Jeans

This story is about jeans. Jeans, like many other Western goods, were forbidden in the USSR. They considered them a symbol of capitalism and everything malicious in the world.

But forbidden fruit is the sweetest. Many people dreamed about jeans. My neighbor was not an exception to the rule. He dreamed deliriously of having them.

In Soviet times, people formed a close-knit social network and leaned on each other for support. We knew each other very well and often helped each other, neighbor to neighbor. Adults were very busy at work, and we, children, spent our time in the playground with local stray dogs and cats.

One such dog was Julka. All the residents fed her, and she slept in the basement of the building. She was a calm and quiet dog. She loved kids, and kids loved her.

One day he got them, and they cost him a fortune. He was so happy to have them. They fit perfectly and felt like a second skin, as if they were tailored just for him. He was in seventh heaven and could not believe his luck; he had been dreaming about them for years. At first, he saw them in an American movie about cool guys, and he knew that he had to have them. It was not an easy way to get them. He met the right people, saved money for a long time, and risked his freedom to get them.

That day he was wearing them with a white T-shirt that said USSR on the front. He looked more handsome than usual, and everyone envied him. He bathed in rays not only from the sun; it was a pretty sunny day but also glory.

Julka was chewing a bone quietly next to the entrance door where the other neighbor put it for her. She was happy to have such a treat.

He moved with tripping feet to the entrance door and tried to open it. At that moment, Julka sprang up and charged at him without warning. He felt his heart race, and he shook his leg, trying to shake her off, but she got her teeth in the denim and hung.

He barely got free; Julka dropped the jean leg out of its mouth, and he kicked her against the wall hard with his free leg. The dog whined and pressed its body to the floor.

He looked at the torn part of his new jeans and ran to his flat. Julka was licking her legs. The man appeared at the doorway with messy hair and wide eyes; he was holding a rifle in his hands, but Julka was not paying attention to him.

As silence broke, the sound of a gunshot echoed.

He was sitting beside the dog’s body, sobbing and saying again and again.

“She killed my jeans.”

“Mum, it was just pants!” said I, crying.

“It wasn’t. It was his dream,” she said, comforting me.

I can never tell why people make anything their dream.