NOW - 15.08.2007

I see my hands. They are stained with oil. Old cars are around me. Apparently I’m working in a garage. Alone.

There’s some annoyance in my sleep: should I change jobs? But there are obscure liabilities. This is not my dream. A sort of a junk movie.

I’m sure I’m handsome and manly. I search for a mirror and whistle something.

Powerful blows at the gates which open upwards slowly. Red-hot stripe of the sun-tide crawls the floor.

The customers are from the 30s. The blonde man remains in the car. The miniature girl comes out. She smokes a cigarette squinting in the sun.

Seems like I’m hearing jazz and realize – if the music stops I will be shot down. I know this pair. The girl is Bonnie Parker.

I know how they will die. She will turn 23.

One of my friends in St. Petersburg bought herself an old soviet government limousine. ZIM or something like that. Every little gap is filled with sand. Sort of bullet-proof doors.

It is possible to die in sleep. So I answer in good English that I recognize their faces; that I have no money in the garage but I point out the idea of car doors filled with sand. I’m showing them where I can put the sand in.

“Not bad”, says Bonnie (I will never be able to forget her voice),”but where would we get so much sand, my boy?”

“In a fire-protection bin” – I smile and want the blond guy to see that.

I’m going to the bin. Car’s door slammed. Maybe he’s got out. It’s hot in the car.

At last it’s summer.

Text: Anton Adasinsky
English text editor: Jennifer Williams
Photo: Elena YarovaYa, Roman Dubinnikov
Photo design: Elena Yarovaya