Finishing with my «Parliament Aqua» and watching the morning sight from the window I called Contact-Manager. The number doesn't exist they told. And then I went to bed.
(c) Arthur Poghosyan. Interview process with Contact-Manager around Mediterranean Sea, Sicily, 2016.
Contact-Manager #2
After working, I went home. Took off all clothes, lit up a candle and lay down under the blanket. I wished some woman will open my door, make me a dinner, fragrant her sweet perfume. Somebody knocked the door. Full of hope, I opened up.
– Anonymous message for Contact-Manager.
– Who are you?
Mail guy gave me an envelope, then turned back and disappeared.
«Holy…» – I thought.
$10,0 per day
Oh, good old Middlesex. Its English style. Cozy evenings on the right side of Thames River. Headphones are playing «Beatles» with their sensuous «Michele».
This is how we dressed long before… We worked hard to reach out the good taste, tamed the ornate tentacles of surrogated postmodern fashion… We were alive.
– What about now?
I'm working in a factory for $10,0 per day. What is that? Money? The head of technician department pushed my back while I was moving upstairs:
– God damn, son! HURRY UP! – and he ran ahead of me.
It was that moment when I felt an extreme thirst in using martial arts like combat sambo, but I just said:
– Why should I?
Hitting his back with this sharp question, I wanted to emphasize the superiority of my independence in front of a representative of a high-ranked class, and before he answered I spat at stupid boss jacket. But I didn't mention my lips were frozen due to winter, and the spit landed on my chin. As fast as possible I covered my face by hands and pretended like if I sneezed.
Boss had turned around and found something alarming in my eyes. I got one
thing straight:
«We will meet again…»
(c) Arthur Poghosyan. A compliment to the patent of deck lighting system with gas-discharge lamps for emergency purposes, USA, Ottawa, 2016.
Contact-Manager #3
Mail guy brought two text records in one envelope. I opened the second.
Whom I work for?
I miss Middlesex. The morning promenade through the sunlit campus. The great pinnacle of my youth. I was buying half a liter of «Fiji» and was inspired by Ayn Rand's «The Fountainhead». Holy saints, I didn't even have a scholarship and stayed damn happy. I wanted to die young…