Ravenstskia
10-02-2006, 15:55
Lenisnky Prospect, 45, Ravenstvo, Ravenstskia, 6:00
Good Morning, Ravenstskia! C'mon, c'mon comrades, get up and down to your water procedures! Gooooooood Mornig, Comrades!
“What bloody bastard left the radio on...” - muttered Psikhonov under his breath as he shook himself awake. Then he remembered that this was the radio alarm clock of the guy in the next room – separated from him by only a thin layer of plywood. Psikhonov's neighbor was a man not to be messed with – a heavy-drinking construction worker with blue prison tatoos on his biceps. The appartment rumour had it variously – either the neighbor used to do jail time for violent robbery, or he was a prison guard. The difference, Psikhonov knew, was not at all significant. So he decided to avoid confrontation over the 'radio isse'.
Instead, he leapt out of bed – pink boxers and all – and grabbed a towel and a pair of slippers. Now, to get to the bathroom before the queue forms. The bathroom of course, was called that because it had a bath. It was clogged up, and had a child's pram parked inside it for the last two years.
So for Pavel Petrovich Psikhonov, as for many citizens of Ravenstskia, 'water procedures' consisted of pushing down the queue, watering your towel with unbelievably cold water – cold enough you could use it to cool a Victory-class space shuttle, mused Psikhonov - jump out of the queue before the quarrel goes violent, and begin rubbing your body with the cold, wet towel.
He dodged through the kitchen, were Tamara, a 55-year old lady from the balcony room, was laboring over an oversized frying pan. He was always amazed at how much her three children could eat -not that he really cared. His ham sandwich was left untouched in the fridge – a miracle in itself.
He gulped it down, got dressed, and dodged down the staircase.
A few minutes later, Pavel Petrovich Psikhonov was aboard a shabby old tram, en route to work.
This looked like a dawn of a wonderful day.
Good Morning, Ravenstskia! C'mon, c'mon comrades, get up and down to your water procedures! Gooooooood Mornig, Comrades!
“What bloody bastard left the radio on...” - muttered Psikhonov under his breath as he shook himself awake. Then he remembered that this was the radio alarm clock of the guy in the next room – separated from him by only a thin layer of plywood. Psikhonov's neighbor was a man not to be messed with – a heavy-drinking construction worker with blue prison tatoos on his biceps. The appartment rumour had it variously – either the neighbor used to do jail time for violent robbery, or he was a prison guard. The difference, Psikhonov knew, was not at all significant. So he decided to avoid confrontation over the 'radio isse'.
Instead, he leapt out of bed – pink boxers and all – and grabbed a towel and a pair of slippers. Now, to get to the bathroom before the queue forms. The bathroom of course, was called that because it had a bath. It was clogged up, and had a child's pram parked inside it for the last two years.
So for Pavel Petrovich Psikhonov, as for many citizens of Ravenstskia, 'water procedures' consisted of pushing down the queue, watering your towel with unbelievably cold water – cold enough you could use it to cool a Victory-class space shuttle, mused Psikhonov - jump out of the queue before the quarrel goes violent, and begin rubbing your body with the cold, wet towel.
He dodged through the kitchen, were Tamara, a 55-year old lady from the balcony room, was laboring over an oversized frying pan. He was always amazed at how much her three children could eat -not that he really cared. His ham sandwich was left untouched in the fridge – a miracle in itself.
He gulped it down, got dressed, and dodged down the staircase.
A few minutes later, Pavel Petrovich Psikhonov was aboard a shabby old tram, en route to work.
This looked like a dawn of a wonderful day.