CHAPTER 2. WHAT I LOVED — I LOST

I loved my job. Small, stable, cozy — in the midst of a huge store. I admire the people who invented and perfected this wonderful machine for fleecing the public. I never would have thought up all these tricks for emptying the wallets of the middle and lower-middle classes myself. The department layout alone is genius! By the time a housewife reaches her milk and eggs, she’ll already have passed a mass of tempting merchandise. The music is so soothing, the air so fresh, and there are even rows of soft benches positioned right in front of the most wallet-draining goods. We even have free Wi-Fi. But wall clocks are taboo — so no one knows how much time they've already spent in this sacred temple of consumption. And on the way to checkout, there are all sorts of "two for the price of one" and "three for the price of two" offers, so the loaf of bread in the cart doesn't get lonely. Some say the clever Japanese even install computers at the entrance so husbands can play games while their wives enjoy shopping. We can't do that here. They'd get stolen.

What didn't I like?

When managers "manage" for no reason. Like today. I had just clocked into the system according to schedule and started working when I heard my name over the loudspeaker with an invitation to come upstairs. Apparently, someone from above has been keeping an eye on me.

They greet me with the question: "Do you like the Russian Federation in general and this store in particular?"

How would you answer such a question from someone who could ruin your life? In my youth, they used to draw a Star of David on my back with chalk and shout, "Get lost to your Israel!" I wanted to ask, "Will you pay for the flight?" but instead I gave a diplomatic response:

"Why do you ask?"

Then they explained that they have a business here and don't need any trouble. I had already caused trouble by not registering for online voting. Now I had to urgently unregister from my polling station, register at the store's local precinct, and march in formation with the entire staff under the manager's supervision to cast my ballot on the first day of voting before lunch.

Don't want to? You're fired. They showed me a piece of paper — some kind of report about a nighttime incident, supposedly my fault. The question: do I sign it, or do we put it through the shredder?

And me? I just collapsed. Back in my DOSAAF days, I had fainting spells. I was restricted from working with electricity over a thousand volts. Fainting spells and high voltage don't mix well.

I came to and saw a former medic from the bread department. He looked a lot like the waiter from my dream. They assured me I could vote for the devil himself if I wanted. The main thing was to vote on time. Who I voted for didn't matter. They'd "clean it up" afterward. It would be easier electronically, but since I hadn't registered, there would be a "workaround." Then the result would be correct: I'd have a job, my employers would have a job, and the top bosses would have a job.

"Take your vote and cast it," they said. "Doesn't matter what side dish you serve it with, just let the ballot box 'eat' it." This time, I sat down — otherwise, I would have fainted again from my nightmare repeating itself in real life.