if he had been shot to death in a duel. No one sleeps like young sociopaths meditating on the wonders of being themselves.
We all passed out in the same room; odd as that might sound, it seemed natural. Nicolas pushed the pile of clothes half off the other unused twin bed and crashed in it, the way he always did when Adam slept over.
Adam’s suitcase was next to the bed. He clearly needed a place to stay. I never trusted love as a motivation for someone wanting to sleep with me. The cat’s purring made the sound of a motorboat’s engine, taking us off into the deep, deep waters of sleep. While the cockroaches put on their minuscule armoured plates and helmets and ventured out on the counter, looking for cookie crumbs.
My flight instinct got crazy the next day. I kept trying to kick Adam out all morning, but he wouldn’t go. I threatened to call 911 because he was taking so long putting on his shoes. Nobody else minded that he was there. He declared that he was going to make eggs florentine. You never knew when he was going todecide to whip up a plate of eggs florentine. It could be at five in the afternoon. I found it irritating, but Nicolas and Loulou clapped in delight.
I was about to tell Adam to get out again, but he turned on the old record player and put on Jacques Laframboise, a popular Québécois crooner who had walked in front of a train one night. The song was about his wife, Madeleine, who cheats on him all the time. We all started singing along to it no matter what else we were doing.
“This is a formidable record collection. You should have your own radio show called
The Loulou Tremblay Hour!
You’re an archivist! In a hundred years this apartment is going to be a museum. They won’t move a thing.”
Loulou beamed because he was proud of his trash. Adam looked at me and winked. I smiled back. I found his arrogance attractive despite myself. Rarely had such confidence been seen on Boulevard Saint-Laurent. He had imported it from Westmount, all sparkling and glorious, like Marco Polo returning from the East with the first plate of spaghetti and meatballs that anyone had ever seen.
I liked that he was full of possibilities. I wanted to be full of possibilities too. I wanted to travel the world and be an intellectual too. I liked what he was throwing away. Most of all, I wanted an education. I was envious that he had one. As the music blared, I realized that it was time to go to work at the magazine store.
I didn’t know why my temper was so short with them all these days. I calmed down as soon as I was out of the apartment and in the lobby. I stopped for a minute to breathe and then went outside, feeling that I had escaped the noisy Tremblays.
C HAPTER 10
Growing Up Naked
I STEPPED OUT OF MY BUILDING AND SAW A CREW of film people standing next to a beat-up van. One of the crew members had a camera on his shoulder, and a girl was holding a clipboard. A man with a microphone in his hand and a tape recorder in a leather bag approached me. He was wearing a blue polo shirt and jeans. He had thinning black hair that he combed upward and glasses. He looked a few years older than Nicolas and me. He looked very eager.
“Who the hell are you guys?” I instinctively put a hand out in front of my face.
“My name’s Hugo Vaillancourt. I’m a filmmaker. I was to do a brand new Tremblay family documentary. Sort of in the spirit of the one that Claude Jutra made a dozen years ago. You know the one!
La famille Tremblay dans l’hiver
.”
“Nobody cares about that documentary anymore.”
“You’re kidding. That documentary was like … I don’t know the word … classic … genius. I watched it every yearwhen they played it at Christmas. It’s like eggnog to me. Do you know what I mean?”
“I don’t, but you’re making me very uncomfortable.”
“The way your family interacted. There was so much warmth. And funny! You guys were hysterical. You were like everything that’s unique about being
We all passed out in the same room; odd as that might sound, it seemed natural. Nicolas pushed the pile of clothes half off the other unused twin bed and crashed in it, the way he always did when Adam slept over.
Adam’s suitcase was next to the bed. He clearly needed a place to stay. I never trusted love as a motivation for someone wanting to sleep with me. The cat’s purring made the sound of a motorboat’s engine, taking us off into the deep, deep waters of sleep. While the cockroaches put on their minuscule armoured plates and helmets and ventured out on the counter, looking for cookie crumbs.
My flight instinct got crazy the next day. I kept trying to kick Adam out all morning, but he wouldn’t go. I threatened to call 911 because he was taking so long putting on his shoes. Nobody else minded that he was there. He declared that he was going to make eggs florentine. You never knew when he was going todecide to whip up a plate of eggs florentine. It could be at five in the afternoon. I found it irritating, but Nicolas and Loulou clapped in delight.
I was about to tell Adam to get out again, but he turned on the old record player and put on Jacques Laframboise, a popular Québécois crooner who had walked in front of a train one night. The song was about his wife, Madeleine, who cheats on him all the time. We all started singing along to it no matter what else we were doing.
“This is a formidable record collection. You should have your own radio show called
The Loulou Tremblay Hour!
You’re an archivist! In a hundred years this apartment is going to be a museum. They won’t move a thing.”
Loulou beamed because he was proud of his trash. Adam looked at me and winked. I smiled back. I found his arrogance attractive despite myself. Rarely had such confidence been seen on Boulevard Saint-Laurent. He had imported it from Westmount, all sparkling and glorious, like Marco Polo returning from the East with the first plate of spaghetti and meatballs that anyone had ever seen.
I liked that he was full of possibilities. I wanted to be full of possibilities too. I wanted to travel the world and be an intellectual too. I liked what he was throwing away. Most of all, I wanted an education. I was envious that he had one. As the music blared, I realized that it was time to go to work at the magazine store.
I didn’t know why my temper was so short with them all these days. I calmed down as soon as I was out of the apartment and in the lobby. I stopped for a minute to breathe and then went outside, feeling that I had escaped the noisy Tremblays.
C HAPTER 10
Growing Up Naked
I STEPPED OUT OF MY BUILDING AND SAW A CREW of film people standing next to a beat-up van. One of the crew members had a camera on his shoulder, and a girl was holding a clipboard. A man with a microphone in his hand and a tape recorder in a leather bag approached me. He was wearing a blue polo shirt and jeans. He had thinning black hair that he combed upward and glasses. He looked a few years older than Nicolas and me. He looked very eager.
“Who the hell are you guys?” I instinctively put a hand out in front of my face.
“My name’s Hugo Vaillancourt. I’m a filmmaker. I was to do a brand new Tremblay family documentary. Sort of in the spirit of the one that Claude Jutra made a dozen years ago. You know the one!
La famille Tremblay dans l’hiver
.”
“Nobody cares about that documentary anymore.”
“You’re kidding. That documentary was like … I don’t know the word … classic … genius. I watched it every yearwhen they played it at Christmas. It’s like eggnog to me. Do you know what I mean?”
“I don’t, but you’re making me very uncomfortable.”
“The way your family interacted. There was so much warmth. And funny! You guys were hysterical. You were like everything that’s unique about being
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