out who he inherited this secretive nature from. Perhaps from the late Great-Grandmother Nina. We'll figure it out; there's time.
---------
My father had a good friend—Uncle Gena. I don't know how they met, but they were friends for a long time. Unremarkable in appearance, Uncle Gena was a remarkable unlucky man. In the sense that he had bad luck. Not always, but exclusively during fishing trips.
He had bad luck with water—for example, when men walk across a frozen river—everyone gets through, Uncle Gena falls into a hole; he wants to show off a new Chinese thermos—he pours hot tea on himself and drops the thermos on the ice—goodbye mirror flask...
He had bad luck with fire too—once, just before returning to the car from a distant river, the men warmed themselves by the campfire one last time. It was about seven kilometers (oh, fans of winter fishing...) along the wind-swept riverbed. Everyone was frozen through, except Gena, who walked at the rear and smirked—why are you all so cold?!... Gennady's heat resistance was simply explained—his new padded jacket was quietly smoldering on his back. The stronger the wind, the warmer he got... Or take this: he decided to show everyone that the new Polish tent bought through connections was fireproof—the result was a puddle of melted plastic where the tent had been. Naturally, everywhere and always, the catalyst for all events was vodka, which Gena loved dearly in nature (in the city, he didn't even drink on holidays).
The most significant streak of bad luck made him give up fishing for about five years: one day the following happened: during the day he fell out of a rubber boat, tore a new net, was scalded by hot broth from an exploding can of stew that he had put to warm over the coals and forgot to poke a hole in... in the evening he burned his boots in the campfire; somehow, inexplicably, dirt got into a can of navy-style pasta brought from home, but he really wanted to eat—or rather, have a snack—and Gena winced at the gritty crunch of soil, but he finished the can... in the morning it turned out that the pasta was untouched—in his intoxication and lack of lighting, the poor fellow had eaten a can of worms...
Rushing to brush his teeth, Uncle Gena, in haste and with a hangover, squeezed not toothpaste onto the brush, but a wonderful mosquito repellent—"Deta" (anyone remember that?). In an attempt to rinse his mouth, he poured a full mug from the pot of leftovers of tea brewed the evening before and drunk by him yesterday, and discovered at the bottom of the pot the lost socks from his burned boots.... The man's shock lasted about two hours....
As I already said, after this Uncle Gena quit fishing and vodka for a long time...
...He was a good guy. And he left on a good note—during one week he visited all his friends, paid off his debts, went to the sauna, put on his best suit, came home, kissed his wife, lay down on the sofa, and died...
Well... It's kind of sad...