 The shoulder charge nearly knocked Oleh Kormachov off his feet. Once he'd regained his balance he turned sharply on his heels to look after his assailant, his exasperation reaching new heights. It was the third time today someone had barged into him with force, and he was sick of it. He watched the back of the culprit strolling along the underpass, showing not even the slightest acknowledgment of his rudeness.
Oleh wanted to run after him and tell him to his face what he thought of him, but he was not such a man: confrontation frightened him. This fact only served to strengthen his anger. His mother, if she were still alive, would not have been so cowardly. Old and decrepit as she had been in her latter years, she would still have been after this young thug in an instant, poking him with her umbrella, telling him what an ignorant oaf he was.
"Manners cost nothing," was one of her sayings. And it was her favorite. From as far back as Oleh could remember his mother had drummed it into him. "Manners!" she would snap harshly whenever he forgot a please or thank you, or on any other occasion when politeness eluded him.
But there were no manners in this town. Communism was supposed to unite people, to bring them together and have them look after one another, but the Soviet ways had the opposite effect. With constant shortages people had to fight one another just to get a loaf of bread or a liter of milk. It was survival of the fittest, or more accurately, survival of the rudest: those prepared to barge and push and shove hardest won out.
Capitalism had come and the shops had filled. Everything was there for those who had the money to pay for it. Oleh had hoped for a revival in manners, but his hopes had proved unfounded. Nothing had changed.
Oleh raged inside. Considering the young man to be safely out of range he shouted after him: "Not only are you ignorant, you are ignorant of your ignorance." The target of his verbal assault turned his head. Oleh was sure he couldn't possibly have heard, but spun about and headed quickly up the stairs and onto Khreshchatyk.
He pulled the belt of his long dark coat tighter around him and kept his eyes firmly fixed on his feet, the mud-splatters on his polished shoes causing him anxious concern. "Manners cost nothing," he muttered, trying to console himself in his mother's memory.
The warm colors and bright lights of a fast-food chain reflected in a puddle at his feet caught his attention. It served unhealthy food, full of sugar and fat (his mother would have strongly disapproved), but it was tasty. And he didn't want to go home just yet and sit alone in his damp apartment for the rest of the evening.
Thoughts of his failings as a man tried to crowd his head. He was a bachelor at age 46 and worked as a lowly civil servant. Unable to work the corrupt system to his advantage, unable to bring himself to accept bribes, unable to hide his contempt for those who did, but lacking the courage to confront them, he had barely progressed at all in his 25 years of service.
Unattractive in looks and personality meant few women had ever showed interest and those that had soon departed. He had no friends and only a handful of acquaintances whom he might occasionally (very occasionally) spend half-an-hour with over a coffee.
He tried to push these thoughts from his head. He was a good man, polite, respectful and honest. It was not his fault such qualities mattered little nowadays.
He pulled open the doors of the fast food restaurant and walked inside. The place was busy. It always was, but this time more than usual. There were long queues at the tills and as he stood he found himself jostled and nudged as others crowded around him.
"Why? What are you doing?" he wanted to scream. "Do you think this place will run out of burgers? Those days are gone now. There is no need for your rudeness."
It was too much for him. He left the queue and headed for the door. He was nearly there when he noticed a young woman sitting on a stool near a wall-mounted table. Her boyfriend was with her who also had a stool to sit on.
Two further stools stood by their table; one with her handbag on, the other had his coat draped over it. At the next wall-mounted table stood two women Oleh guessed to be in their late fifties. They were standing because there were no other stools available.
Oleh's rage fired inside him and before he had time to consider his actions he'd stormed across to the selfish young couple. "What do you think you are doing?" He picked up the girl's handbag and threw it on the floor. "Where are your manners?" Her boyfriend's coat was hurled to the ground. "Do you have no eyes? Can you not see? Does your coat and your bag need a seat more than these two women?"
He picked up a stool and thrust it at one of the women at the next table, whose attention was turned to him due to his yells. "Here," he said, not realizing he was still shouting. The woman looked frightened. "No… Thank you, but we are happy to stand."
"Sit," Oleh demanded, trying to force it under her. He grabbed the other stool and pushed it aggressively towards the other woman.
"Please, thank you, but we are just leaving," she said. The two women picked up their bags that they'd rested on the floor.
"No, no no!" Oleh screamed. "Don't let these young monsters scare you away. "Sit, sit. Enjoy your meal. Sit!"
"Thank you, but no," the first women said, her face red with embarrassment. They headed for the door and were gone.
Oleh's rage intensified. He turned to the young couple. "See, see what your bad manners have done?"
The girl was crying, and the boy was retrieving the contents of her handbag that had scattered across the floor. Oleh noticed silence around him. He turned his head. Everyone was staring at him. A young lady in a crisp blue skirt and white blouse approached. "I'm sorry sir. I am going to have to ask you to leave."
'Me? You want me to leave?"
"Yes sir. We want you to leave."
Humiliated and defeated, Oleh turned towards the door. "It is not me. I am not in the wrong. It is you. All of you. You have no manners." But he spoke quietly and nobody heard.
Neil Campbell is a Scotland-born novelist, poet and essayist who has backpacked all over the world but has chosen to make Ukraine his home - at least for the time being.
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