The hand-made

Our government  arranged again the public money waste across the whole country. The President signed a decree on obligatory installation of gas meters in private apartments that have gas. The city gas company's employees will come and perform the work for free in regulated terms. Not long time ago it could easier the every family wallet for around 100 Euros.

No problem. Two men who did not take off their dirty boots came to my apartment at the scheduled time, welded an ugly pipe on the wall in the kitchen and established the meter. They left a clutter and stinked my apartment with gas. The decree of the President was dullfilled within the borders of one Ukrainian apartment. "Jawohl!” – I am ready to calculate strategic raw material.

The black pipe disfigured immediately the beige interior of kitchenette in 2 room apartment. "It is not according to Feng Shui"- I decided to go to a construction supermarket and to buy paint and a brush. I was anticipate the pleasure that Tom Sawyer sold successfully for good currency:  a dead rat on a string, bitten apple, two tadpoles, dog collar etc.- the list for a page of Mark Twain’s masterpiece. I was not going to sell my right to work. I was ready to prove to myself that I know how to keep a paint brush in my hand.

The choice of colors in the supermarket was small. From the color palette offered by the brand "Zebra" (why not "Chameleon" or "Rainbow" if to talk about more than two different colors?) the color "ivory" fitted to my desire mostly. I do not know how an elephant’s bones look like. The jaundiced color reminded me teeth of coffee lover or a smoker. I bought a one-time brush.  It is cheap and I do not need to keep it afterwards and think how to wash. Being on the way out I remembered that forgot about the solvent. In a minute I reassured myself that I have nail polish removal and makeup cotton pads.

Firstly I could not open a paint can. The icons for idiots that depicted the process did not help me. I turned the tin this and that way but I could not find the place where the cap should be opened. I poked it with a knife diligently, beat on the lid by a fist, stirred paint in the bank with a hope it shoots like champagne from a bottle - but nothing helped. It seemed that the lid was tightly soldered to the can.

I remembered a scene from the movie "Three Men in a Boat", where three well-educated English gentlemen opened a jar with Victorian canned goods. They have heated it on a fire. I did not dare to do the same with oil paint. I was tired and sweaty and have agreed to remain a black tube as it is for today. This moment I leaned on the knife. Click! – The lid jumped back itself.
"A stupid thing!" – I called the obstinate can and put my look on the pipe. It was high for my 162 cm. I could reach it only standing on a chair. I throw off my cashmere sweater and jeans, stayed in a lovely Italian "slip-and-bra" and climbed resolutely on a chair. "I need more light" – I assessed the situation and pushed the lace curtains on the window. Finally, I have made the first brushstroke.

The process of turning the tube into a sort of elephant tusks fascinated me. The aroma of enamel tickled the nose. The brush put a coat of paint on metal properly. I stuck my tongue enjoying work and drove the upper lip carefully according to the brush movement. Almost consummated labor filled me with a pride and I looked out the window triumphal.

Oh, who is that? The stranger was staying at the bottom and staring brazenly in my window on the second floor. Young smoker in a nasty condom-hat. "A voyeur!" - I guessed flashy and closed the curtains with contempt. I was finishing  a pipe, keep looking out the window, and, nevertheless, trying to take a winning posture on a chair: I bulged ass, sucked gracefully stomach and kept correcting a lace strap that was slipping from a shoulder.
"Interesting, is it seen anything through a tulle?" - I thought finishing my work. The man hesitated M for some time on the playground and then vanished.
A short winter day dusked quickly outside. I thanked myself for work by a cup of coffee and a custard cake that bought in advance (not allowed but I deserved!), watched television ("bu-bu-bu" - the crisis of power is in the country again) and gathered to a meeting with a friend.

I came out of the downstairs door and grunted in frustration. My car was parked on a tiny place and pressed tightly by other two cars. There was a minimum space for maneuver. I hate to move backwards, plus the car dimensions in darkness become enigmatic frustratingly. The stupid  neighbor built on the ground floor the loggia inconsisted with anybody and stole a half meter width of a road. Generally, it was an ambush.

I began to drive the car back and forth trying to win a space for reversal by centimeters. The maneuver failed, and I finally turned off the motor and on the radio louder. My sad thoughts were about the prospect of waiting until someone car owners would show up. My reflections were interrupted suddenly by a silhouette appeared in the windshield. Wow, that was a smoker!

"A maniac!" – my mind signaled an alert and the hand pressed the door lock automatically. A man with a lit cigarette in his hand walked around the car gingerly and tapped the driver’s window. I added the sound of the radio. He repeated the knock.

"Well, I will say to a pervert that I shall call to the police!"- I decided and rolled down the window for a few millimeters.

- I see that you cannot drive out, - the stranger said.

- And? - I asked incredulously but down the glass below a little and turned off the sound.

- Let me help you. You drive and I shall adjust. By the way, I live the next entrance - the "maniac" introduced himself.

Thanks to his help, I quickly drove out of the trap and blinked thankfully by headlights. On my way to a meeting I was warmed by thought that day was spent not in vain: I have done a useful work  and man who quite possibly is not a maniac  helped me. Well, he is just a normal man and a neighbor. But who really knows men?