Pawnshop of lost time – MK

Are we still in the past or already in the future?

Supposedly only the chimes of the main town hall sounded correctly. But rare individuals were interested in the realness of the age and era.

Travelers began to guess about the inexplicable manipulations of the minute and hour hands when a crowd of overexcited screamers came across them. The one whom they branded marched, rattling handcuffs, and looked dejected.

— Rogue, rogue brought! passers-by yelled.

– What did he do wrong? asked the Whipping Boy.

“I’m a full five minutes late!” – they answered him.

The wanderers looked at the protesters in bewilderment:

Is this all his crime?

With no less bewilderment, they looked at them:

– Do not understand? We’ve been waiting for him for five whole minutes! Rob for five whole minutes – for this they can be sentenced to ten hours in prison!

After that, it no longer seemed exotic that the dying bequeathed to their descendants their unlived life. And the miser, to save time, did not watch movies in cinemas to the end. And hurryers ran across the streets at red lights for the benefit of a hundredth of a second. The beggars on the porches, in the underground passages and near the shops begged the rich for a minute, two, three. Wasteful wasters threw in alms for a day, thrifty were generous only for a quarter of an hour. There were misers who gave nothing, but there were spenders who tossed about for weeks. Such burners could burn several years out of their allotted time in a restaurant in an evening.

“Some of them,” the escort explained, pointing to the beggars, “have a century left, but you can’t tell by their shabby appearance. And they themselves are nothing. Not for such asocial types to own and dispose of eternity and stay on the verge of immortality.

Science was at a high level, scientists provided customers with an exclusive opportunity to start life anew. Instead of wrist chronometers, those wishing to rejuvenate wore devices similar to mercury thermometers. As soon as the age approached an impressive critical mark, it was shaken off, reduced to a little picture-slat that suits the volunteer – school time or baby breastfeeding.

Travelers were tempted to join a highly developed civilization and fall into adolescence. But the prolongation of happy periods was not for everyone. Or rather, not everyone could afford it. There were also other disadvantages: many old-timers were convinced that evil wizards were lying in wait for them everywhere, whose task was to steal a tidbit of the past or the future from the gaping one. Those who were afraid of being robbed suspected of witchcraft, witchcraft and defamation of literally everyone: the boss, forcing them to carry out useless orders (devourer of the working day of subordinates); a loafer skimping on official duties, evading labor service and not respecting discipline, that is, shifting his duties to others; a negligent salesman forcing you to stand in a long line at the counter; a lazy janitor who does not sweep the street and does not shovel snow, because of which pedestrians have to overcome rubbish heaps and ice growths and hummocks, which leads to injuries and hospitalizations, that is, again, unproductive irreparable losses, deductions from a useful existence.

There was a serious struggle for optimization and prudent use of every full-fledged moment. One of the former spenders, with whom the tourists talked, told how he learned not to squander:

— I woke up around noon. Dressed leisurely. On the way to the institute, the raven counted. After the lectures, I went with my classmates to a bar. And he didn’t have time to do anything: neither to study, nor to put in order clothes and a room. And they sent me to re-education courses. But even there I did not immediately force myself to jump up in the morning at the signal of the bugle. And he spent three days cleaning the latrines. And when he began to polish his boots with wax, he began to cry. And I realized: you can do everything.

The pilgrims liked what they saw, they came to the municipality and said:

“We want to buy an apartment to stay in your kingdom.

The clerk leafed through a tattered price list.

– It will cost you 3 years and 4 months. At the minimum rate, the apartment is on the 5th floor, without an elevator and with a leaking bathroom.

– And to repair?

– Another 10 months. And, I emphasize, – the bureaucrat raised his index finger to the ceiling, – this is subject to selfless work in the company where we will assign you.

– We would like to first look around, relax … And then each of us has a calling.

“You will indulge in him at night,” the official besieged them.

They came to the editorial office of the magazine to advertise for a job with a mental inclination. And they witnessed the conversation:

– We will publish your story, for this you need to donate a month and a half.

The author cheerfully agreed and took out a manuscript of enormous thickness from the string bag.

– How long will this story take?

The editor turned thoughtfully through the neatly written pages.

– Two years. Here’s what the post is about.

The petitioner nodded eagerly. Taking the thickest folder out of the bag, he leaned so low that his bald head turned purple.

– Novel. The work of a lifetime.

The editor weighed the folder on his outstretched hand and untied the ribbons. And he began to read, exclaiming from time to time:

– Well, the name! With this, do not break into print. Well, the plot was wrapped up … Well, the language, cloth. – And he concluded: – 27 years and not a day of discount.

The face of the author (and not just the bald head) turned purple. He began to count, bending his fingers, and then on a piece of paper. Finally, with trembling lips, he said:

– I don’t have that much. I do not have such a long stage. Maybe print the story a little cheaper? Just a little, a trifle, a year and a half …

“But you’ve already signed the contract,” the editor said implacably.

In addition to the official ones, semi-legal usury offices existed in the country. For a loan to buy a home, I had to go to the owner of the pawnshop, in a junk shop that looked like a pantry for a very specific purpose, designed for confidential meetings and furnished with junk and expensive antiques. While they were having a conversation, the length of which did not seem to be limited by a rigid framework, the owner, reporting that he had inherited the business – his father, and before that grandfather had stockpiled the stale eras, nevertheless occasionally consulted the wall clocks, and suddenly, when he heard fight and a wooden cuckoo jumped out of the birdhouse, said harshly:

You owe me fabulously. You are deep in debt!

But having learned that he was in front of the envoys of the state, where it is not customary to fork out for the overspending of the pendulum, he had mercy and wrote off a non-renewable resource, and then struck with stories – about clients leaving a deposit of minutes, days, months in exchange for seemingly necessary material equivalents. Some parted with as much as half of their own lives for the sake of an insignificant profit: daily success or daily cabbage soup, for the sake of an hour of loud glory (doubtful gesheft!), went to prison, into a debt hole, serving a sentence for non-payment.

“But a pawnshop is a voluntary institution: if you want, redeem the pledge, if you want, leave it to the manager,” the owner grinned. “As for the fussy ones, they are always cheap,” said the old man. “Some are desperate to recover their slips from business or sexual partners, others need to cover previous borrowings—rarely does anyone manage to get their mortgage back intact: unlike banking conditions, where it is real to recoup rising interest, time deposits are inexorably dwindling. The precious moments given into the wrong hands for free are profaned, but could bring success at a much lower price and lower costs than my institution charges …

The guests carefully examined the lumps left to their own devices: thrown around unclaimed Holidays and Anniversaries – Yesterday’s Day of Medicine, Yesterday’s Day of Politics, Yesterday’s Day of Literature, Holiday of the Revolution …

And in the distance, the Days of the Future, laid down for the future, fluttered and wondered about tomorrow: tomorrow’s medicine, politics, revolution, literature.

It was not possible to bargain on the terms of the loan – the friends left the scary pawnshop and the unkind kingdom.