“Here, young girls give ass to boys in turtlenecks or BMWs. She has a car – she works” [FRAGMENT KSI¡¯KI]

Please, priest

– God bless you – I said to the man who opened the door to the rectory in a small former state farm village, where I was a curator at the beginning of my career, first a social curator and then a professional one.

– What is it about? – the priest, undoubtedly the parish priest, answered my Christian question. He went out the door and closed the door so that I wouldn’t hear the laughter of the drunken whore. I grimaced slightly, because despite the early afternoon hour, the parish priest was full of alcohol and cigarettes.

– You see, you see, because I am a curator… – politely, I start the conversation and want to explain my problem, that is, ask about a certain woman who raises three children, each of them with another, and – as it happens in life – sometimes things happen there are small educational problems. And the priest, like a priest, even an intoxicated one, knows his lambs like no one else, visits them after Christmas carols, sees them at mass and in the countryside under monopoly – he is perfectly aware.

– So what, the curator? – He asked. Only then did I notice that the priest was holding a cigarette in his hand. He inhaled and exhaled the smoke with a cough.

-Steeefan, are you coming?! – From behind the closed door came a loud cry and the giggle of what seemed to be the second lady, the sheep.

– You see, I’m busy, I don’t have time – the priest replied and turned away from me to return to his modest, two-hundred-meter rooms, because it must be admitted that the rectory is nice, located by a lake, in the buffer zone of a national park.

– Fuck, Halina, don’t be stupid! – this time I heard a man’s voice, making me jealous that I wasn’t inside and watching Halina’s antics.

– But do you know Pijałkowska? Does he live next door in the block? – I’m not giving up. Back then, I had not yet developed the so-called sense of the moment, i.e. giving up collecting information when I became an openly uninvited guest. – Pijałkowska, has three children. Does she drink?

The parish priest was already disappearing through the door and was about to close it in my face, but he hesitated, leaned his head towards me and replied:

– Everyone drinks here.

And he closed the door.

At that time I was just starting to learn about life in the provinces. Invisible from large cities, single-family housing estates or beautiful apartments in the city center. Life that started at five in the morning in front of the shop and at eight in the same shop ended. A life in which children, looking for their mother or father, go to the store or sometimes behind the store – because there is a separate place for “people eating on the spot”. Social enclaves where you’ll get punched in the face if you splash your tongue too hard or a woman will let loose, because what other pleasure can she find in the village? Isolated from larger groups of people, where every second person in their thirties has symptoms of alcohol addiction, and they pass on their damaged alcohol genes to others in their drunken excesses. A place where young seventeen- or eighteen-year-old girls give ass to boys in Golfs or BMWs, because such cars are a symbol of status. He has a car – he works. It is also the only way to break away from an alcoholic father or stepfather and a mother who is abused by him.

In one of such villages, I supervised two minors. They were pretty girls, but they were incredibly stupid and walked around with their asses on. They fucked anyone who promised to take them to a better world, and when he gave them alcohol, the two of them could rob one guy in a car. And I, young, stupid, full of ideals, gave them morals about the need to complete their studies, respect themselves, work and get a profession. Only after some time I found out that each of them wanted to fuck me and fuck the probation officer. This is the success of resocialization…

How did I know what they were doing? When I came across a day when they were arguing with each other, one of them was talking about what the other was doing. Sometimes I had to interrupt their stories because I didn’t need to know so many details. As you can guess, the former minors are still under the supervision of a probation officer after many years, with several children under their belt.

My supervisors in this village have developed a certain pattern. They knew that I visited the families one by one, starting from the nearest house at the entrance to the town. When the era of cell phones came, they started sharing information that I was on the premises. They sent an SMS saying something like this: “There’s a f**ker at my place.” And then the f*** bombs popped. You won’t find the rest of the idiots, if they were drinking, and if you do, they are polite, obliging and cleaning or cooking dinner. This message may be useful to those who think that idiots can be kept under surveillance. Oh naive ones!

A person adapts perfectly to the prevailing situation. Such a fucking cockroach that you can’t get rid of easily. I have a theory that an idiot adapts twice as well as an average, averagely intelligent person. After all, how much cunning and effort must be put into swindling the state for benefits, swindling in front of the court and probation officer, doing illegal things without paying taxes, and on top of that, laughing in your face and lying. Has anyone ever heard of a pathetic person declaring bankruptcy, crying about the company going bankrupt, being cheated by contractors, not being able to afford mortgage payments, being evicted to the street?

I bet you don’t.

And the parish priest? In the opinion of my wonderful supervisors, “every peasant must drink and drink, and the priest must be a peasant too.” And that’s it.

You are pathetic. From the probation officer’s notebook – cover promotional materials of the RM publishing house