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In the kitchen, on the table, there were plates containing boiled potatoes with fried liver.
Peter took ketchup out of the refrigerator, poured it into the potatoes, and sat down at the table. He quickly emptied the plate and, putting it in the sink, went back to the computer. Christina came into the kitchen.
– I’m here. – he wrote in the chat. – You’re from St. Petersburg, aren’t you?
– Yes, from my beloved St. Petersburg.
«We didn’t really get to know each other.»
«We can do it now if you want.»
– My name is Peter. – Peter wrote jokingly, because his names were already written opposite the messages.
– And I’m Sveta.
– Very nice.
– And me.
Communication began to gain momentum, although it was boring. Peter asked Sveta about her interests, while simultaneously talking about herself, and Sveta mostly answered questions and showed practically no initiative. The conversation ended when Sveta wrote that it was time for her to go to bed, since she had to get up early for work tomorrow. Peter felt a little awkward, because he didn’t have to get up for work. And he didn’t even tell Sveta that he was unemployed.
– If she finds out that I am unemployed and dreams of making money by writing books, she will immediately stop communicating with me. – Peter thought, and therefore did not say anything to Sveta, deciding to leave it until a more opportune moment.
CHAPTER 5. Cinema with my sister.
This morning was no different from previous ones and, perhaps, from future ones. Peter woke up when his mother was getting ready for work. The sound of bags rustling came from the kitchen. Opening the door, Motya entered the room and, jumping onto the sofa, lay down on Peter’s legs. He tried to move her, after which she moved higher and climbed under the blanket. Opening his eyes, Peter stared at the wall. The gray wallpaper did not evoke any emotions. Keys jingled in the hallway, the front door opened and then closed. Mother went to work.
– One more day. Another boring, tedious, and pointless day. – Peter thought.
It seemed like he needed to get up, but Peter really didn’t want to do anything. Perhaps it would be worth working on a book, but the mere thought of writing something, inventing something, was already giving him a headache. My temples began to pulsate, and my skull felt as if something was squeezing me. In addition, Peter doubted his literary abilities and the way he presented the material. There was no muse. There wasn’t that inspiring feeling that would lift me off the couch and lead me to the computer to create, to write new lines. He wanted to fall asleep and sleep for a couple more hours, but the sleep had already disappeared.
– Okay, to hell with it. – Peter thought, and throwing off the blanket, got up from the sofa and went to the kitchen.
Walking past the computer desk, he picked up an empty mug.
Walking out into the kitchen, he touched the kettle. The kettle was hot. Mother drank coffee before leaving for work. Peter went to the bedside table, poured sugar and coffee into a mug, then poured hot water over them and mixed thoroughly. Then he took milk out of the refrigerator and added it to the drink, stirring it again, and putting the milk back on the bottom shelf.
Together with the mug, he went into the room, where he immediately turned on the computer, and sat down in a chair, placing the mug of coffee on the table. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. The computer booted up.
At some point, Peter realized that he should wash himself and get himself in order.
Rising from his chair, he went to the bathroom, where he thoroughly washed his face and brushed his teeth. After wiping his hands and face dry with a towel that was hanging on a hook, Peter returned to the room and sat down again in his favorite computer chair. His room was somewhat reminiscent of an office, if you do not take into account the large bed standing near the window.
The computer has already booted.
Peter connected the Internet and opened a social network page. Sveta was offline. Having glanced at the news, Peter opened the office program in which he wrote the book, scrolled the text to the very bottom, and bent over the keyboard, trying to figure out what to write about.
Thoughts were difficult to get into his head, but what angered him the most was that these thoughts could be contained in two sentences. And I had to write at least three thousand words. Peter had no idea how to do this. It seemed impossible. He wrote one paragraph, a second, a third, covered a whole page, and then, looking at the number of words he had written, he discovered that there were only four hundred. But he had already run out of ideas; he didn’t know what else to write about. After all, really, what can you write about when a person sits at home all day, at the computer. Taking a sip of coffee from a mug, Peter decided that he needed to somehow diversify the life of his character. But it was very difficult to do this, because according to the plan, the main character was unemployed, he had no money, no friends, nothing that normal people had. All he had was the dream of becoming a millionaire. An unfortunate person, and who would want to read about such a person?
– We need to have breakfast. Maybe on a full stomach thoughts will come to mind better. – Peter thought, and abandoning attempts to write the fifth chapter, got up from his chair and went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
Having opened the refrigerator, he leaned on the door and froze, looking on the shelves for products that could be used to prepare breakfast. There wasn’t much choice. Or rather, he was small. You could make scrambled eggs with sausage, or dumplings that were in the freezer.
– Scrambled eggs. – Peter decided, and took out a package of eggs and one sausage from the refrigerator.
After crumbling the sausage into the frying pan, he took two eggs out of the package and put it back in the refrigerator, leaving the eggs on the nightstand.
– Scrambled eggs yesterday, scrambled eggs the day before yesterday, and tomorrow, probably, there will be scrambled eggs too. – Peter laughed. – I can imagine if you write a book about this. In each chapter, the main character cooks himself scrambled eggs. And also describe it in detail, savor this moment in order to feel the mystery of preparing this dish. I think the publisher will throw the book in the trash after reading the first two chapters.
The frying pan began to gurgle. The sausages began to shrink and darken. Peter took a knife and eggs and beat them into the frying pan. The frying pan began to gurgle louder.
– I wonder if my vocabulary is enough to be considered a talented writer? Or is my place among graphomaniacs? – thought Peter, crushing the yolk in the frying pan. – A paper scribbler, that’s what I am. Nobody will ever read my manuscripts, because they are simply uninteresting, boring, and monotonous. I use the same words, I repeat myself, I even have similar sentences in each chapter, not just separate words. And this volume, eight author’s sheets. Why so many, maybe I want to publish a small book, like that writer, Spaniard, or Portuguese, whoever he is, wrote a book, only one hundred and fifty pages, like, and a circulation of as many as sixty-five million copies. But I live in Russia, where can I go? There is only one publishing house, and it requires eight copyright sheets. No choice. Writers are doomed from the very beginning of their careers. No creativity. You can write a brilliant book with six author’s pages, but it won’t be published because that’s not enough. And then you have to figure out how to make the book longer. Ultimately, it’s just text, just a bunch of letters for someone to read. Seriously, who cares what is written in the book, if it is logical, then that is enough. You would think that in each chapter I will describe in detail how the main character cooks scrambled eggs. Yes, it’s repetitive, but that’s life. If this is the protagonist’s life, what can I do? I can’t write that he orders himself pizza and beer every day, when he doesn’t have a ruble in his pocket, because he is unemployed. It’s kind of creepy.
The scrambled eggs were ready.
Peter took a clean plate out of the dryer, put it on the nightstand, and turned the scrambled eggs into it. Taking a fork, he went to the table. Having placed the plate with scrambled eggs on the table, he took out ketchup from the refrigerator and squeezed some onto the scrambled eggs.
– But seriously, if you think about it this way, how many times can you repeat one word in a paragraph, from a literary point of view? – Peter froze over a plate of scrambled eggs. – If I want to write that the main character took a frying pan with scrambled eggs, dumped the scrambled eggs on a plate, then squeezed ketchup onto the scrambled eggs, crushed the scrambled eggs with a fork, and then began to gobble up the scrambled eggs on both cheeks. How many times have I used the word «scrambled eggs»? And how will the reader perceive this? Maybe he will throw the book on the floor, jump on it with both feet, and start stomping on it, shouting: «Cursed be the day I bought this waste paper!» That’s the problem. I am only a writer, I write because I feel like I see images before my eyes. And this, by the way, is a cool idea. – Peter put the ketchup in the refrigerator and straightened up to his full height. «I’m just a writer, and what I write is just how I see the world that surrounds me.» And if all my words fall crookedly on paper, then let it be so, because I’m not Shakespeare, I’m a worker of the pen. – Peter smiled. – Well, aren’t I a genius? Am I not capable of writing a work of genius? And isn’t what I write brilliant? No matter how I write it. Well, really, how do I know whether I’m a genius or mediocrity? Maybe I read my text, and it seems primitive to me, too simple, but in fact it is brilliant, this is the highest level of literary excellence, and all writers will kneel before me, praising my talent. How do I know that by describing in each chapter how the main character cooks scrambled eggs, I am writing a work of genius and not a boring graphomania? Okay, we need to eat.
Peter sat down on a chair, turned on the TV, and began to eat scrambled eggs. A program about travel was shown on TV. There was no series about witches. This upset Peter a little; he liked to watch a TV series about witches, in those moments when he went into the kitchen to eat or pour coffee. Although he also liked the program about travel.
After eating the scrambled eggs, Peter returned to the room, where he immediately sat down in the computer chair and took a few sips of the now cooled coffee. All this time, he continued to think about how best to write a book, and what to pay attention to, to actions, to a description of the area, or to the thoughts and emotions of people. Or did everything have to be in harmony?
– Shakespeare had no descriptions at all, only dialogues. But he wrote plays. – Peter thought. «But it doesn’t matter what you write, the main thing is that it sells well, that people like it.» Play, prose, or poetry. Although I probably went overboard with the poems. Poems will never be popular, not in our world. It is enough to remember the people you can meet on the street. But looking at them, it’s generally difficult to say that literature might be of interest to anyone. Yeah, how am I going to get rich from one book? I’ll only sell a thousand copies, that’s all. If it gets published at all. Ha! What if they don’t take it? Well, will I have to write another one, or should I abandon this matter? Abandoning is not an option. I will have to work in factories, carry iron, and have lunch in the back rooms. Horrible. I can’t even find an office job because I don’t have the necessary education. I’m doomed. It was as if I was part of a lower caste, the loader caste. If I were in India, I would not be able to oppose anything to this, and all my dreams would forever remain just dreams. After all, what do I have in my life is real? Nothing. What awaits me in the future? Nothing. I am doomed to hard and low-paid work, to live among poverty and drunkards. And nothing will change my life. Writing a brilliant book is the only chance for me to get out of all this.
A familiar melody began to play on the smartphone. Mother called.
– Yes? – Peter raised the phone to his ear.
– Go for a walk with Motya. – said the mother.
– Now? – moaned Peter, who was in the mood to write a book.
– Yes, now, is it difficult for you?
– No, it’s not difficult.
– Here you go.
– Fine.
Turning off his smartphone, Peter put it on the table and, turning around, looked at Motya, who was lying on the sofa.
– Well, are you going for a walk? – he asked the dog.
She stood on her paws and wagged her tail. Most likely, this meant agreement.
Peter turned on the music, got out of his chair, and began to get dressed. He always dressed to the music so that it would not be boring. Motya jumped around him, arching her back and resting her front paws on his leg.
Having finished putting on his street clothes, which usually hung on a hanger in the room, Peter went out into the corridor, put on his sneakers, took the leash, and fastened the harness on the dog. Returning to the room, he turned off the computer, took his smartphone and keys, and went to the exit.
Going out into the street, Peter walked towards the park, leading Motya on a leash. Motya happily ran along the curb, sniffing every bush that she met along the way.
They crossed the road, walked along the lawn to the next road, crossed it, and found themselves in the park where they usually walked. Peter did not go to the main road that circles the park, but decided to take a walk around the edge. Although the weather was good, it was already autumn and it was cool, which made it not very pleasant to hang around outside.
He walked slowly along the sandy sidewalk, watching Motya climb in the grass and relieve himself. Raising his head, Peter saw a girl jogging in the park. The girl had long blonde hair and a slender figure, and the tight clothes gave her a sexier look. Then Peter remembered Sveta, and realized that he had not really looked at her photographs yet, did not know what kind of figure she had, slim, or athletic, or maybe she was even fat. After all, he only saw her main photograph, in which he couldn’t really make out anything.
– Okay, then I’ll take a look sometime. – Peter decided, continuing to walk slowly forward along the sandy sidewalk.
Motya stopped in the grass and began to sniff something. Peter tried to pull her back, but she did not give in. Then Peter came closer to see what the dog was sniffing. It was a black wallet. Peter was overcome with a feeling of curiosity. What if there is money in it? Now he could use some personal money, because he has been sitting at home without it for so many years.
He walked over to the wallet and picked it up, looking around in case its owner was nearby. But there was no one around.
Peter took the wallet with both hands and opened it. At the same moment, goosebumps ran across his skin. He saw greenish bills lying inside. He quickly closed his wallet and put it in his pocket, deciding to count the money at home.
– Motya, go home! Let’s go home! – he began to pull the dog, but it resisted. – Let’s go, let’s go!
He quickly walked back towards the house. The dog obediently ran after him. Without stopping anywhere, he walked to the house, took the dog’s leash off, threw off his sneakers in the hallway, and walked into the room where he took out his wallet and took out all the money from it. There were five and a half thousand rubles inside.
– You can’t imagine anything better! – Peter blurted out joyfully. – We need to go buy something.
Having decided to buy a bottle of caramel soda, Peter took five hundred rubles, put on his sneakers, and went to the store. He was in a great mood. He reached the store, went inside, took a two-liter bottle of caramel soda from the counter, and went to the checkout. There he gave the cashier five hundred rubles and received four hundred rubles in change. Satisfied, he returned home along with the soda.
Putting the bottle of soda in the kitchen, he took off his sneakers, then all his street clothes, put on his home T-shirt, and went to the kitchen. There he took a large glass and poured soda into it. He closed the bottle and took a few sips. Bubbles of gas hit my nose and tears flowed from my eyes. But the feeling was pleasant.
Pouring more soda into the glass, he closed the bottle and put it in the refrigerator. Taking the glass, he went into the room and sat down at the computer. Relaxing in his chair, he turned on the music and began to slowly sip his caramel soda, wondering what he could do with the money he found.
The keys jingled in the lock. It was Christina, she returned from school.
When Peter remembered his sister, the idea immediately came to his mind to go to the cinema with her. He had long wanted to take his younger sister somewhere, but he never had money, but now he had it, and this was a great opportunity to go with her to the movies and to some fast food restaurant.
He went out into the corridor and turned to his sister:
– Do you want to go to the cinema?
– For what money?
– I have.
– At your place? Where? – the sister grinned.
– It’s a secret, but I have it. So, are you going to the cinema?
– Well, I don’t know, but what kind of films are there?
– I don’t know, let’s go and see. Then you can still go to the restaurant.
– In a restaurant?
– Well, yes, fast food. Eat a hamburger.
– Let’s. Shall we go right now?
– Yes, let’s go right now, what are we waiting for?
– Do you have a lot of money?
– We’ve had enough.
– Well, how much?
– It’s a secret.
– So, say.
– Five thousand.
– Where did you get?
– I found it when I was walking with Motya.
– Will you buy me a notebook?
– I can give you money for it.
– Let’s.
Peter took four hundred rubles in change from his pocket and handed them to his sister.
– It’s all for me?
– Well, yes.
– Cool. – I put the money from my sister into the child’s wallet. – Let’s get dressed.
Peter went into the room, where he quickly put on his street clothes, then turned off the computer and went out into the corridor, where he put on his sneakers. Christina stood in the corridor and waited for him.
– Did you take the money? she asked.
– Yes, I took it.
Leaving the apartment, Peter and Christina headed to the shopping and entertainment complex, which was not very far from the house. There were restaurants, a cinema, and many shops where you could go and buy something.
– Will you tell your mom that you found the money?
– Don’t know. May be. Or maybe not.
– There is a store in the shopping complex that sells notepads, should we go there?
