White cups. They are still and clean. Nobody had coffee except me. From a distance, the porcelain mound looks like a hare with closed eyes. I think: “I’m burned too. » I am sitting around a large conference table in the Télé-Québec offices. There are five screens around me. Several journalists responded to the call. My attention is focused on the most critical of our Quebec television. I look at them out of the corner of my eye. I pay attention to each of their expressions. A raised eyebrow, a grin. Then, nothing. They are impassive: Roman sculptures freshly carved into their computer chairs. At other times, they come to life before my eyes. Their mouth opens and closes. They smile. One of them begins to write in his little notebook. The other bites into a croissant. There are crumbs everywhere. I would like to stand up and gently pick them up with the palm of my hand. I calculate the number of times they smile: one, two, three, four times… No, wait, is that a smile or a grimace? The urethra joke with the Ouija board didn’t really provoke a reaction. Shit. The first episode ends in complete silence then the second begins immediately. I tell myself it’s a good thing I stopped drinking four years ago. I would have flushed a three hundred and seventy-five milliliter bottle of gin down the toilet. Vodka and mint gum. Cellar smile. Soothe my anxiety with alcohol to relax my nerves. The container in this format does not make any noise, it is made of plastic. It was perfect for an alcoholic like me. One sip, then another, and everything becomes transparent, fluid, soft. I no longer felt the firmness of the floor. The effect of boots entering muddy terrain. I walked and felt myself being sucked into the ground. It was always this blood alcohol level that I tried to maintain. Obviously, I never succeeded. Just like when I was young and playing Super Mario Bros.. at Nintendo. The hardest level. The one where I had to make the little plumber jump into the air. He walks on little brick cubes in the sky. Suddenly there are cannons shooting out from all over the screen. Down, left, right, up. Every cannon is a personal issue trying to blow up in my face. I try to avoid them as best I can by jumping all over my little brick cube. But, I realize that it was me who created them. I am the Oppenheimer of my own worries. To defend myself, I whisper: “Now I have become Death, the destroyer of worlds. » But, it’s no use. This sentence is not mine, and does not respond at all to the real problem: that of having created errors which explode in a single body. Mine. Every time such a thought arises in my mind, I remember every moment I was happy under the effects of alcohol and I don’t see any. Never. I dip my lips in the coffee, it’s hot. I escape on my white sweater in front of everyone. Shit. A large brown spot. The splash begins its course on my collar then runs up to my navel. Chic. No one pays attention to my damage except Joakim Robillard, the actor who plays the character of Jimmy. He eats a blueberry muffin and smiles at me with his mouth full. I smiled at him in turn. The third episode ends soon, but the screen freezes. Everyone looks at each other, surprised. Sarah, the director, rolls her eyes. Then, the episode magically restarts. I get up and go to the bathroom. I try to get the stain out, but it’s worse. I go back to sit down, everyone waits for me in silence. They have lots of questions for me. A reporter in a New York Yankees cap asks me if I believe in God. She refers to Jimmy who often prays to Jesus. I hesitate then answer: “In high school, I was very atheist. My life was Nietzsche and philosophy.” Everyone laughs. I continue: “But, when you get sick, it feels good to hold on to something. » Another journalist asks me: “Do you often think about death? » I chuckle, but he is very serious. Long silence, I look at my soiled sweater: “I often have dinner with her, but we talk as little as possible… She’s not very talkative anyway. »
*
The next morning, Sarah texts me the journalists’ articles. They liked. They found it funny, touching and poetic. Strangely, I don’t feel relieved. For response, I send three emojis: a hare, a coffee cup and hands. Those who pray.