I and Hemingway - that between us the general?
were lucky Hemingway, he lived in youth in Paris. Was on friendly terms with writers and artists, worked in the newspaper, drank bourbon, walked, loved the young wife … Then wrote that “Paris is a holiday which is always with you …“
was lucky Me more. I lived in youth in Mytishchi. Was on friendly terms with Gundosy and with the Mole, drank beer, traded in something, loved Verka … I for the sake of Verki even somehow smashed a store window, showed the love … And they wrote then that “… being in an alcohol intoxication, smashed a store window of grocery store and stole a model of sausage “Krakow“ …“
Hemingway was not imprisoned. And I was given fifteen days, and I painted two weeks a fence around office. Breathed paint, from it thought much. Verka to me did not come. She, appears, already with Gundosy lived so I was lucky again. I understood then it when I and Gundosa saw beer of saws on a shop with a carriage, and Verk`s number with a stomach. And too with beer.
Hemingway worked as the journalist and was wound across all Europe. I too from Mytishchi was wound to Moscow where worked as the security guard. In Switzerland, in a ski resort, Hemingway fell in love with the girlfriend of the wife and left a family. In Lyubertsy, on the coast of a pond, I met Lyudka, the elderly cook of local shashlik house, too fell in love and moved to it. We with it drank pivokazhdy day, well and vodka sometimes.
Hemingway was lucky, at him was three sons from different wives. I was lucky more again, at my Lyudka was four and from different husbands. Perhaps one was also from Hemingway, I did not ask.
Hemingway very much worried that left the first wife with the child, and until the end of life helped of Lyudki Ex-husbands to us did not help but only were stirred as lived together with us. Then, when Lyudkina`s sons grew up, they all mother`s husbands, me including, kicked downstairs. While it was warm, I still lived in Lyubertsy, drank beer, and left in the evening.
Hemingway always returned home, in the USA where he had a house and where always waited for it. I decided to return too to Mytishchi where I am waited always by Gundosy and the Mole. It turned out, however, that Gundosy died, the Mole was gone, and Verke is fifty three years old. Here so time flew by, under beer.
Hemingway was lucky, he survived in terrible road accident. It was long treated, but doctors put it on legs and it returned to the house. I was lucky too when Verkin the lover killed me, but not to death, and “Ambulance“ without money did not carry to hospital. And from where money, I am Verke the last on beer gave. Itself reached, legs … There is only no place to come back.
Hemingway was shot from the fowling piece. He went crazy and did not want that ex-wives and sons saw it mad and ailing. I was not lucky - I went crazy, but I have neither gun, nor wives, anybody. So ailing only nurses see me, but they especially do not look narrowly. Live and it is fine.
And beer does not help any more. And do not give it here. And when the enlightenment comes, I think that in general in vain I devoted the life to beer. Somehow in a different way it was necessary, but how? And to ask there is nobody - there is no Mole, Gundosy is absent, nurses do not pay attention, Verka does not come, as well as then, in youth. Beer drinks, probably. It is interesting that Hemingway about it wrote, it is necessary to read, but … Now only in the following life I will read if it is. This is that flew by as a beer bottle in an electric train - only opened, it already ended, and from Mytishchi did not drive off yet.
It was necessary to take two at once. Not bottles - lives …