Even the most inattentive tourist will notice a group with hairstyles in the form of a purple comb or the red crown of the Statue of Liberty. The young people "don't notice" either the flashes of cameras illuminating their gathering or the tourists standing nearby staring at them. Of course, the punks enjoy such active attention from curious people. They are happy with each other and the opportunity to discuss some matters known only to them.
From the outside, it looks very funny because of the fancy constructions on their heads and provocative clothing. Punks are like cats who have come to a choir lesson under the window and are diligently stretching out the notes, ignoring the housewife who seriously asks them: "Why are you yelling like that?!" "Disco!" - the husband answers her, flashing his wit, tearing himself away from the TV.
Closer to nine, when it gets dark, this company is joined by almost bald young ladies and cheerful guys with green hair with a businesslike look. Looking at them, I also wanted to dye my hair red, but I chose to abandon this idea that captured my imagination. "Let's abstain," I said to myself, using the words of Gorbachev, who was offered to sit behind the wheel of a combine harvester that had caught his attention at an exhibition.
Not far from the group of punks, a pile of garbage was rising. What was especially surprising was that no one had even thought of cleaning up the mountain of beer cans, bottles and Big Mac boxes that had accumulated in the center of London. What a contrast this picture presented with Moscow, scraped beyond recognition as it prepared for its 850th anniversary! I couldn't even believe it. True, a grinning black utility worker drove by once in a moon rover with rotating flat brushes that only pushed the cigarette butts thrown from the steps to their foot, and a minute later he left in a strange apparatus, filled with a feeling of superiority over the idle multilingual public, whom his unexpected appearance had caused no small amount of amazement.
One evening I noticed two punk girls chatting pleasantly on the steps under Eros. I had seen one before, the other - for the first time. "Excuse me!" - I addressed the "old acquaintance" in leopard-spotted stockings, cut crookedly above the knees. "Yes? (Yes?)" - they both turned to me. "May I have a photo with you? (Can I take a photo with you?)" - I asked, overcoming my shyness. "One pound! (One pound!)" - the "leopard stocking" answered unexpectedly quickly and casually.
I thought she would refuse, be surprised, object. But this is not a Moscow student who has read Chernyshevsky with dreams of reorganizing the world in her head. Here it is, that very European pragmatism, a cold shower sobering up natures hovering in the clouds.
I had only nine pence left from the five hundred dollars I had borrowed for six days. The next morning our tour group was returning to Moscow. So I mumbled something incoherently about a lack of funds, and the "leopard stocking" indignantly chattered in response, but from her entire monologue I could only make out the last phrase: "Sorry, no pictures look out money!".
After such a disappointment, I felt uncomfortable sitting next to the punks, contemplating the world-famous colorful neon advertising dancing on the corner of the house, topped with a board with the number of days until the year 2000. So I got up and walked along London's Old Arbat, that is, along either Piccadilly or Regent Street, quickening my pace.
Crowds of tourists were already milling about. They stared at the luminous signs with open mouths and shouted something to each other in excitement in Italian, German, Dutch. I was warmed by the thought that the next morning I would go home.
I was happy to help out. And I would have forgotten about my favor if the next day a strange girl hadn't asked me about it, smiling sweetly and saying that she didn't have enough money for ice cream. "They ask," my friend waved his hand, "they knock down money."
The new pastime that has taken over the entire capital has its roots deep in the past. At first, this way of earning money was used by a few Soviet hippies (they introduced this term - "ask" from the English "to ask"). In the years, say, the eighties, when dissolute companies of gopniks wandered around the cities. The twenty-year-old generation remembers how some clean-shaven minor uncle would approach a skinny student of such-and-such a class, "politely" ask for some change, and in case of refusal, without hesitation, hit him in the eye (in the forehead, ear - to the uncle's taste).
Now this is more or less dying out, but on the streets and in the underpasses you can see quite decent-looking young guys who apologize every other word, explaining the reason for such an awkward situation. And you, remembering the dark past, give him your last coin and almost cry with emotion. This is not about pickling faces - this is Culture!
My interest knew no bounds, and finally I decided to try. At first I thought that my intelligent appearance, gold glasses and fashionable T-shirt would hinder me in such a difficult matter, but my friend assured me that this was it, and that my contingent was young couples in love. My friend himself threw on a dirty denim shirt, a backpack and approached only the hardened partying youth, telling them that he came to Moscow from Konigsberg.
A legend is the basis of "ask". The legend should be chosen according to your image, otherwise, if I, for example, were to stick my nose into a company of Alice fans and start loading their already overloaded heads with the fact that I came to a concert of their favorite band, I would, to put it mildly, be misunderstood.
Since my goal was not so much money as satisfying my curiosity, I chose a fairy tale about coming to the park with a childhood friend, forgot my wallet at home, and so I want to give her at least flowers today!
After filling up with beer, I went to work. It was MK's birthday, and my material was right by the main stage. I approach. A flurry of magic words comes from my instantly dry throat, but judging by the faces of the people, these inarticulate sounds can only be taken for idiotic nonsense or choice obscenities.
Finally, someone understands that I have a tragedy, and I desperately need money. So I get a tenner. Then everything went much easier and calmer. Someone sympathizes, with someone I start a conversation about ruin for the sake of a pleasant cause, others invite me to have a drink with a "childhood friend", etc.
Even with such an unsuccessful legend, I shot about a hundred in an hour, which was enough for expensive cigarettes, a bottle of beer, ice cream, a bag of pasta, a loaf of bread and an inexpensive book by Sologub. The main thing is - no complexes and enjoyment!
Andrey KREKOV
Well, what can I say, there were a couple of good poems, and I continued to frown while waiting for him in the auditorium of one unique institute. Rumors of his arrival were obtained in portions - it turns out he is tall, he is in a long denim fur coat, like a blue one.
I sat with her at the last desk and thought about how to quickly get out to the boulevard and drink beer. Deep in thought, I laid my head on her lap, while she savored his beautiful words. She is beautiful and smart, but she is not yet accustomed to the close distance from the "classics".
Yevtushenko looks like Hitler without a mustache, and that sly smile kills on the spot. The only joy from everything that was happening around me at that momentous meeting was her disappointment in him as a person. He said something about his outstanding work, about one significant verse. Maybe the verse really was significant, but you can’t talk about it every five minutes. I felt like that Buddhist who achieved nirvana from frequently repeating the same phrase, losing its meaning. He apparently didn’t achieve it. He also said something about the anthem - I think he refused to write the lyrics to music. And all this with broad gestures and an open soul - look at my genius.
I say again, I just wanted beer, that’s all.
After the meeting, I went out for a smoke, and she still went to get an autograph for her parents, who are crazy about him somewhere in the Russian hinterland.
Actually, I'm jealous to the point of darkness. She nervously smoked: "Can you imagine, I'm standing in line for autographs with the girls, waiting. He calmly signs, listens to how they flatter him, and then I come up - you should have seen how he looked at me, as if I were some kind of beautiful thing, he perked up like a rooster, so disgusting. An old man, but still the same - what's your name, and how beautiful you are, and all that." Every glance at her for me is like a stab in the back, okay, teenagers, but a Poet!
She was about to throw the book away, but changed her mind and decided to make it a gift for her mother.
Actually, I don't understand these iconic figures. Well, they are famous, well, they are proud of themselves for some merits, but why show off? I drank beer accompanied by her offended remarks - "what bastards, they want one thing."
And then we were moved to go to the Film Museum to see a good film "Wings of Desire". We didn't get tickets and stood around five of us looking for extra ones. We were standing there freezing and were about to go for a walk when we saw a familiar tall figure in a long black fur coat. He was walking with his head up, as if he was looking for something ahead. The attendant in a shabby coat respectfully led him to the ticket office and took the reserved tickets. Yes, we were not mistaken – it was Yevtushenko, the pillar and power of Russian poetry, who had recently received a diploma from the Literary Institute, which he had not graduated from.
He passed by, smiling indulgently at the enthusiastic words of my friends that they recognized the famous poet. She stood waiting for one thing - whether she would recognize him or not. He said something as condescending and standard as his gaze, and was about to leave the cinema dressing room when he saw her. He stopped, looked into her eyes with surprise and interest, and even opened his mouth, but my breasts protected her from his lustful gaze. Yevtushenko got out of it – he smiled broadly and said: "That means I have gunpowder in my powder flasks, since you're hiding it!"
Yevtushenko left, his friends laughed for a long time, and I thought – two centuries ago they would have challenged someone to a duel for such things. It's a pity that it's the 21st century now... It's a pity that Pushkin died.
Andrey KREKOV