Free Speech

When they say that nothing is free, they obviously mean the following: nothing except for free speech, an indisputable privilege of a democratic community that we’ve been lucky to build over the centuries of grueling toil. It’s just that some things are implied but not spoken out loud. So, free speech is free by definition. I — a well-educated young man, brought up with a sharp sense of justice, distaste for rudeness, and a certain feeling of responsibility for what we, human beings, so to speak supreme representatives of the Animal kingdom, are to leave behind us on this planet — I well knew this unspoken rule, this recognized by all right to speak up and to be heard. Imagine my surprise, my indignation, when I learned first-hand that when they say nothing is free, this is exactly what they mean, and there is no exception from this rule, and there are no hidden, implicit implications; sorry for this tautology.

Here is how everything happened. I am writing down my still-fresh reminiscences with a futile hope (I have now come to recognize the futility of all my best intentions) that they will find an understanding and sympathetic reader. I am writing them down consciously and of my free will (by now, the reader might already be capable of recognizing the purely proverbial nature of this, so to speak, adage—as nothing, absolutely nothing in this cruel world comes for free).

One April morning, I was hurrying down Independence Avenue, running late for my first day at a new work. Since early childhood, it has been my wildest dream to become a political journalist, cartoonist, and opinion columnist - one of the proudest professions manifesting the freedom of speech. The day before, I had successfully passed my interview. My friendly and plump interviewer told me they would be happy if I agreed to start my work the next day. It was very fortunate for me, as this was my 10th interview, and the money I had saved from my previous what I derisively called side gigs was running low. And my happiness was clearly written on my face, which made Mr. Schmidt smile genially.

So, I was almost running on the sidewalk of Independence Avenue to my new office. On passing the Supreme Court Building, I noticed an old gray-haired man in a wheelchair. In his hands, there was what appeared to be a protest poster reading: “I am mute, and yet you are going to arrest me for foul language in a public place and verbal insults of His Excellency You Know Who (aka The Asshole).” Of course, to read the text on the poster, I had to slow down, and eventually, I stopped completely, looking at the old man somewhat amazed, somewhat amused. He nodded to me friendly and, with a hand gesture, invited me to join his silent protest. I was about to accept his invitation (thinking: “Here, there’s some curious material for my first article!”) when suddenly a group of big, brawny masked men (an experienced eye would right away recognize glorious militsiya officers) appeared out of nowhere in front of the man in the wheelchair. Two square-built individuals separated from the group and approached me. Confident that there’s nothing to worry about and that this misunderstanding can be resolved quickly and without violence (already trying on different catchy titles for my first article, like “Free Speech, Public Opinion, and Self-Expression of Individuals—All Are Welcome on the Beautiful Streets of M.”). I opened my mouth to say—

“Shut up, you f*cking bitch!”

What was I going to say? I can’t remember. Two men twisted my hands behind my back, and the next moment, I found myself lying on the floor inside a van smelling of cigarettes and gasoline.