About 15 years ago, I, young, thin and sonorous, worked as a trolley bus driver. The car has not yet left the category of luxury, and minibuses, like a class, have not yet appeared.
And now, winter, 6:30 in the morning, the industrial zone of the most severe city in Russia. The working flight, the trolley bus was so crowded that the doors were manually closed. Slippery, sneaking, the car is heavy. Headlights flashed from a secondary road, but I didn’t bother much, 4 lanes completely allow us to leave, but apparently clear guys on 9-ke didn’t think so.
I have already started to go into the pocket for public transport, cut it. Naturally, on the brakes, in the cabin, a choked breath and swearing cries: «what the fuck are you doing.»
Well, they cut and cut, there are more morons on the road than everyone thinks, and the driver’s profession perfectly develops the ability to instantly go to Zen.
And, it would seem, the story has been settled on this, but the clear boys saw the woman behind the wheel and decided to teach the lesson “a monkey with a grenade” (by the way, it’s a very common story, I looked, and then got the right to swing).
They cut it again, the salon mated, the windows were frozen, it’s not visible why I’m so inadequate at the wheel, they are blocking a trolleybus and four men are pounding their fists in the cockpit with an appeal: “Come out, let’s talk.”
While I was thinking through my head, what should I actually do?
— there is no communication with the dispatcher, the place is deaf, the radio does not take
— ram? — I do not earn so much
— return back and … and where and, I’m on a trolley …
There was a knock on the cockpit.
— Daughter, open the doors.
Well, I opened it.
In general, the cleverest, having correctly assessed the situation, rushed through the snowdrifts to a dwelling, the remaining three squared their shoulders and decided to explain to the man who had left him «hu hu.» And behind him came the whole salon of hard workers. Beat. The anger of the proletariat, I tell you, is very terrible. When it was all over and the proletariat returned with satisfaction to the salon:
— Daughter, let’s go late.
I spread my hands: «And the car …».
The car was turned into a snowdrift, hard workers go to work …