Rhythm of rebellion

For the next week, Simran tried not to think of the fateful night that had been soaked in her mind like a leech. She continued to study diligently and help her mother at home, and in her free time was studying in the library or hanging out with the girls at the snack bar with the game machines. These soulless machines gluttonically swallowed the coins generously offered by teenagers and launched arcade shooters. Pinball was particularly popular: players had the opportunity not only to enter the best list, but also to earn on bets. Every diner had its own champion, on which money was bet. Sometimes faith dipped, but for each record holder there was someone better. Observing the collective excitement from the outside, Simran understood that she was bored, so she often went into herself. Again and again came back with thoughts in the courtyard «Tau-Hau». Jody and Nancy, swapping collars with the boys from the sports school, lowered a tray of soda on the smooth surface of the square table and sat down in front of their absent-minded friend. - What are you reading? - Joe, throwing a straw into a glass, pulled the brunette out of her head, and she looked at the book. -Capablanca. The basics of chess. - Oh! You didn’t tell me you were playing. - I like to surprise people, I clench my cheek, Simran smiled and immediately changed the mood - I can’t get those guys out of my head. - Which one? - Nancy looked back, where the same sports school students were excited at the sea-fighting slot machine. One of them, dressed in a jumper, didn’t close his eyes to Nancy, and she, in turn, made eye contact with him. In the head of a treacherous girl, untouched by male attention, an idea has long since formed, and in the same instant, listening to her friend’s ear, she took out a pen from the bag and drew a message on the napkin. Having folded a piece of paper, the poor woman apologized and went to the restroom, cleverly putting a note in her pocket. Having read the contents of it, he immediately followed Nancy. - So what about the guys? - Turning her eyes on the brunette’s antics, Jody stared at Kiwi with interest. - I mean musicians. They work on a well-thought-out scheme. It’s like in chess: you need strategy to put the mate to the king, that is to steal people. The pawn is that boy. Blond, obviously, a rook. Elephant - a ball in shorts. Horse - a redhead. And the queen, of course, it’s the bastard with the cigarette. - So, said Jo cautiously and took away the works of Capoblanka from Simran, you have enough chess for today. It seems that you are obsessed with them. On the musicians, I mean. - Maybe. But that’s so unfair! They got away with it. - Forget it. They’ll come back with a boomerang. My aunt says that if not god, then the bastard will punish karma. - Who did she mean? - uttered Kiwi rhetorically, and looked up at the untouched glass of cola that belonged to Nancy. - And where?. Not letting her friend talk, Joe, with a nervous laugh, answered: -With a guy in the bathroom. -Ah! - the girl blushed and nodded with understanding. It became obvious that of the girlfriends Simran was the only one who kept chastity. At some point she became nervous. Not that she wanted to make love or if she was attracted to someone certain, however, listening to the girls' stories about kissing and other caresses, she unwittingly thought of going through the same thing. What does it feel like when the rough hands of a man touch your hips and your lips taste you? What does it mean to press against your chest and listen to the beating of someone else’s heart? How pleasant is a kiss on the neck... when the mouth and slippery tongue touch the tender breast? One day, scrolling through these pictures in her head, Simran approached the mirror and stripped herself, leaving only her underwear. She stared at her reflection, touching her shoulders and hips with one hand. She passed her fingers over her small, neat breasts and took a picky look at her buttocks. Not long ago, Nancy made a joke on Mason about Simran’s feet, calling them beautiful. Is that so? And why is it so important to have beautiful legs? Were they slim and thin enough for her? Should they be skinny? Simran could not get rid of these confused, inexperienced questions. She wanted the boys to like her, but was afraid of being frivolous because men had come to believe that the woman’s smile of politeness concealed more than mere courtesy. At the same time, Simran wanted to experience the warmth of a man’s body, but not to stain the reputation that her mother cares so much about. And now, waiting for Nancy at a table with an untouched cola, she gnawed nervously on the lip, again and again in doubt. Jody is probably right, and Mason Carter will soon switch to another girl, a lighter one, because Simran isn’t sure what she wanted. Simple soul, our Simran - she, like many girls of her age, sought true love, but was afraid to go towards it. Meanwhile, by allowing herself to press against the wall plates, Nancy gave herself passion. Without embarrassment, enjoying each instant, each flaming kiss and tingling of the body, the girl firmly hugged the stranger by the massive shoulders and moved in time to his movements, dispersing the fire that engulfed their whole camp, through arteries and veins. A long skirt, which at the moment did not correspond to the manners of its mistress, hurried back to the stomach. The guy held her under the hips with such a grip that he left traces and, pressed to the cold surface, increased the pace of deep thrusts. They breathed loudly, uttering quiet moans and dirty swearing, which must have cheered them up, inspiring a greater passion. Lovers communicate through kisses, but here they express nothing but need and animal desire. It is savagery. A momentary weakness that gives short-term pleasure. Diving at him with his head, the guy pushed harder, and Nancy breathed a sigh of approval. Making love in the toilets became a standard entertainment. No one was afraid that they could be caught. It seemed, even on the contrary, that young people had an unprecedented excitement about this subject. They thought: if I want to do it in the toilet, why can’t I indulge my desires? Here and now. Nancy seemed to think so too. When she left the bathroom, she straightened her hairdo on the way and, grabbing a bag from a chair, carelessly dropped it: -Let’s go? Simran and Jodi looked the other way, but they followed their friend who was smoking in the street. There was something hideously dirty about it. And how arrogantly she held the cigarette, what posture she took, and what a mint her skirt became. She smelled of cigarettes, sweat, and musk. That’s the smell of women in brothels. - Aren’t you scared? - Kiwi, standing aside, squinting at the back of the tired brunette. - What? - Become pregnant. Nancy slowly turned around and, with a condescending look on her eyebrows, burst out laughing. *** On the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge, as the reader knows, was the artistic, pulsating life and ambition of Manhattan, built, it can be said, along and across skyscrapers, that in the night their dazzling brilliance blurred starlight. Each street has its own history, and the people here are not too busy. Some know Manhattan by the famous Times Square, which is rich with restaurants, hotels, vintage cinemas or museums. How many celebrities have seen these lands. How much music have heard these buildings. What a variety of appetizing flavors of Italian cuisine carried by the wind. Yet, the atmosphere in Brooklyn and Manhattan is quite different. However, you should not be deceived and let the glare take your eyes away from the truth. The whole world is a theater; countries in it are a stage, and on stage they wear masks. Manhattan has several of them. Pulling it up, we’ll forget about the colorful live Times Square, the psychedelic rock sounds from nightclubs, the restaurants and the Broadway idleness. We will follow a little further north-east, to Harlem, another and, I think it’s fair to say, utterly vile, poor, dirty part of Manhattan. Here, in this ulcer, lived mainly colored and emigrants from Italy, who called «Nuuricans». As a result of the inadequacy of local life, Harlem is full of violence and violence. The police do not care what «negro» or «latino», as they affectionately call their Americans, will die in a shootout or in cold blood revenge. To put it simply, Harlem is tiny Sicily in the heart of New York, and the law here, like Chicago, was the law of the night. Unlucky for someone who was born here, because their fate is to die. It’s the other side of the coin, the shameful part of Manhattan that not everyone knows about. But we just have to turn our eyes here, because in one of the apartments, with ragged walls and holes the size of a penny, from periodic shootings between gangs, lived Jack. At that time, during the Cold War, which began in 1947, American society was gripped by bunker hysteria. People feared a nuclear war and built underground shelters en masse. They met under the townhouses. In order to get there, it was necessary to wrap up under the ladder, usually located on the right of the porch. Going down to the hallway, where there was sometimes garbage, turn right again and enter the door, behind which opened a fairly spacious room with separate rooms. Wet, dark and relatively safe. But Harlem was considered a dump before, otherwise he was called the Devil’s Pup, that the prices of apartments were pennies, and shelters under him were practically crumbling. In order not to overpay and save money, Jack rented accommodation in one of the bomb shelters. What else does the poor musician need? A secluded place away from the chaos, a guitar by the side and proper literature. For Jack, who fans know by the pseudonym Rockfree, the right kind of literature was very important. He was a fan of his namesake Jack, that is Jack Kerouac, whose creation played not the least role in the fate of the stray musician. As a schoolboy, Rockfreegot acquainted with the creation of Mr Kerouac «On the road» and reinterpreted for himself everything that only could be assimilated by eighteen years young brain. He suddenly wanted to change his life, and the world, Jack decided, was changing without his help; all that remained was to find his place in this raging open ocean of time.At that time, during the Cold War, which began in 1947, American society was gripped by bunker hysteria. People feared a nuclear war and built underground shelters en masse. They met under the townhouses. In order to get there, it was necessary to wrap up under the ladder, usually located on the right of the porch. Going down to the hallway, where there was sometimes garbage, turn right again and enter the door, behind which opened a fairly spacious room with separate rooms. Wet, dark and relatively safe. But Harlem was considered a dump before, otherwise he was called the Devil’s Pup, that the prices of apartments were pennies, and shelters under him were practically crumbling. In order not to overpay and save money, Jack rented accommodation in one of the bomb shelters. What else does the poor musician need? A secluded place away from the chaos, a guitar by the side and proper literature. For Jack, who fans know by the pseudonym Rockfree, the right kind of literature was very important. He was a fan of his namesake Jack, that is Jack Kerouac, whose creation played not the least role in the fate of the stray musician. As a schoolboy, Rockfreegot acquainted with the creation of Mr Kerouac «On the road» and reinterpreted for himself everything that only could be assimilated by eighteen years young brain. He suddenly wanted to change his life, and the world, Jack decided, was changing without his help; all that remained was to find his place in this raging open ocean of time. The musician did not like to remember his past, and he hated it when his soul was penetrated. Apparently, for this reason, Rockfreespoke little. The days of our hero passed in the same order or more precisely in complete disorder: Jack, being a man of creativity, spent hours on writing songs or on the meaning of his existence - writing a book. It was not easy for him. The walls of his house are constant spectators of his anger and annoyances, when words do not want to be built into sentences, but sentences in paragraphs. Often he falls asleep right at the desk in a pile of scrambled papers. Contrary to expectations, Rockfreeis not a romantic, although he dreams of another world with the right, in his view, the usual. When he woke up at noon, he turned to his right side and reached for an open beer can. Taking a sip, then another, the guy got up and went into the living room through an arch in the wall. On the floor, next to the pizza boxes, there were dirty shoes. A tiny TV did not catch the channels, and from the bath the sounds of water. Jack rubbed his curly top, took out a cigarette from the pack of Marlboro and smoked it. - Benny, are you there? - Clapping his fingers on the door with the glass inserts, Jack shouted. - Damn it! - sounded encouraging behind the wall. Benny was surprised by a strange awakening. He, standing in his underwear, reached for the silhouette outside the door and hurried to finish his work. - You want to go to the bathroom? Wait! - No, I was just checking to see if you were dead. - Fuck you,' the blond man bagged a white carpet with a little card at Christmas and, inadvertently hitting it with his finger, cursed. -What took you so long? - Go fuck yourself! Let me piss quietly! - angry, Benny splattered and, with his finger covered in powder, straightened the line again; then, having wrapped a dollar bill into a tube, smelled a coke trail on his left nostrils. The mucous membrane slightly scratched - a familiar sensation that you quickly get used to, as well as drugs. Benny pressed his back to the wall and, waiting for the effect of the powder, looked at his own reflection in the dusty mirror. The eyes are glazed like a wax figure. When he got better, he cleaned up after himself and pressed the drain button as if he really was sitting on a spout. -Did you smell it again? - Before Benny could open the door, he ran into Jack. - Didn’t you hear the sound? - Passed by the blond. - You know your lack of confidence is offensive. The guy squatted on the old couch that Rockfreefound next to the garbage cans, and crossed his feet on a table assembled from boxes. The upholstery of the sofa in the center is badly damaged, and in order to hide this defect, the owner of the apartment laid thin gauze on it, which Benny, because of his clumsiness, hit with his foot. -Your pupils are the size of a golf sword. - I’m in the mood, Benny winked. -We have rehearsal in three hours. - I haven’t had breakfast yet. Give me some money, I’ll go to the store. It was as if they had not heard each other, each concerned about his own. - First of all, I didn’t spend as much money on dope as I used to - washing my face and my teeth, snorting my dark hair - and second of all, I spent the last drop of money on a new string. - What do you do with them, that they are constantly breaking at you? - rolled Benny’s eyes and fell on his shoulder, allowing the substance in the body to play with his mind. - I write music, actually. - It sucks, you’re writing! Jack changed his clothes and put the kettle on. - Don’t mess with Bush. - What? - said Benny, slowly leaving reality. - How did you know? - I got caught by his men, talked about you. You’re giving him almost $300! Jack will not forget that wet Thursday evening. It was raining, and the deserted streets of the district were covered with fog. The black car with the graffiti cut him off at the crossroads. That’s when he realized how much Benny got in trouble. Being in debt to gangsters, especially Cubans, is like committing suicide. Benny won’t call his tongue an angel, but they are friends, and friends in trouble don’t leave. It is clear as day that a blonde has a serious addiction and without the help of others he cannot get rid of her. Benny is a talented musician, a virtuoso, a daredevil, and people like him, alas, tend to go down the slippery slope. - I’ll take care of him, he said. - Stop buying stuff from him. And pay off the debt, - demanded turned to blonde Jack, kicking the couch in rage. - Get up! Tired of lying! - Don’t tell me what to do,' said Benny with indifference. The rehearsal took place, but without him. At first he spent time in prostration, enjoying a colored film in his head, after which he lost consciousness. At nightfall, he left Jack’s apartment and, with a hat on his head, went to the store for beer. He had to walk five blocks past a broken sewer pipe, which caused dirt to spread on the asphalt. The smell was not pleasant - Benny’s eyes watered. -Fuck, - the blond man spat and wrapped himself on the next corner, deciding to cut the road short, but he felt sorry for it. It seems that the musician was tracked, otherwise would not have been caught so easily, because Benny is a master of running from problems. He noticed a beige Cadillac and a group of brown-faced men who, pointing at him with their truncheons, immediately started the engine. - Holy shit! - yelled the blond man more loudly as he ran away, pushing the passersby in his path. The Cubans yelled at him in the back and threatened to shoot him. Benny flagrantly raised his middle finger and, jumping over the hydroplane, hurled into a narrow alley. The Cubans, sharply braking, giving wheels squeal, rushed for the catcher. At this fortune left the musician: he was caught and pressed against the wall. Before starting negotiations, the boy was kicked hard and when he started coughing up blood, they retreated in a conciliatory manner. Typical extortion tactics. - Benny, you son of a bitch, when do you get your money back? Bush’s getting nervous. - At his age, it is harmful - ironically pointed the blonde, for which he received a sock shoe in the hip. When he was dead, he shut his mouth and softly let him go: - I said I’d pay you back. - Do you know what he will do with your white skinny ass if you try to throw him? Tell you or better demonstrate? - An African-American pulled out a gun. - We’re gonna kick the shit out of you, just shout. Feeling the barrel of a gun on his neck, Benny swallowed. A cold sweat ran down his back - a sign of fear. He had been in trouble before, but it could have cost him his life. Benny knew that, too bad it was too late. Having been quiet for a while, the blonde, whose head was still held by a gun, raised his hands up. -I get it. - In general, baby, - squatted on squats, smoked the second - if by the end of autumn you do not bring our three hundred pieces, we will send you, your friends, family, if you have it, all to feed fish. Okay? Bush doesn’t give second chances, and you’ve spent all thirty-two. Consider yourself a god-kissed bastard. - I don’t think so,' said Benny. The gangsters, leaving him alone, came out of the alley and sat down in Cadillac. The blonde pulled his hand out with all his strength and again gave them a middle finger, now to say goodbye. *** In America, social movements and strikes often broke out, which usually turned into mass mayhem, which in turn ended in the arrest of those who rebelled. Recall the black civil rights movement and the march in Washington, D.C., on August 28, 1963. Mass protests in 1968, when students not only from the States but also from other European countries took to the streets demanding an end to the bloodshed in Vietnam. People stood up for the protection of the environment, called to stop and ban hunting in reserves. Poaching is a cruel trade. Animals, including predators, faced a monster much more bloodthirsty than them - with humans. In the same years, women actively fought for their rights. Life for the conservatives has become much more complicated, as «new leftists» with their futuristic views of life have emerged. Man is set up to be hostile to everything new, because new is something unfamiliar and we are afraid of the unknown. Therefore, philosophers, scientists, creative personalities are often taken for crazy: ideas and thoughts that arise in their minds will not arise in the mind of ordinary man. They think differently, they see the world differently, they are different. It is a pity to upset the xenophobes, but the globe is spinning, and as it does so, the world will continue to experience change. Fortunately for our little girl Simran, she understood this well and welcomed innovative ideas with enthusiasm. She also knew that sooner or later the brutal wars would end. The day of the strike had come sooner than the girl could have noticed. Having drawn a large sheet of paper with which she expressed her outrage at what was happening in Vietnam, Simran stood firmly in the thick of the crowd. High school students from a couple of schools gathered near Central Park, on Fifth Avenue, where the New York Public Library is located. Lurking by the central building, teenagers were calling for peace. They were used by self-proclaimed leaders who spoke on hand-held megaphones in order to be heard. The guards guarding the library stared at them, anxiously awaiting the moment to call the police and disperse the schoolchildren. Later, the students joined the crowd - the strikers became darkness. In the rain and sun, they sang songs, speeches attracted the attention of passers-by. Simran prepared thoroughly for the demonstration: her mother ironed her dress with a white collar. She put a short grey wool coat on top of it. The hair gathered in a low tail, every now and then it crept into the mouth; for this reason there was a cold sizzling wind coming from lower Manhattan. He brought with him muddy clouds and drizzling rain. Soaking wet beneath him, the girl raised the poster higher, as if to show the people that even bad weather could not break her spirit. Suddenly someone touched her shoulder. Turning sharply, Simran raised her head to the figure above her and blinked for a fraction of a second. - What are you doing here? - And hello, Mason Carter moaned in disgust, but he didn’t look good, still smiling with healthy teeth. He had a wide mouth, and sometimes Simran found his smile spooky. Mason is half-English, and therefore his face is British, his pronunciation here is more familiar, with no strong accent. The brunette realized her mistake and quickly corrected herself: - Hi. I’m sorry. So what are you doing here? - Come to participate in the strike. I know it’s important for you. - This is important for the people and civilians who die in war - cut cold Kiwi, again spreading his shoulders and in a half voice repeating screams after others. Mason took a deep breath, paused for a moment, and, looking up at the cloudy sky, remarked with pride: - It’s gonna rain more soon. Don’t you want to hide under the tree? - It’s strange that a swimmer is afraid of water, said Simran. She was annoyed by the presence of Mason and his stupid attempts to drag her on a date. It should be noted that the previous resentment of Jodi’s comment about her chastity has dried up, and now Simran is looking forward to when Mason Carter will find a new object for him. - I’m not worried about myself. You’re gonna catch a cold. It’s not summer in the yard. - Thank you for your concern. - It’s not a problem for me, I didn’t notice the sarcasm in the tone of Carter’s girl. - I called you at home, by the way. Did your mom tell you? - Ah, is it? - Simran pulled out her surprised face and glanced briefly at the young man. She blotted out her lower lip and shook her head negatively. - No. I’ve never heard of it. In fact, Simran knew everything and personally told Mrs Moss to lie. Her mother’s request was not to her taste, however, as soon as Kiwi lied about Mason’s dubious reputation, Anette Moss took the phone off. - She may have forgotten to say, he pensively scratched the swimmer’s beard. -With Marly and Charlie, you’ll forget everything. -Who is this guy? - My little brothers. -What a miracle! I love children, - to be seen in the best light by Simran, Mason said with a smile. The girl didn’t believe him. She quickly got tired of a group of cocky lezzies. She lowered the stand into her socks and took a deep breath, looking at the food truck. The plan quickly matured in her head. - Can I ask you a favor? - Of course. - Hot dog. - I got it - Simran pulled his hand out in front of his mouth, interrupted Mason Carter and winked out of the crowd. The brunette stared at how quickly the boy’s silhouette was moving away. He went down the wide stairs, yelled among the smoking ladies and, waiting for a traffic light, crossed the street. At first Simran did not know where he was going, because the van was in the opposite corner. It turned out that the young man preferred street food to a snack from the bakery. It is not known if he did so to make a good impression on the girl or simply because he was not accustomed to eating unhealthy food. Whatever the case, Kiwi’s advantage is that the further Mason goes, the easier it is for her to escape. And, taking the poster, she went to the end of the gap, lost among the bright clothes and eloquent stands. Perhaps she was destined to meet Mason Carter, see the hot dog truck, and Mason the bakery across the street. The sequence of these events led Simran to the east building of the public library, which at that very moment was passing a man who was vaguely familiar to her. Her watchful eye was attracted by the cigarette and the way the man smoked it: deeply tightening, but quickly releasing smoke. The step was measured, broad, the shoulders slightly humped, yet the posture straight. The gray trousers were dangling from the ground itself, lifting dust behind them. A beige knitted sweater with zmeika at the collar, sitting perfectly on the slim body, behind the back there was a guitar case. It was Jack. That’s what we call it, but Simran covered it differently... - Filthy! - Popping through her clenched pearly teeth, she squeezed the edge of her poster and walked down the steps, eager to catch up with an unsuspecting musician. Manhattan occupies a huge area, the streets are endless and edges, but how it has narrowed in an instant, lost its backstreets, neighborhoods, roads. From now on there is point A and B - Simran, which furry was running ahead and Jack, who did not notice this furry. He came down here on Second Avenue from a music hardware store, where he replaced the broken string with a guitar. Because he is in friendly relations with the host there, the thread is changed for him free of charge, and makes it a master. Jack saves a few dollars and looks for a new tool that he is promised to give him at a good discount. About this guy and thought, when he was going to cross the road, only rude «hey», falling behind him, destroyed his initial plans. Jack held the cigarette between his teeth, rolling it into the left corner of his mouth, reluctantly turning around. At first he did not recognize the approaching figure, who frowned his eyebrows, and when he finally understood, he gave a nervous grin. Simran is not a 17-year-old girl without makeup. She has a healthy blush, a small nose with a graceful rump and lips, also small but beautiful clear shape. The swelling on her face made her cuter. And in general she looked unusual in her old-fashioned dress and moist French bangs that stuck to her forehead. - Oh, a terrible fan! In vain, he said suddenly, and Simran raised his eyebrow questioningly, stopping in front of him - I do not give autographs. How deceiving the first impression! On stage he was quite different, Kiwi noticed in her mind and answered with eagerness: - Save your autographs for the other dorks. - Whoa! - Jack came in amazement, taking out a cigarette from his mouth. He stared at the girl with a sharp look and smoked again. - Who are you? - Give me my money back. - What? - Looking out of his eyes, Rockfreewas all over himself, as if he had misheard. Simran did not give up. Now she felt confident, here, in a crowded place, in the light of day. If anything, she could call for help. It calmed her down and gave her the courage that Rockfreefelt for madness. - Don’t be a fool. I saw you that night. Your boy stole my wallet. Little by little, Jack began to understand what the girl was saying. He smiled slidly as he looked at his shoes and stepped on his feet. He thought it was funny. All of it. And the fact that Simran witnessed their private conversation, the fact that she now demanded compensation. But he was not afraid of her. More than that, he couldn’t care less. Finally, he exhaled the smoke of a cigarette and, squinting, stared at the grin of Kiwi with a smirk. - Sorry to upset you, baby, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. - It seems to me that you know what I’m talking about, - she was staring, - it was painful to watch you shake everything down to the last cent and throw my purse in the ditch! His grandmother gave him to me for my fifteenth birthday! Jack couldn’t help but giggle and take a deep breath, and Simran’s nerves made his throat red. It was hard for her to say - what in the throat cut off oxygen, but the brunette did not resist the indifference of the enemy. -Prove it. Prove it was me, and then maybe I’ll get your cabbage back. - Cabbage? - Kiwi didn’t understand. Jack rolled his eyes. -I mean the money. But it was impossible to prove, for Simran was the only witness. She withstood the look of her amber eyes and turned her head back. The white flag is raised. - No evidence - no culprit,' winked Jack. - I’m sure I’m not the only victim of your fraud. Should I go to the police? Let them look at your diner and question the witnesses. - Are you threatening me? - Acting on the basis of civil law. Beatnik, clutching his hands on his chest, made an irritated grimace. - Take a chance, doll face. I think the police and your family will be curious to know what someone like you did in a place that sells alcohol and marijuana. Again before Simran’s eyes is a chess field: the musician has just checked her. Perceptive people are always one step ahead. He fended off each of her attacks with ingenuity. Clever, resourceful and, in the meantime, a bastard. - Give me back my money, said Kiwi after accepting defeat. Jack played with his hands. - Alas! I bought them a new guitar string. Turning a glance at the cover behind his shoulders, Simran shuddered from despair, just like a child. -You couldn’t do that! - Do you complain? Keep the money in a more private place next time. In a bra, for example. What does your mother teach you? Simran almost cracked him with her poster. She angrily pounded into him with flaming eyes, studying every wrinkle on his face. He looked older than he is at first sight. The sharp features of his face were framed by a light bristle. His eyes are kind, expressive, that went contrary to his suspended tongue. Looking at them, you lose track of time. It should not be like this. - I hope your new string doesn’t last long,' said the brunette, and taking the poster with both hands, was about to go away. - Schoolgirl... called Jack. - What makes you say that? - I called Simran. - I look at both - Recognizing the obvious hint in the intonation, the girl followed the playful look of the musician and touched with her fingers to the chevron with the logo of the school on her chest, which was given to her at the beginning of the day. Jack’s attentiveness was astounding: it turns out he wasn’t just looking at it, but studying it all the time. His eyes were distracting him. Monstrously expressive, alive, penetrating the soul. Eyes like a thunderstorm in the darkest night that smashed the sky in half. - I’m almost eighteen... - defending herself, threw out Kiwi’s chin and slightly added: - will be two months... - How nice, said Jack ironically. Suddenly he looked away - it seemed like a doll, your friends had a headache. - What? The musician nodded behind her back with a bold smile. She, hearing the screams of the crowd late, cast a questioning glance at the strikers, who in that instant were having an unkind conversation with the appearing hippies. Some wanted to speak against war, the other side - for ecology. At the moment, the interests of the strikers were divided, but none of them thought about moving to another place. Conflict broke out between the leaders of the groups: the students, like unhinged cocks, came forward loudly, threatening their oppressors with their fists. Dressed in unusual hippie outfits, remaining calm, tried to solve the problem peacefully. - Well, they don’t talk to each other. I bet a dollar on the hippies. When they get high, they’re thugs. - What do you know? - Simran snapped at him. - Well, at least the police will be here in a few minutes, and you’ll be hot, - Jack put his hands on Kiwi’s fragile shoulders and whispered in her ear, from which she took her breath. - Unless you kill each other before the cops show up. It’s a pity if your face is smeared, doll - the Cheshire smirk that Simran stumbled upon when she turned her head, lingered on thin lips longer than Rockfreeplanned. They stared at each other with intensity. Something flashed between them, but they did not understand what. They just wanted to be here longer, right now, like this. After a second stalling, Simran’s first thought was out of place. - Back off! - she roughly slapped him to the side and moved to a safe distance in case the musician wanted revenge. Nevertheless, Jack held no ill will and only laughed softly, holding the sick spot. - As the lady would like, - with a curled back, the brunette adjusted the instrument on his shoulder and, having waved goodbye, successfully crossed the road in the last seconds of green traffic light. Simran gave him a nasty look and rushed to the crowd of angry teenagers. As soon as she approached the epicenter of chaos, she was blocked in her path by Mason, who was holding a package of what appeared to be treats. - Where did you go? I was looking for you! - I was nearby, didn’t want to tell Kiwi. - We’d better leave soon, Mason grabbed her by the gentle handle. - I won’t think twice. I’m here to die. - Come on, Simran, you’re not serious - trying to contain the growing annoyance, the guy mistrustfully snorted and pulled out one of those fake smiles that he’s giving the school board. - Do you really think that this performance and these verses will somehow influence the political situation in the world? No one will listen to the children. In addition, the police will come here. Passersby called the station. The phone booths actually housed a couple of upset ladies who had ruined their weekend. «Restless youth» flamed and exchanged insults, clouding ordinary citizens who arrived in one of the important places of Manhattan for cultural enrichment. The unfolding conflict with a royal torment was observed by «Patience» and «Steadfastness» - two marble lions guarding the entrance to the library. Frosty rain, as if in the mood of gathering, also broke and struck the ground with large drops. Simran darkened her dry lips and turned her head to where the musician had been moments before. And yet, a shrewd guy: as he looked into the water, he knew that without the police it would not be possible. - I have come to express my civil position! Even if no one hears me, I am not indifferent to the brutality of my authorities. And you... I still don’t understand why you’re here, Mason. You don’t care about the war. You shouldn’t have shown up,' said Simran, glancing at the bewildered Carter, who in confusion had straightened the sleeve of his clothes. Meanwhile, upset by the unfinished dialogue with the musician, Simran blindly continued to say: - You know, swimming suits you more than fighting for justice. - What a cruel thing to say, Simran, said Mason with disappointment, releasing the girl’s hand. - Nancy and Jodie didn’t help your slouch... - What do you mean? The young man shrugged his shoulders carelessly at the girl’s frown. - That their influence on you is ugly. - Don’t say it like you know me well. We’re not friends. - Maybe you’re right. I don’t know you at all, but I’m not blind and saw how you came to our school. You were humble and sweet, but now you’re the same... the same... -Who? Who am I? Please tell me! screamed the angry Simran, but her scream was dispersed in a general tumult. - A superficial twister! said Mason Carter firmly, red with shame for his temper, coughed off. They looked into each other’s eyes, after which the young man asked for forgiveness. Simran didn’t answer him. Breathing with full breast, she took the poster under her arm and with a proud posture went to the comrades to meet with them the consequences of the disorder. As Jack had predicted, the police soon arrived and, in order to disperse the crowd, took up the standard procedure of fishing. Fortunately for Kiwi, she dragged herself behind familiar faces and ran away before the officers took decisive action. She came home tired, bruised and in no mood. Anet, having gathered her hair in an exquisite bundle, met her daughter with a smile on her face, but the heat cooled, she should have seen Simran better. -What’s the matter with you? -It was raining, she replied. - Rain? It’s not in the forecast today. - And yet, in Manhattan he was - with a poorly repressed annoyance the girl paraded, whereupon Mrs. Moss surprisingly pulled out her neck. In my opinion, all guys are round idiots. - Well... I think so too. They’re the only ones who won’t admit it. Are you offended by a boy? - Did he offend me? Worse! - Charmed? - giggled, joked Annette, and Simran covered herself with a peach. -No way! I wish him the worst. - Simran, God forbid! - Mrs Moss pointed with a kitchen towel at the wooden cross nailed to the wall above the telephone box. - Yes, that’s right... I’m sorry, Jesus! - the brunette whispered with her hands, and then she puffed again in anger. - Well, what a scoundrel he is! Spent money on a string! A real bastard! The mother didn’t know for a long time who her daughter was complaining about. With her eyes slapping, Mrs Moss led Kiwi to the bedroom and then ran up the stairs to the second floor from where the children were screaming. The twins must have woken up. Simran locked herself in her room, put the record to play and, sitting on the floor, separated her from washing the dresses. *** Nancy rarely brought her friends to visit. No, I should say she never invited them to visit and held crosses so that they would not want it. The apartment was in a nice area with all public services: and night lighting, post office under the porch every Sunday, dog park two blocks down, garbage collection three times a week and so on. Jody and Nancy lived close to each other, yet they never visited. Friendship had a different meaning, and trust was limited to gossip. Now you could spend time together without letting someone get too close. Keeping a distance was considered normal, and no one was offended. Jody for sure. Saturday was gone, some - for home care, others - for themselves. As we know, Simran this day defended her opinion on Fifth Avenue. Jodi, having taken the mother by the hand, with special pleasure spent money stepfather in the shopping center. As for Nancy, like every high school girl who dreams of a carefree youth, she was busy with herself. Early in the morning, Nancy took a load and rolled a hula hoop given to her by one of her already ex-boyfriends. This is her favorite part of the relationship - the breakup. Having received his own, it is not difficult for her to say «goodbye». Nancy was not looking for love, she just wanted to enjoy her youth, enjoy the beauty that nature had given her. Nancy was the last to think about the consequences, because responsibility ruined the whole value of the moment. After training, at seven fifteen, the brunette took a shower and put her body in order: she got rid of unwanted hair on her legs and bikini, shaved her eyebrows to the desired thickness. She was obsessed with the idea of a new color because, as her personal statistics showed, guys preferred blondes. As if hair color influenced important qualities in a woman... However, this is exactly what men believed, who first paid attention to beauty and then to the inner peace. After all the procedures, Nancy entered her small but cozy room with both of them and, throwing off a towel, stopped in front of the mirror. She peevishly looked at her nakedness, touched her stomach with her fingers and smacked. Apparently, she was embarrassed by a slight crease in her fat. Excess weight seemed to her a lack and not just lack, but ugliness. It is one thing to have lavish forms, and another - to be simply lavish. Nowadays guys don’t like fullness. They like it when there’s something to grab hold of. Nancy bemoaned and, bending over the dressing table, sneezed on a leaflet with the crooked sign «Do not eat after six o'clock. Month». Afterwards she turned back to the mirror and spread her legs. The female body, say gynecologists, is a fragile thing that can be irritated by any invasion. Nancy missed that moment when she let a stranger from the diner touch her. She realized with regret, sliding down through the mirror surface, that in a delicate place there had been a borer - herpes. - Son of a bitch! - the girl slammed from an unpleasant sensation and quickly pulled her fingers away from the affected area of the skin. Behind the door with clippings from glamorous magazines was a hovering noise. Nancy barely had time to cover herself with a towel when an old woman with rare grey hair fell into the room. - Honey, breakfast is hot! Oh, Mama! - The old woman has turned away and covered her eyes with a kitchen glove. - Damn it, I told you not to come in without knocking! - Nancy was furious and bursting with saliva. - I’m sorry, for God’s sake! - Get out of my room, you idiot! The woman, moaning under her nose, slipped out of the door with a clumsy gait, last remembering the puree and canned peas. Nancy took a breath and sat down on the edge of an iron bed that she did not think it necessary to fill. For her it is done by an old woman whom she has brutally driven out. It should be noted that the diaper in a flower robe and round thin glasses, written by the eye from age of myopia, was a relative of our hot-tempered heroine, namely - grandmother. Nancy was left without a mother at the age of thirteen. Divorce is a painful process for the child, especially if the mother voluntarily abandoned it. Nancy was raised by her father and grandmother. If she was afraid of the first figure, then the old woman was treated with contempt, considering her to be guilty of separation from her mother. The firm conviction in the poor upbringing of the mother, forced to hate the grandmother and vent his anger on her. Mrs Chater kindly tolerated this attitude and tried to avoid conflicts. That is the reason why Nancy does not invite her friends to visit - there was a heavy atmosphere in the house. This should be hidden from the eyes of others. Like genital herpes, barely noticed by Mrs Chater. Nancy angrily poked at the door, through which the voice of TV, radio, and telephone chatter could be heard. -There is no silence in this house! - grumbled the brunette, lying naked on a solid bed with her hands spread out. She lay like that for ten minutes, until she got her thoughts together. Then she put on lingerie, comfortable trousers and a knitted high-neck sweater. - Good morning, Dad - passed the living room where Mr Gan was smoking with a pipe. He lay on the sofa in a thin strip, crossed his legs, talked on the phone, so he greeted his daughter with only a raised hand. Nancy and that was enough. She looked into the kitchen, where the old lady was sweating at the stove, turned her unhappy gaze to the table covered with food. It was puree, honey, thinly sliced bread with sesame, goat cheese, ham and boiled eggs. - All fat and carbs! I’ll turn into a cow soon because of you! Nancy snorted, paying the old lady’s attention. - Well, what do you want to eat? Maybe I should cook some porridge? - What a porridge! Broccoli, fruits, steamed vegetables, whatever, but not this source of cholesterol! What do you have on the stove? -noticed Nancy’s boiling pot and stepped forward. -I’m making mac and cheese for dinner. - Great! You really don’t want me to fit in any skirt! -Oh, my gosh! - You’re as thin as a cane - grasping Mrs Chater’s breast, whose name is Dorothy. -Fuck off. - Nancy, don’t talk to your grandmother like that, - Mr. Gan, who is a big man but who has lost his temper from overwork, the man put his phone down on the shelf in the living room and got up with his daughter Have decency. -She’s going for it. -And don’t use that jargon. At least, with us. - That’s how everyone talks now. - You don’t have to follow the herd. - I’m not a herd, the girl rolled her eyes, I’m a leader. - The leader... have a good opinion of yourself, daughter, - Mr Gan sat down at the table and began to eat breakfast - give me salt, the leader. - You scoff, and I don’t make things up. Even Teacher Jeferson has seen these qualities in me. Why should I not think of myself? Others may think bad of me. - A shower... - No. I’m Nancy! The sound of a soul, I am not five years old - the girl snapped and immediately flinched under the disapproving gaze of her father. - I mean, I’m not that little. - That’s right. So act like a decent young lady, not a street urchin. Respect the grandmother and show her gratitude for everything she does to you - without raising a voice, with teaching answered Mr Gan. He was deeply grateful to her mother-in-law for all the years of her care and support. She could turn away from them, abandon and not worry about the future fate of her granddaughter, but Dorothy not only did not approve of her daughter’s decision, but also remained to live in a house abandoned by her mistress. Mr Gan and Dorothy had a good, friendly relationship and never quarreled, which was incredibly puzzling to Nancy, because in her eyes the grandmother is the cause of all the misfortunes. She did not want to give in and thought rather childishly; like any child wronged by fate. Deciding to change the subject of conversation, the girl poured herself water and said: -Will you give me the money? - I will, said Mrs Chater. Nancy shrugs, wondering why not. She didn’t care who she took the money from. - How much? - Mr. -Just a little bit. I need to go to the pharmacy. - You’re sick! I told you short skirts are bad for you! You have to give birth! Nancy gasped her lips with irritation and threw a furious look at the ceiling. - It’s none of your business, what with me! I just need to buy a cream... From the acne - she lied afterwards, forced to hide the truth. For objective reasons. - God be with you! Having received the necessary amount, she went to the pharmacy after noon to get a cream for herpes. *** There have been many decades, and jazz has not thought to leave the positions of the most popular music on the globe. It has reached that high-class level where the genre is called a classic. Undisputedly, jazz is the gold standard, suitable for any mood and occasion of life. Slow jazz, fast, with elements of rock, women’s jazz, men’s jazz and, God forbid, post-bop out of the traditional bipop, hard-bop and so on. He became popular in the early sixties and enjoyed great success in clubs, where dirty dancing and drinking were preferred to the sometimes brilliant and neglected improvisations of the jazzmen. On the other hand, the clubs are designed for people to go wild; we should not try to change what is unchangeable. Cut this axiom into your nose. Jazz is the birthplace of fury, idleness, luxury, magnificence, pathos, in a word, fancy parties that were organized by rich people in the roaring twenties. For many this time, prosperity, which translates as flourishing, is remembered by jazz and banquets. The generation at that time firmly believed that the world was waiting for a big change for the better. Alas, they were deluded in their fantasies, and cheerful, carefree, perky jazz evolved into softer, calmer and melancholic music. It is also called Kula-jazz, that is cold, measured. It came, not difficult to guess, at the end of the forties - post-war time, harsh! Music should have distracted people from the bitter consequences of World War II. But we have moved away from the point. Well, how much jazz was popular in the stormy twenties, so much in demand now is rock n roll, country and rhythm n blues. As with the arrival of spring ants leave their nests, and garage musicians rushed to the stage to conquer stadiums. Everyone who played any instrument dreamed of such a career growth. And the same thing was dreamed of by the guys we knew from «Inday». In every case, three of them exactly. Fame brought money, money opened all the locked doors. Plus, both attracted the beauties who dreamed of a romance with a celebrity. The boys from «Inday» knew that one desire and talent is not enough to get on the big stage. They did not expect a resounding success, having only five songs and no album behind them. Their method of working on music is chaos: it’s either a sudden awakening or an endless attempt to compose the fourth verse. However, for the poems in the group was responsible for Jack, and the others considered him as the leader, but officially positions in the group were not distributed. It was just like that. Against this backdrop, Rockfreefelt more responsible and took care of the affairs of the boysband, if I may say so. Today’s rehearsal was in the garage of an Irishman, who everyone knew as Rocky. Of the group, he is the only one who lived with his parents and parallel to his hobby received a college education. When they got warm, they started working on a new song. - Did you read the paper last night? - Buddy was spinning a stick between his fingers, sitting relaxed behind the drums. Benny’s tuner shrugs with indifference. -Someone got beat up again? - Dude, you got shit in your head. No, I forgot to say... - A Buddy who earned his nickname because of his age, and he was younger than the others by a couple of years, washed off his forehead and threw his head back as if trying to catch his thought. - Oh, damn! The «Bobby-Land» club is looking for musicians on a permanent basis. Pay shit, but you can promote the group and a couple of dollars in your pocket will not be superfluous. - You used to work for other people - ethereal, laughing blonde. Buddy didn’t appreciate the racist joke and threw a plastic beer mug at Benny. - Freak. - I would prefer to concentrate on making an album. It’s tired of suffering. I want to do serious music, sell records, give concerts in stadiums, and not all of that - Rocky nervously tied long red strands in the tail, but a second later a couple of hairs came out of the knot and framed his stretched face. - You’ve lost it! Tomorrow, what, a gold toilet under your ass? - continued to sharpen the blonde, budovia blood now in the veins of the Irish. The guys are used to Benny’s complicated character. He will not take the word in his pocket and, if you look at him like a hive of hostile wasps, hardly calm down - he will crowd until he gets his own, that is, triumph. Jack did not participate in the collective brawl. Instead, sitting on a high stool, he revised his sketches and sketched something. He seemed not to hear at all what the comrades were saying. He had no idea of them. - Shut up. - Force me, said Benny. The boy, looking at Rocky, put his finger to his temple and twisted it. He said: - Leave him alone. He’s got a stump, here it comes. The dog is running around, he rumbled at the end, but loud enough for Benny to hear. The mouth of a blonde crept in a cheeky grin. Not only did he not get angry at what the Buddy said, but on the truth, as he often points out himself, no offense can be taken, and even grimaced a cringe, after which he barked loudly. The guys are very upset. - You’re an idiot. - I don’t want to fall behind. Jack, obviously tired from the noise in the background that was distracting from the creative process, straightened his back. Having rolled up his sleeves in a warm black jacket, he turned to his friends with a stern expression on his face. - If I wanted to go to the zoo, I’d take it. Either work or I’m out of here. - How important are we... -Benny, cut off his brown hair, jump off the stool, take the guitar with both hands, play. And yet it is true that Jack is the silent leader of the group, otherwise the guys would not have accepted their positions so obediently. Swinging his wands at each other, the Buddy gave a beat, and the blonde, firmly as a lover would press to the breast of his lady, grabbed the bass guitar. In the garage there was a pop rock sound. They played without falling down. Guitar, drums, keyboards and bass. Keeping the proper rhythm, Jack was simultaneously pulling the strings and making notes in the notes. Everything was perfect until the string, making a high-pitched sound, broke on Jack’s guitar, bruised his chin and left a clear mark on his skin, which soon bled. He sighed, stopped playing, and instinctively touched the affected area with his knuckles. - That’s it! the guy spat out, checking his palm for blood. The string cut the skin, but to his luck, not deep. The chin itched with pain and as if throbbing. An unpleasant sensation, so familiar to people who play string instruments. - What’s the matter? - The guys stopped. - Nothing... the string’s broken. - Again? - Benny snickered and took off his guitar. Jack focused on the wooden case of the instrument, ran his fingers through the strings and checked the grit for tension. It didn’t seem to be too much. The guitar is in working order, perfectly good. But why did she treat him so badly? For a while he just gazed at the instrument, but soon his face was distorted by awareness and his lips were touched by a surprised smirk. The same string he replaced a couple of days ago failed him. That’s the problem, because no such mistake has happened before. Then he remembered the evil words of Simran, whose spell worked amazingly soon. - The witch... - whispered with laughing Jack. - Who? - Girl. - Girl? - stepped forward Rocky, carefully picking up an untuned guitar and studying it as if his actions could save the situation. - The schoolgirl who caught us - sitting like a king on a dusty couch with a broken leg, reminded Benny and smoked - was she a gypsy? Cursed you and your guitar. - I think that’s quite in her style, Jack scratched his eyebrow. - Beautiful? - Didn’t look. - You do,' said Benny, putting one hand behind his back, 'when the girl is beautiful, you don’t want to, and you’re staring. - I will give her back the money,' said the brunette, and cast a watchful gaze upon those present. Waiting for approval. - Sorry? -said the Buddy. - Did you get drunk? - Benny told a joke. An Irishman curled his eyebrow: -You were scared? - Yes. No. No, you don’t. - That’s not right, the blonde teasing Marlboro - Yes. Yes. And yes. Brunette did not pay attention to the laughter of the guys openly joking over him and Simran, whose name he didn’t know. That’s also a problem. How to find the one about whom nothing is known? Jack wondered and remembered the logo on the schoolgirl’s dress. It remained only to figure out what school was. - What’s her name? - curiously pulled Buddy’s neck, thinking the same thing. - I don’t know. But I know the logo of her school. Round, with a black shield, a dove and a laurel wreath. - He said that he wasn’t looking, but Benny was clever enough to catch Jack. -It’s not the same. - Of course not. 'Cause you have to look at the legs, the butt, there, well, the lips or the hips... and what are you staring at, yellow? -I know this school. My cousin graduated from it. She’s in Brooklyn, Rocky said enthusiastically. Jack nodded his head and asked what the school was called, but this Irishman did not know - he did not remember, but promised to find out. - Well, the little girl from Brooklyn.. - bit Rockfree’s lip thoughtfully. - I’ll go with you,' Benny raised his hand. 'In Brooklyn, even the sun shines differently. - Tomorrow, then. Having been willing to clean up the trash, glasses, scrapped papers that were scattered around corners, the musicians had a casual conversation, like boys just leaving their classes after a tedious lesson. Rocky, straightened his back, sighed with disgust: - Great, but we rehearsed... Buddy, to reinforce the effect, played the ironic: Ba Dum Tss!