To let go, but don't quit Bashny.Net

I went to work at age 13.

To distribute the stations of the newspaper AIF mothers and daughters and AMF garden and orchard.

Inside was a leaflet with a subscription. This was the whole trick. Pick up the free newspaper, reads, he is interested in, and...voila! inside a leaflet with a subscription. The man throws everything and headlong rushes to the post office to issue an annual subscription. Everyone is happy.

Especially me.

Seven million four hundred nineteen thousand one hundred eight



Because of the work I get paid 50 rubles a day. Huge money. Two cheeseburgers from McDonald's and ice cream cone.

For 50 rubles I need 5-6 hours to rush through the station and yell a wounded Beluga, attracting customers.

I yell well. I SIP tinned. So I'm doing my job faster than anyone from our group.

The group is still 10 people teenagers who are with me spread the goods. Of them but I don't really remember. So just some adult, probably because a particularly handsome guy gosh.

Gaucher 17 years. And he has a cigarette. It was all his benefits, but for 13-year-old me enough to almost fall in love. And I almost fall in love. Almost — it's a sign of probability.

I — probably — would love gosh, if I had the time. But at the station there's no time. We have to work. The buses on long routes. In queues at the railway ticket office. In traffic in the Parking lot.

Summer. July. Thick t-shirt very hot. Exhaust gases from stuffy. Itchy black ink hand.

Why do I work?

No, not because you need money. At home I have materially it's all right. And even two cheeseburgers with ice cream I'd be getting.

I work for a principle.

Your own. Work because the parents prove that they can. Parents — this is what I thought.Now I think that proved something to myself. Still to prove. Still can not prove it, apparently.

Twenty four million eighteen thousand eight hundred thirty five



Six months before this summer I was given some money for some purpose. Can't remember how many and I can't remember what. I only remember that I wasted a whole.In the evening, the parents throw in my face just monstrous by my standards replica:

Do you even know how the money is earned?! You're a penny in life is not earned!

I am very offended.

Still, the injustice of it well I did not expect. That's it, Yes, like that. Universal catastrophe! Will hold a grudge on the whole world. And decide definitely to go to work.

In the summer, instead of relaxing on the sea, is truly lightning in a summer camp, I will be handing out Newspapers at the station. Next year I will start trying to sell air conditioners. And the year after.

In 18 years, will be released on their first official work. And for a single day ever again and no one is going to depend on financially. I feel like I'm still afraid that I will say that I am wasting other people's money.

But honestly, the post is not about my psychological trauma.

They changed me, Yes. But not for the worse, I think. They just live with me, turning in my personal cockroaches. Loved ones and relatives. Soon, the names you give them will begin.

Post, actually, about my mother.

And here mom, you ask.

And despite the fact that I was still impresses with its exposure. Willingness to let me go.

To let go, but don't quit. Dancing on the brink. To find a middle ground and stay on it.

Explain.

So, I am principled, declare that this summer camp food, and going to work.

Mom is trying to talk me out of it, but soon realizes that argument with a teenager is fraught with miscarriage brain out of my head. Mother agrees.

Mom helps to find a job. One where it will not be thrown. Because the yard 99th year. The crisis is in full swing. Many fake companies, day Ravadinovo.

And then — the fun part! In the day when I for the first time, proud of myself, going by train to Moscow for his first job, mom ... secretly rides with me in the next car.

So imagine it yourself. The fifty-meter jump. Wrapped in a spy's cloak. Sunglasses. Hat on the eyes. In-ear transmitter. The radio is built into the earpiece.

First-first, I second, can you hear me? Reception! The object goes to the door.

Don't know how to actually disguised mother, but I didn't see her. I learned many years later, and then accidentally.

Then I go quietly to their little group. Glaring at Gosha almost lovingly. And...reach for a cigarette. We are waiting for the car with Newspapers today. Smoke as adults. We talk like adults. I mean, mother through the word. Freedom!

And if Mata mother can not hear — is too far, that's not to notice the cigarette is impossible. And I'm only now beginning to understand what a feat it did, not coming to me at the time and not put such a good bream in all my smug face. I would understand it, chesslovo.

But mother never came.

And not stabbed.

Mom made sure my safety and went home.

Wait, when I return honestly earned their first 50 rubles. To rejoice with me. Pride. And not to sniff.

I don't remember what I spent the money. Don't know what happened to 17-year-old Ghosh. I don't know what I learned on the job.

But I know exactly what I was taught my mom.

Release. But don't quit.

To seek a middle ground.

Dancing on the brink.

Thanks, mom, I remember, I appreciate that... but not saying. published 

 

Author: Lelia Tarasevich

P. S. And remember, just changing your mind — together we change the world! ©

Source: www.nashideti.site/?p=8247