Ticket (a friendly parody of the "Travel of this life ticket" He Gone). I don't want any pain. And I don't want to die at all. And so that there is no doubt about this, I'll sprinkle the rhyme again. Having inherited, I will not slam the door. After reading, I will calm my gut. How calm my heart will be when

Unpaid fare: principled position or circumstances

I am often asked if I ride as a hare. "Sometimes," I reply evasively. And how can I answer for sure if I do not adhere to the principled position of a hare: do not pay a penny for travel. To pay or not to pay - depends on the circumstances, which, at times, are selected "better nowhere."

Transfer

The taxi driver stopped the car, flipped the switch under the ceiling of the cabin. A lamp flashed with a pale yellow light, blinded after a night road. The light in the cabin is a sign that it's time to pay. I got my wallet.
- Do you accept cards? I asked.
The taxi driver turned around. His eyes were not visible, they hid in the shadow of deep eye sockets. I felt that the driver was looking at me carefully.
- This is not a department store, - the taxi driver frowned. - Six hundred rubles.

I counted out the bills and placed them in my outstretched spade-shaped palm. The taxi driver, quickly moving his fingers, drove the bills first from right to left, then back. He looked at me again, folded the bills in half, put them in the inside pocket of his jacket:
- There on the trunk you will press the button yourself, - switching to "you", the taxi driver said.
I got out of the car, slammed the door. A cold October wind hit my face, finishing the branches of the station maples. He shivered, took out a backpack from the trunk.

The train left ten minutes ago. Not a soul at the station, the ticket window is closed. I looked into the window opening: behind the misted glass there was a “closed” sign and the brown metal of the cage. After the rain, the station benches are damp - do not sit down. Droplets pooled on smooth, oil-painted boards. The wind howled under the concrete slabs of the platform, rattled the warning plywood poster “Do not stand at the edge of the platform!”, Rattled the tin board of the train schedule. Lanterns illuminated the wet asphalt with a pale, gray light. Damp, and therefore very dank. I felt uncomfortable. I remembered that since lunch I have been carrying a thermos with hot tea in my backpack. He unscrewed the cork, poured steaming fragrant tea into the lid, and it immediately became more fun.

Fifteen minutes before the train arrived, people began to gather at the station. At the horizon, the beam of a searchlight ripped through the darkness - an electric train. Ten heated, brightly lit cars glided smoothly at the platform, sighed with pneumatic brakes, and stood up. The slam of closing doors, and the train rushed forward to Moscow.

In Fryazevo, I had to change to an electric train of the Yaroslavl direction. There is a so-called Yaroslavl chord in the Moscow region - the connecting line of Mytishchi - Fryazevo, a jump from one direction to another. It was along this chord that I intended to get to Mytishchi, bypassing Moscow. The junction between the trains is short, only five minutes: cross the viaduct, take a ticket, get on the train and it's already departure.

Approaching Fryazevo, the train slowed down and barely crawled, busily buzzing with motors. The composition wriggled like a snake, moving along the arrows between the numerous station tracks. Wagon bogies creaked under the floor, turning on rusty axles. The car rolled to the right, then to the left. Every now and then I glanced at my watch: three minutes for a transfer, two minutes for a transfer ... the wet asphalt of the station platform floated under the window.

The gray-blue electric train of the Yaroslavl direction, having hospitably opened the doors, stood at the platform on the neighboring track. The brakes screeched and the doors opened. I jumped out of the car, crossed the platform in three jumps and found myself in the vestibule of a gray-blue electric train. The speaker under the ceiling of the car crackled:
- The electric train goes to the station Moscow - Yaroslavskaya.
Compressed air hissed in the doors.
- A train follows the Yaroslavl direction, be careful, - the driver warned.

Doors slammed, the carriages twitched, buffers hit, and rolled along the platform. Due to the delay of the Petushinsky train, it took less than a minute to transfer. If she were a little late, she would have to wait an hour and a half for the next train. All the same, how cool everything is going, I thought. And immediately stopped: is it not too early to celebrate.

The car smelled of electric heat, it was terribly stuffy. During the parking lot, the red-hot heater burned all the air in the car. I leaned my head against the windowpane, a cool breeze blew through the crack in the frame. The train sluggishly trudged along the single-track, swaying measuredly from side to side. Outside the window is a dark forest. Because of the bare branches, the headlights of cars lined up in a row flashed - a crossing, and darkness again.

A woman - the controller and two guards - entered the car from the vestibule.
- Citizens, prepare tickets for verification, - the controller shouted on the move and went towards me.
I turned around: I was the only passenger in the carriage.
"Your ticket," the controller held out her hand.

There is a ticket office in Fryazevo, and if you take a ticket from the controller from Fryazevo, you will have to pay a fee for issuing a ticket in the car. And then there are deaf sub-stations, and there are probably no ticket offices there or they are closed.
- What is the next station? I painfully recalled. - Lesnaya or Kolontaevo. No, it's still Forest. Forest!
- From Lesnaya to Mytishchi, - I announced to the controller, taking out my wallet.

An elderly woman with thick make-up looked at me in surprise. Her eyebrows soared to her wrinkled forehead and went in waves. Two guards behind her indifferently looked around, ignoring our conversation. The controller slowly withdrew her outstretched hand, clenched her palm into a fist, and pressed it to her side. A wicked smile appeared on the woman's face.
- And why is it from Lesnaya? she said forcefully. - What, are we running ahead of the locomotive, passenger ?! We haven't reached Lesnaya yet. So from Fryazevo! From Fryazevo to Mytishchi...
She clicked the buttons on the ticket printer that hung around her neck.
- ... from Fryazevo to Mytishchi a ticket costs 210 rubles with a fee.

I tried to explain: “not my fault”, “the ticket office in Kabanovo is closed”, “the train was late”, “short transfer” ... The controller just shook her head, a sly smile never left her face. Power. Let it be small, let it be over the passenger of the train, but still the power: I want it, I'll have mercy, but I want it ... The train, as if on purpose, did not accelerate. The drive is long and at such a pace to the rescue station for about five minutes. The controller pointed me towards the tail of the train:
- Let's get out! Let's, let's! Let's move! To the exit!

I put my backpack on my back and went to the end of the car. The controller followed me, followed by two guards. I walked along the empty cars, moving from car to car, opening the doors of vestibules and inter-car passages. The controller walked “on the back of the head”, I heard her deep, hoarse breathing behind her back.

Formally, she is right, I thought, acting according to instructions. The fact that the ticket office is closed, that the train is late is not her fault. But why be rude. And it seems that it gives her pleasure: to hurt a passenger, to hurt him, to feel a little, but power over a person. Perhaps such people are deliberately taken as controllers so that passengers travel with tickets. Knowing that in the train you can run into rudeness and scandal, the passenger will take a ticket at the box office in advance. With these thoughts, I reached the tail car. The controller lagged behind in the third or fourth car, checking the ticket with a lone passenger.

There were more people in the tail car than in the rest. The hares, having studied the habits of the “contra”, developed their own behavior. At that moment, as the controller with security appeared in the car, the train slowed down. "Hares" darted around the vestibule, preparing to escape. Which side of the platform: right or left. Still right. The crowd rushed to the right doors. People shifted from foot to foot, either out of impatience, or warming up before a forced jog.

The doors opened. "Forest", - sounded from the speakers. "Hares" rushed along the platform along the train. I jumped out too. The brigade was preparing for this maneuver, they set up posts. A guard peeped out of the vestibule, and in the next car, too. So, two wagons to run. If only the driver didn’t let me down, didn’t close the doors, didn’t leave. But no, apparently, he is on our side: the train patiently stood at the platform, waiting for the end of the hare sprint. Sticking into each other's backs, the "hares" jumped into the vestibule of the third carriage. The last runner flew into the vestibule, leaned against the wall. Breathing heavily, he doubled over, resting his hands on his knees. The driver announced the departure, the doors closed, let's go.

I walked through the train to the head car, settled down on a bench, got a thermos with hot tea. After Monino, the railway became two-track, the stations went more often, and the car was filled with passengers - with each stop, the train approached Moscow. When the train was leaving Tsiolkovsky, I noticed with peripheral vision that the ticket office at the station was closed. This happened automatically: the fact flashed through my mind for a moment and went to another level, like a program window hiding on a computer monitor, you just need to press the "minimize" button.

In Korolev and Bolshevo, the train took on passengers, and the carriage became crowded. It is not surprising that the “contra” went with the check again, already in the opposite direction. The door slammed in the vestibule and the already familiar phrase sounded in the carriage: “Citizens, prepare tickets for verification.” The same company, the controller and two guards, walked along the car with a check. Now they went from tail to head, and this is more difficult: the cars twitch, and they strive to throw back, back to the tail. Leaning forward and overcoming the force of gravity, the brigade confidently moved along the car. The controller quickly checked the tickets, extinguishing them with a ballpoint pen.

Seeing me, the controller broke into a smile, but this joy was unkind. The guards peeked out from behind the controller's back, anticipating the development of events.
- Tsiolkovsky - Mytishchi, please, - I said.
The phrase flew from my lips by itself. After a moment, I realized that I was buying a ticket. So the “folded program window” came in handy: on Tsilokovskaya the ticket office was closed, which means that the ticket in the car is sold without a fee. And Tsilokovskaya is closer to Mytishchi than Fryazevo, there are only two suburban areas.

The controller closed her eyes. For her, this turn of events, apparently, was more unexpected than for me.
- That is, how, Tsilokovskaya ?! she hurried. - You're coming from Lesnaya. Pay 88 rubles.
- Tsiolokovskaya - Mytishchi, - I repeated as firmly as possible, so that there was no doubt. - Forty-four rubles.
I said it like that, at random, and, apparently, guessed the cost of the ticket.
- No, that will not do! the controller objected.

The malevolent smile disappeared from the controller's face, it was replaced by bewilderment, and then prudence. The woman's eyes narrowed and darted from side to side, looking for a way out of the situation. The guards peeked out from behind her. Apparently, they argued with the controller that she would completely rip me off.
- So! - the controller went on the offensive. - Let's get out!
- Which exit?! It was my turn to be perplexed. - I'm buying a ticket from you.
- Take a ticket from Lesnaya or get out! Her eyes widened in outrage.
The guards behind the controller covered their smiles with their palms. Apparently, this course of events amused them.

Well, no, I thought. Now the rules and regulations, the formidable weapons of the formalists and bureaucrats, are on my side. I will beat the enemy with his own weapon, cold-blooded and imperturbable.
- Tsiolkovsky - Mytishchi, - I ran into every argument of the controller.
Formally, I'm right, impenetrable argument. A dispute, not a dispute, but who wants to lose a job because of a failed “collision”. The controller gave up her position, reluctantly took the money, punched the ticket.

You should be ashamed, young man, - she said goodbye, went along the carriage.
After walking a few steps, she came to her senses, turned around, threw in my direction:
- Bon Voyage!
Evil said, with pressure. Also a formality: the instruction requires being polite and courteous with the passenger, saying goodbye, wishing a happy journey. Hedged, afraid of complaints.

The brigade moved to the next car with a check. The wheels of the train rattled slowly, slowly. The train went into a curve, and the wheel flanges whistled disgustingly, resting against the outer rail. I listened to my feelings: am I ashamed? No, don't be ashamed. I did not deceive, trying to save money at any cost, I did not succumb to the general hare hype. I deliberately chose the path of not paying, or rather, paying less. And it was my choice: I voted against rudeness, rudeness, bad service. Voted in rubles.

In order to successfully hunt a hare, it is necessary to understand at least a little the traces of the oblique: to be able to determine the direction in which the hare was walking, to distinguish the rutting tracks from the end and fat ones. The most important thing is to see and read the hare trail discount.

Feel free to look into the relevant literature, the Internet, or just ask a hunting buddy to draw a diagram of hare tracks in the snow to figure out the hare trail discount. To my surprise, I somehow had to give such an explanation on the hunt to my elderly friend - a hunter with great experience, when we argued at the track: where the hare was going - the friend didn’t have enough general concepts to read the confused hare discount of the track.

The ability to recognize a hare trail will greatly facilitate and even speed up your hunt. At night after feeding, especially when it is a little cold, the oblique loves to run around and warm up. He chooses for his pleasures a well-trodden country road. If there is a plowed field near the road or an ownerless field overgrown with wild grass, then after running, playing with relatives, the hare fits into them. The same picture is on country roads along the forest belt.

Of course, there are no ready-made recipes when solving the trick of a hare trail (malik). But in my practice, running along a country road, the hare usually doubles the tracks on the road, throws off (jumps) to the side, runs a little along the side of the road, doubles the track, makes a discount and lies somewhere nearby.

This oblique habit is skillfully used by experienced hunters, hunting game on the way to the hunting place or while moving from field to field.

Once an acquaintance of the huntsman decided to show us the way and led our small column in his car. It was still about twenty minutes to go, when the cavalcade stood in the middle of the field on a country road. No one, except for the passengers of the first car, left the salons. Then individual hunters reached out to the beginning of the column to find out the reason for the stop.

- Two, - the huntsman pointed to the tracks, - somewhere here the "oblique" lay down.

He himself walked away from the car without a gun. The huntsman took out a gun, but at that time someone from the back of the car loudly inquired about the reason for the stop. And literally from the rear wheel of this passenger car, a hare got up from the side of the road, jumped into the thick grass and, remember your name. But if the huntsman had come out alone, without shouting and noise, he would certainly have been with a trophy.

I speak with confidence. More than once I have seen when the guide - an experienced "bunny" while moving from one field to another, suddenly asked to stop the car, opened the door, stood with one foot on the ground, shot and got a hare.

True, a trained eye is needed here in order to see a double hare track on the roadside on the go from the car. Nevertheless, this technique is within the power of any attentive hunter who knows how to recognize the hare discount of the trail in the malik left by the “beast”.