Semipyatnitsky hurried from the metro station toward the office, his head teeming with these profound thoughts on the ways of the corporate world. They weren’t at all abstract; on the contrary, they were utterly practical. You see, the Cold Plus corporation had made a unilateral wager with its employees: “I bet you can’t make it to work by nine A.M.!” If an employee loses, he has to pay a fine. His paycheck will be docked, without right of appeal. If the employee wins, his reward is that nothing will happen to him.
“So what demon chases me out of the house every morning, makes me dash out onto the street, rushing all the while, in a lather like a race horse, to reach a stuffy, crowded workplace on time, when I could do everything, make those calls and send those e-mails, from home?”
Maximus blurted this out loud, having lost control of himself yet again, while standing at the crosswalk waiting for the green “walk” light.
At that precise moment Maximus heard a malicious cackling just behind his left shoulder. Semipyatnitsky turned and saw a spry-looking old man of indeterminate age and curious appearance behind him. The old man was garbed in an ill-fitting blue double-breasted jacket, green trousers, and red shoes with pointed toes. A venomous-looking yellow necktie completed the picture.
“Late for work, young man?”
The forced sympathy in the old man’s voice surpassed the heaviest sarcasm. Maximus’s glance slid across a large round badge pinned to his new acquaintance’s chest, identifying him as a sidewalk marketing specialist. Fiery red letters against a white background spelled out a bold invitation: “Get rich quick: Ask me how.”
“You don’t have to go, you know. That is, you brought this on yourself. Going to the office, sitting at the computer, putting up with a stupid boss… But you can still change everything. And right now you have a unique opportunity! We have a special offer, just for you.”
“O God!” thought Semipyatnitsky. The old man seemed to twitch momentarily, though Maximus might have just imagined it. All in all, the encounter was a surprise, if a mild one. It had been several years since he’d encountered this particular brand of street salesman; not so long ago they had thronged the sidewalks, accosting naïve passersby, besetting them with get-rich-quick schemes and fleecing them for easy cash.
Maximus smirked and interrupted the peddler of illusions:
“You’re right, it is a unique opportunity. I didn’t expect to run into you. I must confess, I had assumed that your type had gone extinct, had died of starvation and disillusionment, leaving your bodies draped on top of stacks of boxes of miracle powders in communal apartments that in the Soviet days used to belong to distant aunts with heart diseases, and which you acquired, along with the job title of supreme supervisor, in exchange for the powder. Do you know how we used to deal with your brand of so-called businessmen back then? Ask me if I want to lose weight, and I’ll tell you where you can go.”
Contrary to Semipyatnitsky’s expectations, the geezer didn’t take offense. He smiled even more broadly, exposing a row of fake yellow fangs, and emitted a stream of words:
“Oh no, it’s not at all what you think! This is a completely new system! And yet it’s as old as the world itself, and has truly passed the test of time! Success is guaranteed; all you have to do is decide! No gimmicks whatsoever, it’s all completely legal and legitimate! All I need from you is your signature on this splendid contract!”
The old man reached into his leather briefcase and produced a few sheets of paper, covered with fine print and held together with a metallic green paper clip. Maximus could have sworn that the man hadn’t been holding a leather briefcase a second before. He cast a nervous, hopeful glance at the stoplight. It was still red.
“This is the longest light I’ve ever…” muttered Maximus, baffled, to himself.
“I know, you’re about to ask: ‘What about the deposit?’” the agent rattled on. “I have great news for you! No initial expenditures are required! Absolutely no material investments on your part. You won’t believe me—you’ll ask, ‘How can that be? Is it really possible?’ And I will answer, ‘Yes!’ But only here and now, and only through our company! What you will provide is absolutely without material substance; in a certain sense, it doesn’t even exist! You have it, but you’re not using it—you don’t even notice it! And what will you get in return? Completely tangible, material things! Those very things that you’re striving to acquire by going to work every day and performing hard labor that will bring you nothing in return. All we need from you is sound, air, an empty concept, fluff! Thinner than a hair! And even that, I repeat, absolutely nonmaterial investment is not required up front—no! And not in installments, either! Only later, only at the very end, when you’ve already fully savored all the riches that our contract will provide you!”
Maximus’s head was spinning; he felt numb all over. The huckster clearly was taking advantage of his weakened state.
“Well, what do you say? I see you’re ready! Just sign here and here. Use this pen!”
A syringe sprang out of the old man’s jacket sleeve, and he poked it into Maximus’s free hand, drawing a tiny drop of blood.
“Oh, how clumsy! Please forgive me!” chirped the old man.
The syringe instantly mutated into a massive pen with fake gilding, and wedged itself between Semipyatnitsky’s writing fingers.
But the pain brought Maximus to his senses. Stunned, he stared at the tiny red spot on his hand and then raised his head and shrieked to the people standing next to him at the crosswalk, involuntary witnesses to Semipyatnitsky’s conversation with the street hawker.
“Help! This maniac stabbed my hand! He’s probably spreading AIDS!”
The crowd recoiled. A few girls, who had evidently heard urban myths about men who went around spreading the virus by sticking needles into people in nightclubs, started screaming at the top of their voices.
At that moment a beat-up Gazelle municipal passenger van emerged from the line of vehicles on the street and squealed to a halt right in the middle of the crosswalk’s zebra stripes.
“Oh here’s my ride!” announced the old man joyfully, as though nothing had happened. “So pleasant to chat with you! Bye! Until we meet again!”
And with that he sprang through the open door into the empty back of the van. The briefcase was gone; instead, he was clutching a shopping bag against his belly, crammed full of red vegetables that looked something like turnips. The turnips were shaped like human hearts and were throbbing, or at least it looked that way to Maximus. But the door slid shut and the van lurched into motion. The driver, a brunet with a long hook-nose, cast a brief venomous glance Semipyatnitsky’s way.
One eye was green, the other was made of glass.
The Gazelle merged back into traffic and disappeared. The walk light flashed green, and Maximus joined the crowd walking briskly across the street. The pedestrians jostled one another carelessly, as though they had forgotten that one of them had perhaps just been infected with an incurable, highly contagious disease.
The gilded pen was gone, and there was no sign on Maximus’s hand of the red spot. But he wondered: How do one-eyed men get chauffeur’s licenses and jobs driving passenger vans? It doesn’t exactly fill you with faith in public transportation, does it?
WHAT DO STRAWBERRIES HAVE TO DO WITH IT?
That morning, the usual spirit of liveliness reigned in the office…
The words came naturally, or, rather, they arose spontaneously and appeared on the monitor of Maximus’s inner consciousness.