My math teacher comes close to me. He is a gentleman in his sixties. He wears a shirt with yellow stripes. He shows me the result of a very important exam. Forty-five percent. He whispers to me: “You lost your year…” I remember the residue of white powder on his index finger. Chalk on the blackboard has always repelled me. I always found it barbaric and austere. He said to me: “That’s what happens when you don’t make an effort. ” I am ashamed. A shocking image crosses my mind: breaking my teacher’s finger. Or suck it. Lick the powder until your finger is clean.
*
I clean the end of the faucet with bleach. I meticulously polish the handle as if my life depended on it. I read the rest of the instructions on the small paper. Oh yes, that’s it. I let the hot water run for two minutes. Then cold water for five minutes. With morbid caution, I open the empty bottle and make sure to fill the entire container. I have my well water tested. I read on the Internet that there is a risk that my water could be affected by E. coli or total coliforms. I drink and may wash with yucky bacteria. I take the car and drive to Joliette. I enter the laboratory. The receptionist smiles at me. She seems festive and manipulates the water from my well as if she had a Nebuchadnezzar in her hands. She said: “We will send you the results very soon, sir. » As I leave, I see blurry. Let’s see. I walk on the sidewalk and try to see the street signs, but can’t make them out. Fudge, am I going blind? Since I took high doses of dexamethasone to raise my blood platelets, my whole body reacts: my blood sugar is a roller coaster. I take a sip of apple juice. I don’t have time to go outside to use the leaf blower before I get hyperglycemic. In the morning, it’s the opposite: I wake up sweating. My hypoglycemia makes me tremble and I run to the kitchen to swallow a spoonful of organic honey. And there are the hiccups. They’re shooting my esophagus. A cyclist passes very close to me, I didn’t see him coming. Damn, my vision is really blurry. My eyes are running, I have no tissues, nothing. I don’t want to touch my eyeballs with my dirty fingers. My hands may be infested with total coliforms. I see a sign across the street: an Ultramar convenience store. I run there. I ask the cashier if she has any tissues to sell. She answers no. She sees my distress. My eyelids are gummed up, my cheeks are shiny with tears. With surprising speed, the cashier brandished a long wooden stick in my face. I close my eyes, surprised. She said to me: “Sir, it’s just the toilet key…”
*
The evening. It’s 9:25 p.m. I’m lying in a hospital bed. A camera is staring at me. I don’t know if it works. I get tested for sleep apnea the same day I have my well water tested. A nurse enters the room. Using a cotton swab, she applies electrode gel to different parts of my body: legs, torso, under the chin, temples and in the scalp. I feel like she’s spreading molasses on my head. She said, “Do you have to go to work tomorrow morning?” » I answer: “Mh, no, not really… I mean, I don’t really have a job… I mean…” A little embarrassed, she clarifies: “No problem… you’ll have to shower your head once or twice times before the frost melts…” She leaves the room. I am left alone in the dark with dozens of electrical wires sticking out of my legs and hair. If someone throws a bucket of water on me, I’ll explode, that’s for sure. Suddenly, I receive an email on my cell phone. This is the Joliette laboratory. I open the PDF and look at my well water results: “Non-compliant. Not determined due to the large number of atypical colonies. Avoid drinking and brushing your teeth until further notice. » Another exam. I get up and go into the bathroom of my room. I see my reflection in the mirror. I feel like I have holes in my head. My eyes are watering again. I have foggy, sticky eyelids. I turn on the sink faucet and take long gulps of water. Then I take two large glass mason jars out of my backpack. I fill them to the brim. I will be able to brush my teeth for at least a week with this. I get back into bed and look at the red light from the camera. I wave my hand. Do you see me? I don’t see you.