I was a little 16 year old boy. Hippovat, wore torn shoes, worn by a truzer, and in my Ksivnichka there were never more than five yusts ... What was the time. Scary to remember ... terribly nice.

- The track. As without her, my dear, without roadside apples and cherries, without the village women surprised by the hairy denim miracle, without the smell of outgoing asphalt pitch ...

On the road rough, whether on the highway

- (All the same, we are with you on the way),

- You hire us a driver on the trailer,

- Though a little, but procati ...

On the track you move faster alone, more cheerfully - together, three of them - this is already a perversion ... Three of us are better on dogs ... But I, perhaps, got distracted ...

- I am walking along the highway from Lviv to Kiev. In the truest sense of the word I go, because the punishment does not stop. The drivers pretend to be a roadside post and drive past, turning their heads proudly. I already sat on the side of the road, and slept in the bushes, and the bread in the village roadside nasal, and the cars still rush past ... I felt sad, overcame almost 50 kilometers on foot. The legs of bo-bo and hunger are not only not my aunt, but even not uncle. I sat down under a kilometer post and decided to die right here, under the rays of the setting sun, in front of the soulless drivers. And then, due to the turn, a trailer with the inscription TIR emerges in an a-agromic size, as if descended from a movie screen in a country club, when the Convoy is shown there and approaches me to the side of the road 20 meters farther than me.

““ Oh, ”I think,“ this is probably not for me, someone wanted to pee ... ”And then I die myself.

But they don't calmly give me death: the right door opens and the driver beeps briefly. I, naturally, do not force myself to wait and run like Pinocchio to this most cherished door. I crawl inward, noticing that the numbers are Polish, and I quietly go nuts. Behind the wheel - aunt, aunt - driver! Thin. Relatively young aunt - drove the multi-ton cargo "Mers"! Darkness!!! Cool

- Go? She asks in Russian with a strong accent.

“Let's go,” I answer in Polish.

And she puts her hands on the wheel, and on the hands of baubles to the elbow. And from the speakers mafona - Bob Marley.

- “Well, that's it! - I think. “I died and got into hippie paradise.” Here, each people have their own trailer. ”But they treat me to cakes, and I understand that it’s still alive, probably, the angels have no stomachs from hunger.

We go, we communicate, we build bridges of international friendship. It turns out that this mistress is called Orysy. Since childhood, she was hippo, and then, when she turned 23, she decided that it would be time to take on the mind. And where to go stray soul, if not in the truckers? However, at first there were problems with this, they did not want to trust her with expensive equipment, but Orysya's bosses gradually dismissed. Now she is under 30, and she travels all over Europe, not knowing grief. I envied her life, she - my youth. (And where is she now, youth?) But now it is already 11 pm, and there is still a good 200 km to Kiev.

- I, - says Oryis, - I want to rest. 14 hours behind the wheel. And you, if not in a hurry, you can stay too. Hours at 12 am we will be in Kiev And then, if you want, I will land somewhere ... Catch something ...

“Nah,” I say. - If possible, I will stay. At night, no one stops anyway.

We turn into a roadside pine forest, Oryia prepares some delicious chagoy on dry alcohol, takes several cans of beer from the fridge (These damned capitalists make fridges for their enslaved proletarians right in the trailers. And stuff imported beer there) And in the head off to me again the thought creeps in, that I am in paradise.

Then we climb into the cabin, Oryas lies down on a sleeping bag, and I sit on the seats. And we talk to her, we talk, we smoke (although I was just indulging in it then) and we talk again. And thousands of stars drop by at our open windows, and the warm wind carries the scent of pine forest into the cabin, and the moon highlights the light clouds that are not visible in the rest of the sky ... I try to explain that everything that is happening is wonderful, that life is beautiful, I try to describe my delight and my feelings about a simple weather phenomenon — a summer night.

“You are funny,” says Orykes and takes my hand.

“Thank you,” I get upset.

She laughs and we continue the conversation, which slips onto slippery topics and slips there little by little.

“Do you know,” she says, “that the drivers pester the girls on the track with obscene sentences?”

- I know.

“So,” he says, “I have an obscene offer to you.”

I am silent, not knowing what to say.

- Silent means consent! - solemnly utters Orysy and crawls to me under the blanket.

“But girls resist,” I say thoughtfully.

- Not all.

- Do I look like a girl who will not resist?

“You don’t look like a girl at all,” and she silences my mouth with a kiss.

I do not remember further.

No, I remember, of course, but I will not tell. And not because I feel sorry for or embarrassing to tell, but because it is all so on the level of emotions that the words will turn out to be completely different from what it really was.