I feel like a caveman. Actually no. It would be detrimental to the exotic, warlike and resourceful image of these men. I’m more of a cave boy in sneakers. I am not manual and it is certain that I would not survive long in a cave. I’m always afraid of catching a cold. Imagine me with mammoth skin on my back, but with white sneakers. Two years ago, I moved with my partner to the top floor of a condo building. I quickly realized that a noise in the ceiling was bothering me. The roof ventilation system was directly above our home, causing the ceiling sprinklers to vibrate. My girlfriend caught me on a stepladder at four in the morning taping the sprinklers: “What are you doing? » I turned around, surprised. My eyes illuminated in the dark like those of a big raccoon surprised in a trash can. Despite the adhesive strips, I could still hear the clicking noises. We left the place a month later. When visiting other apartments, I always asked the owners stupid questions: “Here, uh, the ventilation on the roof, uh, where is it, huh?” » Stroke of luck: we came across a two-hundred-year-old house converted into two dwellings. The apartment had an old-world charm. It was on two floors. The bedrooms and toilet were upstairs. In the largest bedroom there were two-hundred-year-old skylights. My girlfriend laughed when she saw them: “You’re going to look like Victor Hugo with your windows. »
*****
I am in the car. My glasses are fogged up from the heating. A little nasty hail is falling. I have a massive migraine. My dog barks while watching a woman jogging: “Shh, Bill, Shh!” » I read Kafka’s diary. On February 19, 1922, he wrote: “Hopes? » Two weeks later, he elaborated a little more: “Three days in bed. Small meeting at my bedside. Abrupt change. Leak. Complete defeat. Always universal history locked in rooms. » One of the movers bangs on the window next to me. I jump. Billie screams. Through my dog’s barking, I hear the mover tell me that they’re finished: “What’s your address?” Where do you live now? » I thought for long seconds. The mover remains motionless, staring at me waiting for my response. He narrows his eyes. The hail hits his face.
*****
The first week doesn’t go well. The owner was late with the renovations and didn’t bother to notify us. When we arrive, we cannot wash ourselves. The shower is not yet installed. There is no sink in the bathroom. There is no heating in the rooms. I need to buy a small heater for my office. I write wearing a hat and a scarf. Call me Victor Hugo of the poor. Then, the accident: I fall ten feet into the crawl space of the house. My partner accidentally meets one of the neighbors who lives on the same street as us. She explains to him that this house is cursed. A bit like in the movie Amityville. Everyone who decides to live there leaves after a year. We both cry with our mammoth skins on our backs. In the evening, she asks me to go hunting for food. I take my cell phone and select two meals. One of the delivery guys takes my order. While eating on the floor in front of the television, we see ants appear between the cracks in the floor like little zombies. “Ants in January? Help ! » I spend all day writing a poem about the life of an apple. The neighbors are under permanent renovation. Hammer blows and jigsaw for two months. A wall separates us, but I hear everything. I know everything about their lives. The cat’s name. The child’s math grades. The trip to Old Orchard they’re planning this summer. I want to shout at them: “I’ll take care of the potato salad. » In the evening, there is a knock at the door. He’s the owner’s boyfriend. A caveman. A real. Not a cave boy in sneakers. He is furious: “Your snow plow is removing all the snow from your parking lot into my yard! » I answer: “I’m sorry… I’m going to call them to warn them…” He raises his voice: “You’re going to cancel your snow removal contract… You’re going to pick up your snow with a shovel like everyone else here! ” I do not know what to say. I feel the icy wind entering the apartment. I feel my mammoth skin slowly sliding off my shoulder. At this moment, I am afraid. I’m terribly afraid of catching a cold.
Jean-Christophe’s soap opera
“Jean-Christophe’s soap opera” is first and foremost a feeder to feed the birds. It’s the display of fireworks in a suburban courtyard. It’s a car that you shovel snow with your bare hands. It’s a beach with friends laughing in the distance. It’s the wedding of someone we don’t know. Everyone drinks except us. These are the bells of a church. It amazes us, but we don’t let it show too much. It’s an acquaintance who sends us an old photo of our face. But, we don’t recognize each other, so we say out loud: “Oh my god, is that me?” » It’s a call we receive, but the phone is in the other room. So, we run. Hello? Yes, it’s really me: the story of a poet who leaves his prose for free style. The story of a citizen who buys a bag of seeds to feed the last birds on the street.
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