Вечерний преф в восьмой
Вечерний преф в восьмой
Поздний осенний вечер. Серая мгла, общага тихо гудит.
Под лестницей лежит Краснояр и отрешённо созерцает пустоту, уставившись в облупленную штукатурку.
В восьмой за «Беломором» неторопливо пишут Ленинград по копейке за вист.
Дверь распахивается — влетает Бесноватый, опоздавший на пулю, но страстно желающий горячего чаю:
— Эй, Умный! Ты Хайдеггера читал? Во, смотри — отхапал в «Академкниге»!
Швыряет кирпич книги на стол.
Тей, не отрываясь от счёта и ковыряясь в спичечном коробке, бубнит:
— Нда, блин… Хайдеггер… Час долбил одну страницу этой хрени — мозг чуть не свернуло.
Мишук тянется за «Беломором», щурится сквозь очки:
— Нда… знатный кисель из формы.
Килобайт, не поднимая глаз, тасует колоду:
— Хайдеггер… Это который «бытие‑к‑смерти»?
— Кто ещё, — хмыкает Бесноватый.
— Ну, — ухмыляется Килобайт, — «бытие‑к‑смерти» я понимаю. Сессия, стипуха на два дня в «Бегемоте», общага и пуля по копейке. Всё как бы есть, а всё равно в минусе.
Умный, с лёгкой отеческой улыбкой Знайки на Луне:
— Хайдеггер — это когда ты, Вождь, лезешь на третий ярус. Формально ты там есть, а фактически — тебя нет.
Из‑за шкафа высовывается Вален:
— Какой нафиг Хайдеггер?
Мишук криво фыркает:
— Ага… особенно когда ночью на дальняк припрёт.
Бесноватый раскрывает книгу, тычет пальцем:
— «Человек брошен в мир».
— Это он в общаге не был, — бурчит Умный. — Нас не бросили, нас по спискам свезли вагоном.
Умный молча отгрыз кусок сахара, отхлебнул турецкого чаю и неторопливо пододвинул кружку тяжело дышащему Бесноватому.
— Хайдеггер искал Бытие, а оно никуда не делось, — резюмировал Умный, глядя, как пар от чая смешивается с сизым дымом «Беломора». — Садись четвёртым на прикуп.
Бесноватый хмыкнул, опустился на стул и, со взглядом кантовской вещи в себе, нервно провёл ладонью по обложке.
А тем временем по коридорам медленно брёл дух Чебуреквы, на лестнице орал романсы Аюп, одурманивая второкурсниц, Фруктор декламировал стихи, где‑то хлопала дверь.
В воздухе висел кем‑то давным‑давно забытый топор, и всё шло своим чередом.
Вселенная молча пялилась в глухой ухмылке, и где‑то там, где нас нет, — наступил полный ништяк...
Evening Whist in Room Eight
Late autumn evening.
Grey damp presses against the windows; the block hums low in its sleep.
Under the stairwell, Gaz lies on the concrete, staring at a blister of peeling plaster, thoughts stalled somewhere between nowhere and not-quite-here.
In room eight they play whist. Slow game. No rush.
Packs of Majors cigarettes. A dented kettle. Pennies in the pot.
The door slams open — Nutcase bursts in, late for the deal but dying for tea.
“Oi, Brainbox — you read this Heidegger bloke?
Look what I pulled from the academic shop.”
He drops the book on the table. It lands with the weight of masonry.
Tez keeps marking the score.
“Yeah. Heidegger. Took me an hour to drag through one page. Felt like my skull was folding inward.”
Mick squints over his glasses, lighting up.
“Thick stuff. Philosophy poured into concrete.”
Alf shuffles.
“He’s the ‘being-towards-death’ one, yeah?”
“Who else,” says Nutcase.
Kilo smirks.
“That I understand.
Session week. Money gone in two nights at the Behemoth. Dorm life. Losing coins at cards.
Everything’s technically there — and you’re still short.”
Brainbox smiles faintly.
“Heidegger is when you climb to the top bunk, Chief.
On paper, you’re there.
In fact — you’re not.”
Val’s head appears from behind the wardrobe.
“What’s he on about now?”
Mick snorts.
“Try understanding existence at three in the morning with the toilet down the corridor.”
Nutcase flips the book open, stabbing a finger at a line.
“‘Man is thrown into the world.’”
“He never lived in a dorm,” mutters Stick. “We weren’t thrown. We were delivered.”
Brainbox bites a chunk of sugar, drinks, then nudges the mug toward Nutcase.
“He went looking for Being,” he says, watching steam dissolve into cigarette haze,
“but Being never really left.
Sit in fourth. We’re dealing.”
Nutcase drops into the chair, running a hand over the cover with the solemn care of someone touching an object that might answer back.
Out in the corridor, Cheb’s ghost drifts past.
On the stairs, Ayub howls old love songs at no one in particular.
Fructor declaims poems to the walls.
Somewhere, a door keeps slamming.
A long-forgotten axe hangs in the air, exactly where it always has.
Nothing changes.
Nothing needs to.
The universe watches with its crooked, silent grin —
and somewhere, well beyond dorms and deadlines,
everything’s perfectly fine already.
Evening Whist in Room Eight
Late autumn evening.
Grey damp presses against the windows; the block hums low in its sleep.
Under the stairwell, Gaz lies on the concrete, staring at a blister of peeling plaster, thoughts stalled somewhere between nowhere and not-quite-here.
In room eight they play whist. Slow game. No rush.
Packs of Majors cigarettes. A dented kettle. Pennies in the pot.
The door slams open — Nutcase bursts in, late for the deal but dying for tea.
“Oi, Brainbox — you read this Heidegger bloke?
Look what I pulled from the academic shop.”
He drops the book on the table. It lands with the weight of masonry.
Tez keeps marking the score.
“Yeah. Heidegger. Took me an hour to drag through one page. Felt like my skull was folding inward.”
Mick squints over his glasses, lighting up.
“Thick stuff. Philosophy poured into concrete.”
Alf shuffles.
“He’s the ‘being-towards-death’ one, yeah?”
“Who else,” says Nutcase.
Kilo smirks.
“That I understand.
Session week. Money gone in two nights at the Behemoth. Dorm life. Losing coins at cards.
Everything’s technically there — and you’re still short.”
Brainbox smiles faintly.
“Heidegger is when you climb to the top bunk, Chief.
On paper, you’re there.
In fact — you’re not.”
Val’s head appears from behind the wardrobe.
“What’s he on about now?”
Mick snorts.
“Try understanding existence at three in the morning with the toilet down the corridor.”
Nutcase flips the book open, stabbing a finger at a line.
“‘Man is thrown into the world.’”
“He never lived in a dorm,” mutters Stick. “We weren’t thrown. We were delivered.”
Brainbox bites a chunk of sugar, drinks, then nudges the mug toward Nutcase.
“He went looking for Being,” he says, watching steam dissolve into cigarette haze,
“but Being never really left.
Sit in fourth. We’re dealing.”
Nutcase drops into the chair, running a hand over the cover with the solemn care of someone touching an object that might answer back.
Out in the corridor, Cheb’s ghost drifts past.
On the stairs, Ayub howls old love songs at no one in particular.
Fructor declaims poems to the walls.
Somewhere, a door keeps slamming.
A long-forgotten axe hangs in the air, exactly where it always has.
Nothing changes.
Nothing needs to.
The universe watches with its crooked, silent grin.
Evening Whist in Room Eight
Late autumn evening. Grey damp against the glass; the block hums in its sleep. In room eight, they play whist. Slow deal over tea, pennies in the pot. Nutcase slams a book down like masonry: “Brainbox, you read this Heidegger bloke?”
“Thick stuff,” Mick squints. “Philosophy poured into concrete.”
“He’s the ‘being-towards-death’ one,” Kilo smirks. “I get that. Money gone at the Behemoth. Everything’s technically there—and you’re still short.”
“Heidegger is when you’re on the top bunk,” Brainbox smiles. “On paper, you’re there. In fact—you’re not.”
Nutcase stabs at a line: “‘Man is thrown into the world.’”
“We weren’t thrown,” Stick mutters. “We were delivered.”
Brainbox nudges a mug of tea. “He went looking for Being, but Being never left. Sit in fourth. We’re dealing.”
In the hall, Cheb’s ghost drifts, old love songs howl. A forgotten axe hangs in the air. Nothing changes. Nothing needs to. The universe watches with its crooked, silent grin.
