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Potatomonogatari

I didn’t want to publish this but enough people have already read it so it remains to admit my guilt openly.

Potatomonogatari

物語

Based on Japanese folk stories by Nisio Isin
Published with omissions

(Read)

I think it’s time to tell you about San-Sanych the Tractor Operator whose true name is Acerola Orinon Kisshot Heart And Blade And Other Words From The Dictionary but neither he nor anyone else knows this. And if I were to tell when exactly that time came then it came with that other time, the time to wrap up with the introduction and proceed to the chapter one in which I have yet no idea what to write.

So, potatoes. As a child I really liked mashed potatoes. Mom cooked those rarely as I grew up in the family of god damned otakus and we were living off almost exclusively off rice, having sushi rolls more often than pelmenis, but every time we had mashed potatoes gosh was I happy. The fondness for potatoes I have carried through all my adolescent life and when I grew older I always took a kilogram or two of it every time I visited a store.

This summer we have went to "potato camp". Getting ahead of myself I’ll tell that although the event was so named, we were to dig the beet-roots. In the post-USSR countries "potato camps" are any events which involve free student workforce arriving at the plantations. Therefore the name absolutely does not reflect the meaning.
Dropping off the train, we have arrived at the potato depo which, contrary to it’s name, nowadays hosted beet. This is where I met San-Sanych. He was lying on the roadside, drained of all his powers. If I left him like that he’d die. I have brought him half a liter of vodka, he drank that and got better, and since then I bring him half a liter every day which relieves me of a part of my pay and feeds his powers. For that, he had agreed to consider me his master.
"I’m a specialist", San-Sanych Oreola Atseon etc introduced himself, "I specialize in tractors. If you ever find a tractor, call me. Any services: banishing, taming, using forgotten roads to drive home. I will be especially grateful if you find my own tractor."
Once we met his own tractor but that’s a story for another time.

Anyway, first half of the day we were digging beat and then sit down for lunch. Almost untouched fields of beet were exerting emotional pressure on my mind.
"Wanna potatoes?", asked my college co-ed named Fedya MONKEY. I frantically nodded. Fedya extended his hand, offering me a beet.
Beet. Also called "the russian peasant’s potato". Before at the middle of 19-th centure the potato plants brought to Russia by Peter the Great finally gained in popularity, in villages they raised beet. So it’s nothing strange to confuse the two. That’s why I had no suspicions that time and simply declined the offer. Fedya MONKEY then gave beet to Tanya SNAKE instead.

Ad break. In the blu-ray version of this short story here will be an additional absolutely unnecessary erotic scene with Tanya SNAKE. We assure you that although she’s a SNAKE, she retains all the important traits of a normal woman.

Next day when we were taking a break sitting amidst the buckets, Fedya THE MONKEY approached me again:
"How it’s going?", he asked, leaning against his shovel, "How much potatoes have you dug?" And looked straight at me.
In that moment I understood.
I got it.
I saw.
His eyes were glittering with madness. He looked at me like a possessed. He needed potatoes. Only potatoes, nothing else would do. Unfortunately, this field hosted only beet and there was nowhere to get potatoes from, but I have caught these words in my throat, choking, and instead replied cautiously:
"Well…"
"Where is it?", asked Fedya and I have immediately felt that it was a question I could not refuse to answer.
WHERE IS IT?!
Fedya’s words ringed in my ears, gleaming with its tones of madness. Shovel in his hands trembled, ready to shoot up into the air and fall crushing onto my head once I as much as tried to worm my way out of answering. Where is it? How the hell should I know, this is a beet field.
"There", I nodded, pointing to the sacks of beed. Fedya slowly raised his head and looked far into distance.
"Good", slowly, approvingly he nodded. Sweating profusely I waited but Fedya THE MONKEY decided not to check on the contents of the sacks. He turned around deliberately and toddled away, dragging the shovel behind him. I almost sighed with relief but then he stopped.
Silence crept in. Fedya did not turn my way. I waited with bated breath, looking at his back.

"Today we will eat it", Fedya said in a sly voice and everything inside me cringed.
"Eat what?"
"Potatooeees".
Fedya turned around. On his face was the wildest of all the wild, the maddest of the mad expressions which I’ve ever seen:
"It will not vanish till that time, right?"
With this, he left.

"San-Sanych, we need potatoes!!"
I stormed into the abode of my only local acquaintance who could have helped in this situation. By the way, San-Sanych Celeron Chocopie abided in a school building. In a deserted school building. In the basement of a deserted school building. In the dirty stinking basement of a deserted and crumbled old school building. In a carton box. He was an artist, all around talented person and unemployed.
"Calm down", he silenced me with his hand, "Explain yourself".
"We need potatoes NOW!!"
"Point by point please."
"One: We. Two: need. Three:…"
"Enough, cancel point by point"
I told him everything about the madness of Fedya THE MONKEY, our conversation and how if there’s no potatoes on the table by the evening something horrible will happen. And where would you get potatoes amidst the endless fields of beet, which we are to dig up by the end of this week by the way?
"Maybe there’s a village nearby? Perhaps some of the villagers grow potatoes? We could hurry there and trade something, anything for potatoes, to calm down Fedya…"
But any hopes I might have had had been severed as if a rope by a swing of an axe when San Sanych pronounced:
"It’s no use"
"No use, why?!" I uttered.
"No use", San Sanych has repeated, "Because this is not about potatoes."
I could only blink.
"What’s it about, then?"
– Beet.

Beet.
I walked a village road returning to base, and considered the words of the tractor operator. This state farm, "The path of capitalism", had been founded in 1965. The year Americans had reelected Lindon Jonhson and Leonov made the world’s first spacewalk. Back then, this state farm had been called "The path of communism" and they grew potatoes there. Fifty years has passed since then.
What do you think they had been growing here in those fifty years?
"Po", I stuttered, "Potatoes?"
"Potatoes"
"Is that so."
The fields around teemed with beet. It’s clearly recognizable shrubs hovered over the earth as far as the eye could see. There could be no doubt that this year there hadn’t been a trace of potatoes here.
"Then there had it gone?! What happened last year? Where did all this beet come from?" – I pointed from the window.
"Where from? You tell me, and meanwhile I’ll solve your problem with Fedya."
"You’ll get potatoes? You said that’s pointless. Where would you find it in this bumfuck nowhere, anyway?"
The tractor operator shook his head.
"Who do you think I am?? Tonight we’re gonna eat potatoes, that much I guarantee you."

Ad break. In the blu-ray version of this short story here we’ll have an entirely unjustified erotic scene with Maryana SNAIL which haven’t even been mentioned before.

And just like that the time had been nearing the dinner and there had been no news from San Sanych. Our four-man team gathered around the fire over which a pot had been perchd, in which the water had been being brought to boil. Fedya sat to the left of me and with each passing second I grew more and more scared.
What if San Sanych hadnt found potatoes or couldn’t make it in time? What would Fedya do if no potatoes are brought? There should be enough of us to hold him down but what psychological trauma will we inflict?
"Potatoes", muttered Fedya, looking in my direction, "I love potatoes".
I do, too, but not the the extent that I go mad!
Finally the water started boiling and Fedya turned to me. Madness has distorted his features; his hand gripped the fork so hard steel screeched.
"Well", he said quietly and threateningly, "Bring the potatoes".
I gulped. Two of my other friends had stayed silent, looking at me expectantly. Had he conspired with them?

Ком встал у меня в горле. Два других товарища молчали, выжидающе глядя на меня. Он их подговорил?
– С-сейчас, – пробормотал я, лихорадочно озираясь и ища спасения в сгущающейся темноте, – К-Картошка… Да-да, картошка.
И в этот момент, когда я уже думал, что придётся драться.
Из темноты выступил Сан Саныч.
В руках он держал картошку.

Она была как раз такой, какой и должна была быть – круглой, красной, с длинным хвостиком снизу.
Она была нарисована на листе бумаги.
Лист этот принадлежал книге, толстой, страниц в 600 – очевидно, тому из какой-то энциклопедии.
– Я говорил, что наш колхоз пятьдесят лет растил картошку? – спросил меня специалист по тракторам. Я кивнул.
– Я тебя спрашивал, что случилось?
Опять кивок.
Насмешливо, по слогам, тракторист ответил:
– Ни-че-го.
Над изображением картошки в книге, которую держал в руках мой знакомый тракторист, крупным шрифтом было напечатано название энциклопедической статьи: СВЁКЛА.
– Картошку здесь растят до сих пор.
– Но погоди…
Я смотрел, ничего не понимая, на статью "СВЁКЛА", под которой красовался рисунок картошки.
Свёкла…
Картошка…
Свёкла…
Опять картошка…
Сан Саныч ткнул коротким толстым пальцем в раскрытую страницу, прямо в рисунок овоща, из которого мама всё детство делала мне сладкое пюре:
– Это – СВЁКЛА.
Он нагнулся и вытащил клубень из одного из мешков, в которые мы вот уже два дня сбрасывали выкопанные бугристые желтоватые плоды:
– Это картошка. Ты, пацан, умудрился дожить до своих лет и их путать. Чему вас там в городе учат?
И тут я вспомнил, как мама, открывая кулинарную книгу, говорила папе:
– Корица, кориандр – кто только названий повыдумывал! Да я картошку от свёклы не отличу!
– Ха-ха-ха-ха! – смеялся папа.
– Ха-ха-ха-ха! – смеялась мама.
Они и вправду не отличали картошку от свёклы.
И неправильно научили меня.

Бип, бип, – набрал я на следующее утро номер на своём мобильнике.
– Привет, мам. Я просто звоню сказать, что картошка – это на самом деле свёкла. А свёкла – это картошка. А вы с папой идиоты. Тебе всё понятно?
– Ха-ха-ха, ты раскусил нас? Это ещё ничего, вот когда ты узнаешь, что…
– Тихо! Не говори ему!
– Папа, не перебивай! Что, что я узнаю, мам?!
– Ничего-ничего, не волнуйся. Кстати, когда у тебя выпускной?
– Я УЖЕ В ИНСТИТУТ ПОСТУПИЛ!!
– Ага, значит, ловушка 52 не сработала…
– Это была ловушка 152.
– А мне кажется, 52.
– 52 это про то, что сморкаться надо в занавески.
– СМОРКАТЬСЯ ДЕЙСТВИТЕЛЬНО НАДО В ЗАНАВЕСКИ, МАМА!!
– Ха-ха-ха, эта ещё в порядке!
– ХВАТИТ НАДО МНОЙ ИЗДЕВАТЬСЯ.
В притворном гневе я бросил трубку. Из-за моей спины, точно из ниоткуда, возник тракторист Сан Саныч, и я воспользовался этим, чтобы у него уточнить – просто на всякий случай:
– Сморкаются ведь в занавески?
– Если в гостях, то да, – кивнул Сан Саныч.
Ну слава богу, хоть с этим не обманули.

How to keep multiple Picasa databases

I’ve decided to try Picasa for organizing my photos. It’s a client app somewhat similar to local Danbooru: it tags pictures, spots people faces, sorts photos by time, mass adds/deletes EXIF, geo-tags and so on. The photos itself are not changed and remain in their original locations and all the information is kept in the Picasa database. So far so good.

Problem is I have several picture sets which need sorting. One is photos, another is all sorts funny pictures. I don’t like mixing those because it feels stupid when Edward Elric is with your classmates in your "People" list. Picasa lets you categorize picture folders into "Collections", but this doesn’t solve everything and what if your second database is stored elsewhere? On the removable drive or LAN? Picasa has only one profile.

Internet mostly suggests ugly-ish solutions with special programs which switch Picasa database before starting the app, or tells you to keep a second database under a separate Windows account (it’ll have its own). But it’s so clumsy to relogin simply for accessing another collection.

And then suddenly someone have had a really nice idea. Create a separate Windows user, set up the database as required (incl. create a juniction from AppData\Google\Picasa to where the database is stored), and then login under the main user and run Picasa using RunAs.
Windows has this feature where it can run applications under a different user without leaving your session. Hold Shift and right-click the shortcut, then choose "Run as" from the popup menu and enter login and password. You can even make a special shortcut which will always run Picasa under a chosen user.

This is way easier than switching and maybe even better than if the database was chosen with a simple "Which database to load?" You can limit database access rights on a system level, and then give passwords to some and to others don’t.

Lost in Space

One of the topics on the upcoming "Mini-prose" (a Russian language based short story contest) is "Lost in space". Here’s my submission, enjoy:

Lost in Space
(read)

 

– Oh God! Where are we?!!

 

Already Killed Him

Already Killed Him
"I’ve invented a time machine and I’m going to teach you it’s principles", said the old man.
"Wait. If this is true you should have went back in time and killed Hitler", I replied.
"Already did", the old man said, "After the device started working I went back to the 1939 and shoot him".
"But we know Hitler lived till 1945…"
"That wasn’t Hitler. That was me. Turns out without Hitler America starts a much more cruel war with Europe several years later. I had to assume the guise of the fuhrer and redo everything he did."
"Then you should have jumped to the onset of some epidemic and brought them cure", I suggested.
"Did that several times, nothing good came out of it. By the present time the humanity was wiped out by wars and overpopulation."
"But we’re still alive!"
"That’s because I went back and delivered a new, more deadly strain of the virus every time."
I paused for a bit, thinking.
"Then… you could have prevented the collapse of the Soviet Union"
"Tried that, I was the one who brought it down in the end."
"Death of Pushkin!"
"I was the one who shoot him in the end."
"Twin towers."
"I trained the pilots!"
"Middle ages inquisition…"
"Guess who started it all."
"So no matter what you did, it was all for the worse?", I asked, "If I were you I’d think twice before teaching me the secret of time travel, for the one evildoer I should probably go back in time and kill turns out to be YOU."
"Ha, ha", the old man replied, "Why do ya think we’re so similar in appearance? You have already done that."

(reference)

Practice shows not everyone understands what happened in the story, so here’s the explanation!

Before the main character sits the main character himself, only aged.

Long time ago someone invented the time machine. He went back in time and killed Hitler. But without Hitler history went for worse, and the inventor had to assume Hitler’s position for five years.
In this way, it turned out that Hitler never waged any war at all! The inventor did. There’s a stable time loop, in which, in trying to prevent his own atrocities, the inventor goes back in time, kills the suspect (Hitler) and commits atrocities under his name by himself.

Hearing of this, main character of the story goes back in time and kills the inventor of the time machine.
But turns out, there’s a stable time loop: the inventor’s actions were actually performed by the main character himself. He has to continue doing all that he thought the inventor did (killing Hitler and assuming his position), so that the history doesn’t turn even worse.

Q: If the aged main character tells the young main character about this beforehand, why would the young main character still go back in time and kill the real inventor?
A: Of course because if he doesn’t, the history turns for even more worse :)

On Shroedinger’s Cats

Short stories.

(But Then, Who Meowed?)

But Then, Who Meowed?
"By the way, Shroedinger, what did you do to your cat?" asked Plank, "I don’t remember seeing it lately".
"Right! The cat!"
Shroedinger rushed to the cabinet, opened the curtain and took out a large black box.
"Forgot to show you! Behold, a macroscopical object in an indefinite state".
Waving the box gently, he sailed through the room and put the container on the desk. A nasty smell spread around. Einstein covered his nose.
"Disgusting!"
"Yuck, just what’s inside…", cringed Plank, "Smells like a carrion".
"It’s my cat", declared Shroedinger proudly.
"Have you killed it?!"
"That’s unknown!"
Einstein and Plank exchanged looks. Shroedinger continued without paying attention:
"Inside I put my cat and placed a flask of poisonous gas controlled by a quantum indefinite event. The odds are 50/50, either the flask got broken and the cat is dead or it’s still pretty much alive".
Physicist affectinately shook the box. Bad smell spread through the room further and further.
"Oh you my quantum indefinite cat", complimented Shroedinger happily.
"You animal killer", said Einstein.
"Just why is that?"
"The cat is dead. Look at this smell!"
Shroedinger smiled cunningly.
"You think it’s dead?" he asked, "Kitty-kitty, come on…"
"Mew!", answered the box. Plank and Einstein shuddered. Einstein made the sign of a cross.
"No way!" he exclaimed, "The cat is alive. What is it then that smells so bad?"
But Plank bent over the box and sniffed:
"There’s something dead inside, that’s for sure".
"But something meows!"
Shroedinger smiled with content, sitting in his chair at ease.

"This will not do", said Einstein suddenly, "I’m scared by this indefiniteness! Let’s open the box and check".
"Wait!" Shroedinger jumped on his feet, "Don’t, or you’ll break everything. Once you open the box our quantum system will become entangled with that of the cat, and the cat will collapse into one of two definite states!"
"Can you repeat that in German?", inquired Einstein sarcastically, "So that even fools like us can follow".
"The point is, it’ll become either truly alive or dead. What if the cat dies?! I won’t be able to cope with that loss…"
"Then you shouldn’t have used the cat in your experiments in the first place", said Plank grimly. He took a peek inside the box and his face lit with surprise.
"What is it?", asked Einstein excitedly. Plank turned to two other physicists.

"The cat is alive", he answered.
"The cat is dead", he answered.
"No way!", exclaimed Shroedinger. Einstein scratched his nose in confusion.
"But then, what was that smell?" he asked.
"But then, who made that meow?" he asked
"Apparently his twin from a parallel world", shrugged Plank, "At least we have no doubts regarding the fate of the cat now. For us it’s in a determinate state".
"For us?", Einstein stared at the black box with curiousity, "That’s interesting… What if someone else is watching us too? What if our quantum system is not the maximal one? What if for someone somewhere we still exist, like that cat, in two states?"
"Drop it", hand-waved it Plank, "This hypothesis makes no difference to us".
"Well if you say so…", shrugged Einstein.
And they proceeded to pet the Shroedinger’s cat that was so miraculously saved.
And they proceeded to console their friend Shroedinger who just lost his beloved cat.

Another one:

(Thought Experiment)

Thought Experiment
"Yuck, Shroedinger’s basement sure is suffocating", muttered Einstein sittin in the dark, leaning against the door, "I simply can’t stand this."
World’s science superstar hit the steel surface behind his back with his elbow irritatedly. The door did not budge.
"Why had it have to get shut at the worst possible moment!", cursed the physicist for the hundredth time, "Where’s that Shroedinger’s when you need him? And why the hell it’s so dark down here?"
Extending his hand, he searched over the wall:
"Do they have a light switch or something?!"
Clack!
He pressed the switch but the lights did not go on. Instead there was a hiss as if some gas was being released into the air.
"What’s this?", asked the Einstein nervously, but of course there was no answer, "I hope I haven’t broken anything. Erwin will kill me!"
Hissing grew louder. Scientist began sweating.
"What if it’s toxic gas?", he whispered with fear, "For some experiment or something? I’m an idiot for trying…"
Thud!
Something fell down heavily from the stairs into the depths of the basement and clawed there against the cement floor. Einstein shivered and shrunk back into the door, staring into the darkness trying to make anything out of it.
"Who’s there?!", he shouted, "Answer me!"
No one answered. Hissing stopped and the room was completely silent. The physicists’s heart was pounding.
"I repeat, who’s there?!" – he shouted but there was no reply. Mustering his strength, Einstein crawled down the stairs. One step, another…
Suddenly he felt something soft under his hand. Sweat formed on the professor of physics’ forehead. He studied his finding growing more and more uneasy; in the darkness before him there sat a man. The man was not showing any signs of life.
"Dead, clearly dead", muttered Einstein, wiping a sweat with a sleeve, "My God, who’s that? Why did he die? And he’s still warm… which means he sat besides me? God, I hope this is not Erwin?!"
Searching with his hand, physicist located the face of the deceased and traced his facial features with his fingers.
"Cheekbones, forehead… no, that’s not Erwin, his face is different… Brows… moustache… wait!"
Einstein froze, shocked.
"That’s my moustache!"
Once more he checked the hair on the face of the deceased then on his own one.
"My moustache. And my cheekbones. What about clothing?" – he extended his hand to the clothing, – "Is it… the clothing is mine too! How’s this even… Wait! I know. Pockets. I had a pencil stump in my pocket. And this man…"
This man also had a pencil stump in his pocket. Einstein turned pale and backed away from the corpse.
"F-foolish joke", he muttered, "How could Erwin know about the pencil? And that stupid hissing. I’ll get him for that, mark my word…"
"Get whom for what?" – came the voice from over the door. Physicist sighed with relief.
"Erwin!" he shouted, "God, where have you been? Open the door now!"
"Sure, sure, I’m looking for the keys"
"What is this nastiness you have in here?"
"What nastiness?" – asked Shroedinger mutedly, rattling with keys.
"All these hissing buttons of yours!"
The rattling stopped.
"Hissing buttons?" asked Shroedinger suspiciously.
"Left wall from the door."
"You pressed it?!"
"I did…" – replied Einstein cautiously, "I shouldn’t have?"
"And you’re alive?!"
Horrified, the scientist stared at the darknes where the door supposedly was:
"I shouldn’t be?!"
There was a stiff silence behind the door. Finally, Shroedinger replied:
"You see, this was the button to begin the trial. Remember I told you about the experiment with the cat?"
Einstein nodded although no one could see his nod.
"I made a working prototype in my basement. Pressing the button releases a poisonous gas… or doesn’t release it. Meaning it haven’t worked?"
"Thanks god, no!" – happily confirmed Einstein, "I’m alive and well. But there were some scary moments until you came. Oh, by the way you have some dead man here in the…"
He stopped half-word and looked backwards with fright.
"What?" – asked Shroedinger.
"You have some dead man here in the basement which looks suspiciously like me" – finished Einstein plaintively – "That’s not me, right?"
"Well, well…" – came a nonplussed reply from behind the door.
"I mean, I can’t really… die and be alive at the same time like that cat, right? That was a thought experiment."
"Well, well…" – repeated Shroedinger.
"Hey! Erwin! Stop scaring me. That’s a doll, right?"
Shroedinger stood silent. The basement was getting colder and colder. Einstein touched the door, stroke it’s ice cold steel surface – it was certainly real, just as the world around him. Real like the still warm body down the stairs.
"Then I don’t know what to do" – in a hopeless voice said Shroedinger – "I cannot release you. If I open the door, you’ll collapse into a determined state and it will be over."
"What will be over?"
"You will die", – said Shroedinger – "Or you will not. Either you or your corpse will remain, and it’s impossible to guess which it is."
"But I can’t just stay here for all eternity!" – exclaimed Einstein, – "I’ll die without food anyway."
"Right you are," – mubmled the door – "Guess there’s no choice. Well then, prepare yourself."
"Prepare like how?"
"Focus your mind, pray. I don’t know! I’m opening the door"
The key scraped in the lock. Tightly closing his eyes, Einstein said to himself: "I’m real. I’m real. This is just a stupid joke. I really exist. That was a purely thought experiment."

The door opened. Blindingly bright light poored into the basement.
"Thanks god all is good", proclaimed Shroedinger in an unusually loud voice, stepping two steps down and extending his hand to help his friend stand up, – "No corpse of course? No matter, I’ll take you word that it was here."
Einstein kept silent, as if offended. The hand remained unaccepted. Shroedinger pushed the physicist in the shoulder:
"Come on, get up already, will you…"
It was that moment when he felt a faint unpleasant aroma in the air and noted how readily the body gives in under pressure.

Obviously these stories are physically incorrect. Moreover, Shroedinger thought up his cat as a way to ridicule quantum theory, not support it in the first place. Although as it often happens, ridiculing a physical theory with the common sense didn’t fly; physical theories do not really hold the common sense sacred. But the unusual thought experiment got remembered.

If you liked this movie, you should probably try…

The problem with "if you liked this you will like" recommendations is that similarity means nothing. This ingenious thought has occured to me while I was reading recommendations for Love Hina on MAL:

Both animes share the same premise, a boy, not especially popular, suddenly finds himself surrounded by girls interested in him. A lot of the visual gags usually arising from misunderstandings, which result in the boy getting beaten up and called a pervert, are also present in both series.

Yep, but that’s not the point!

Good series are good despite what they are. They’re a shell with pearls in it. Recommendations are like, "Did you like that? Well, there’s a bunch of more shells."

One Line Short Story :)

"So you’re saying this device can alter memories?" I exclaimed, "Prove it! Alter mine! Make me believe something unreasonable, such as that I didn’t bail out right into this cafe from a plane full of terrorists but arrived in a ca… c… well, damn".

A joke

Really short story.

A little boy froze stiff on the street. A truck was heading for right where he stood.

Of course I had to act.

Dropping my bag, I rushed forward between the cars, to the street. Seconds were ticking in my head, the truck was hurtling closer and I was dashing closer, walking, because there was no time to start running.

One step, another one.

I grabbed the boy’s collar and jerked him forward, without stopping. A multi-tonn car whooshed behind us. A wave of air hit me. I almost felt a wall of metal and plastic in several inches behind my back.

Another step, and we were on the sidewalks.

His mother was young and pretty but pale as death. She snatched her kid and hurriedly started to berate him and thank me at the same time. I gave her a wave of the hand:

"It’s nothing"

Then she tried to give me money. Now, that made me really uncomfortable. Not knowing how to make her quit, I said:

"When I was a kid, someone saved me like that too. One can say that now I’ve paid my dues."

Boy’s mother blinked, stared at me then at her kid. Then again at me. I looked at the boy too, this time carefully, and discovered that he resembled me somewhat. I guess that’s about how I would look if I were seven. That’s funny, I thought. Almost as if I was him, back from the future to save myself. Science fiction story, right there.

To play this joke a bit further I said to his mother:

"Don’t scold him too much, would you? He’s already scared to death."

And added, before leaving:

"He will be more careful from now on."

Smiling to my own joke, I crossed the street again, took my bag, stood up and…

…met myself.

No, that wasn’t me. If you look closely, we weren’t even that similar. Different features, different hairdo. Still, his face somehow resembled mine.

The guy was sporting bright jacket and jeans just like me. He had a bag very similar to mine.

For a moment I froze, staring at him in shock while he was staring at me. We remained silent.

Then he uttered:

"And here I was, thinking it will be me who saves myself. Years of studying spent to make this possible…"

Hesitating for a moment, he added:

"Thank you."

"It’s nothing, really", I answered.

We shook hands and went our separate ways.