Evangelists - John

 

My name is Jan Kowalski. You know, among us spendthrifts, each of us takes a new name. For example, the one by the kiosk is also Jan Kowalski, and the other one is Stanisław Nowak. And there are almost 10 Janeks and the same number of Staśeks living here. It's easier that way. Why would anyone need to know our names? Sometimes the police come and take down one of us, and then our real name comes out. Oh well, it's pointless to talk about it. You're asking who a spendthrift is, because we're generally divided into two groups: those who were born homeless with their mothers' milk and those who were handed it to them by fate. And then there's another division: those who beg and those like us here – those who work. No, we here at platform five aren't exactly poor. I have a great sleeping bag, which I keep in the luggage compartment during the day. One day only costs 2 złoty, and I earn 20 złoty a day delivering strollers. Overall, it's not that bad here. The cleaning lady wakes us up at five in the morning. I quickly get up and rush to the toilet. I wash up quickly and head out to check the platforms. Sometimes I find something. Imagine, I once found 50 złoty, but we had a feast; it's a shame you weren't here then. This checkup lasts until about 7, then we have some breakfast and head to the supermarket. And then you stand there until closing time, asking if you can take the trolley, for the two złoty they give you, of course. The most important thing in this job is not to stink and to look good. Well, generally, you know, you can't scare off your employer. Then there's dinner. And in the evenings, if it's warm, you can sit in the park and chat with your friends. Last summer, Janek and I played chess. Seriously, hehe. Around 9 PM, you can go back to the platform and go to bed. You have to be there early so no one takes your place. Generally, there are no problems with it; none of us will take any, and no one will come here from the drinkers either, but new ones come in who don't know the rules. And a newcomer, sir, is screwed for at least a month by the police, the city guard, and even the cleaners. They know us and don't bother. Once a newcomer settles in, they have the right to decide whether they want to be with us workers, or start drinking, stop washing, and go to Platform 3 with the trash. Damn, that rhyme. And you know, you'll laugh, but I write poetry. I'll let you read later. And what about when winter comes? Well, it's a simple shelter; they let us in because we like to wash and can go without cigarettes overnight. And those guys from Platform 3? I don't know exactly, but there are three-quarters fewer of them in the spring. Yes. They drop like flies. And when winter comes, there are more of them than last year. We spendthrifts, almost all of us work. That's the only way to survive. Do I like this life? Maybe you'll try sleeping on these cardboard boxes tonight? Well, honestly, I feel better than I did before I came here. How did that happen? It's a long story, I'll tell you after I eat. My father was a high-ranking government official, and my late mother was a housewife. I was an only child. I had a very happy childhood. I played football, went out with girls, wrote poetry. We had a good relationship with my mother; my father was never home. One day, he suddenly appeared in my room and started giving me a terrible lecture. He said I wasn't thinking about my future, that I wasn't doing anything, that I was just writing these little poems. And I really enjoy doing this to this day, do you understand? He'd chat for half an hour, and then I wouldn't see him, as usual, sometimes even for a week. You know how I cried then. He laughed at my poetry, he broke all the joy of my youth, and I was only eight years old at the time. But as a child, my depression subsided, and I continued doing what I loved. The years passed quickly, and my father increasingly picked on me, enrolled me in a good high school, and made me show him my school diary. During this time, I especially "liked" math. Sometimes I'd stay up late studying for a test, and I'd still get F's. And my father would yell... It was terrible, sir. One day he sat down in my room with me and started talking. As usual, I tuned out so I wouldn't have to listen to this nonsense again. But this time, I didn't get to hear it. He talked about how I was almost an adult and could start earning money from now on. He promised money for every good grade, and for every bad one, he'd take it. He'd pay me whatever I accumulated at the end of the month. I'm telling you, sir, and these weren't small sums; what a motivation back then. I started working very intensively. And soon my first successes appeared, and of course, money. I no longer had time to write poetry. I hid my journals somewhere and never found them. You know what I liked most about it: the chase, the struggle for a bigger sum each month. I wasn't after knowledge or grades, but the money. I stopped playing football, in fact, I didn't even leave the house; I just studied and counted money. I didn't even have time to talk to my mom... No, nothing happened to me, everything was fine. My mom died when I was in my first year of university. My father had already retired. He no longer paid me for my results, but I no longer needed it. I caught the football bug and wanted to be rich and respected like him in the future. After my mom died, we became incredibly close; I only had him, and he only had me. I graduated with honors. Yes, I have a Master's degree in economics; it sounds ridiculous. A ragtag person like me and a Master's degree in economics. Not so great. While still at university, I met a classmate – Bożenka. She was the best student, right after me, of course. I never loved her, you know. But she came from a good family and was nice. After graduation, we quickly got married. And what a wedding it was. Sir, and the then Minister of Culture was there. It lasted three days and three nights. Of course, I got the kind of job you can only dream of these days. I got a huge room,A secretary and a company car, great prospects for promotion, tons of money, and, of course, plenty of responsible, hard work. Bożena also landed a good job, not like mine, but a woman's dream job. We moved into a beautiful house on the outskirts of town. I felt wonderful. I was constantly busy, constantly occupied, and quickly promoted. I set myself the highest goals and pursued them headlong. You have no idea how many contracts I secured, and how many competitors I wiped out—it's not even worth mentioning. At home, I was more of a guest. Bożena and I constantly missed each other. I don't even know how we managed to have our only son, Grześ. He was so adorable when he was little. At first, however, I was angry that Bożena wanted to have him, because it complicated my affairs. I relented when she assured me she would take time off work to care for our son. That was good. And I was still working, constantly. I couldn't believe my son was already 2, 3, 7 years old. All I cared about was work. My wife and I hadn't slept in the same bed for a long time, and my contact with Grześ was limited to paying him a set amount for every fiver. On my son's 12th birthday, I had achieved everything there was to achieve in my company. I was the best, I was the CEO. I was sitting in an armchair, wondering what to do next, when my secretary came in and brought me a gift I'd ordered for my son. It was a colorful notebook for recording expenses and income. I thought they were making great covers these days, because when I was young, they were only gray, maybe with a droplet and the words "Gift of Blood, Gift of Heart." That notebook reminded me of the notebooks from my youth where I used to write my poems. I still don't understand it, sir, but then, 30 years later, I remembered one of my poems, and something suddenly snapped inside me. But it was something. It was like a huge sheet of paper with a summary of my life had fallen before my eyes. I had achieved everything I could in business, but I wasn't truly happy. I had no one, I hadn't spoken to my wife, and I knew absolutely nothing about my own child. Then I saw the light. I couldn't leave it like this; I thought everything could still be fixed. I decided I had to act immediately. I ran for the door. Rushing past the secretary, I shouted that I was quitting. I ran outside. And only then did I realize it was summer. The sky was blue and the grass was green—it was so childishly simple. I jumped into my car, not mine anymore, but I decided to borrow one. And I went shopping. I bought a ton of toys at a large toy store, popped into a jeweler's, and bought a very expensive necklace. I was in a frenzy; that was my new goal: to rebuild my family. When I pulled up to the house, the dog greeted me, as usual. Only then did I notice how ugly he was and that I didn't like the breed, even though I'd bought him because he was so expensive. No one was home. There were two messages on the refrigerator. One was to Grześ from his wife, saying she had gone to the office to take care of something and that dinner would be ready when she got back. The second was from Grześ,That right after he got back from Piotrek's, he'd run to the pool and would be back by 4 p.m. He kept apologizing to his mother for not telling her, but he knew she wouldn't let him go because she was scared, and he really wanted to go. The entire message from Grześ was written in poetry and decorated with a heart made of colorful paper. I was glad they weren't there yet. I started making dinner, even though I had no idea what I was doing. My wife returned, but Grześ was gone by 4 p.m. Do you know what happened? To this day, I can't understand why I didn't get this chance, thanks to fate! After leaving Piotrek's, Grześ ran with Sylwia, a classmate, to the outdoor pool. It was like a date. He knew how to swim; he'd been learning all winter, and he really enjoyed it. They had a great time at the pool, but Grześ overdid it and wanted to impress Sylwia with a jump from the five-meter diving board. Can you believe someone let a 12-year-old child onto such a diving board? He was brave enough to jump, but he didn't come back up on his own. He drowned. I couldn't accept it. Why didn't I see the light the day before? You know, there's no point in crying; no one and nothing will change that. When we received the news of the little one's death, my wife simply packed up and left the house. The last time I saw her was at the divorce. God, how she hated me. I gave her all my money, my house, my cars. I didn't want it, but she took it. I moved in with my father. It was a terrible time. I withdrew into myself, didn't talk to anyone. I wrote a lot. I deeply regretted my actions. I even thought about suicide, but I was just a coward. One day I just left and came here. And that's how it stayed. I still write poetry, I regret it, but at least I know I'm not chasing after unnecessary things. And let it stay that way. Are you eating this roll? Can I eat it?