to the wall, alongside some old Polaroids of shoplifters from twenty years before. The owner had stuck photographs of babies under the glass of the counter. There was a photograph of the owner’s four-year-old son dressed in a suit for a wedding. He looked like a Mafia don.
I had worked there since I dropped out at sixteen. Nicolas would come into the store all the time and sit on the other side of the cash, reading
Le Soleil
newspaper. It was one of those newspapers that have articles about alien landings and women who gave birth to dogs. We had read those since we were little kids.
Porno magazines were a big seller. At first I would get shy when people asked for them, but eventually I got used to it. I met millions of people while working there. The men who stopped by would hit on me and say that I was wasting my time behind the counter and that I should go to Hollywood andbecome a movie star. It made me think that there was a paperback bestseller that they had all read called something like
1001 Compliments
.
One guy kept pulling quarters out of my ears. He pulled out about four dollars before I told him to knock it off. He was going to pay for his magazine and milk that way.
Today they were bothering me more than usual, buying the newspaper and asking me to autograph the front page.
“Little Nouschka Tremblay! Montréal’s sweetheart! What the hell are you doing working in this hellhole? I can’t believe it. It’s like Brigitte Bardot working the cash at the Supermarché Quatre Frères!”
“Yeah, it’s just like that,” I answered.
“Shouldn’t you be married to a millionaire?”
“The minute one walks in and asks me, I’ll say yes.”
“Ha, ha, ha. You’re funny.”
People figured that when you were in the public eye they could walk up to you and say anything that they pleased and you would have to listen and smile, which is what you pretty much ended up doing.
Raphaël walked in without looking at me. I felt like someone had just pulled a fire alarm. My heart started beating like crazy and there was almost a ringing in my head. He was chewing on a toothbrush while flipping through magazines in the rock and roll guitar section. He had a half-smoked cigarette butt behind his ear and a Remembrance Day poppy in his jacket lapel even though it was five months away or seven months ago—I wasn’t sure which. Two dogs were on the sidewalk waiting for him. One of the dogs was a good-looking German shepherd. The other was a hound dog that looked like a man who had lost a lot of weight but hadn’t had time to buy himself a new wardrobe.
He picked up the newspaper with me on the front cover. He held it up for me to see.
A police officer passing by outside spotted Raphaël and came in. The officer asked Raphaël if he could search him. When Raphaël consented, the officer patted him down and confiscated a doorknob that he was carrying in his pocket for some mysterious reason.
“What is this, a weapon?”
“Actually, it’s for opening doors.”
“Wise guy.”
I was about to go after him down the street when the telephone rang. The phone was covered in stickers advertising restaurants that no longer existed. I walked over to the wall and picked the receiver up. Nicolas was on the other end, yelling.
“Channel ten, motherfucker!”
I hung up the phone and climbed up onto the counter in order to turn on the television that was balanced on a thin metal shelf. A little black cat with white paws fell off the counter and whined. It looked like a boy at a funeral whose suit was too small for him. I glanced down at it for a second until it righted itself and then I flicked on the television.
The news was showing footage of me in the parade. Then it cut away to old footage of us on television talk shows, a “best of” reel. I put my hand over my mouth. We’d been out of the spotlight for a long time and now look what I’d done. There we were, up on the television screen, seven years old and singing
I had worked there since I dropped out at sixteen. Nicolas would come into the store all the time and sit on the other side of the cash, reading
Le Soleil
newspaper. It was one of those newspapers that have articles about alien landings and women who gave birth to dogs. We had read those since we were little kids.
Porno magazines were a big seller. At first I would get shy when people asked for them, but eventually I got used to it. I met millions of people while working there. The men who stopped by would hit on me and say that I was wasting my time behind the counter and that I should go to Hollywood andbecome a movie star. It made me think that there was a paperback bestseller that they had all read called something like
1001 Compliments
.
One guy kept pulling quarters out of my ears. He pulled out about four dollars before I told him to knock it off. He was going to pay for his magazine and milk that way.
Today they were bothering me more than usual, buying the newspaper and asking me to autograph the front page.
“Little Nouschka Tremblay! Montréal’s sweetheart! What the hell are you doing working in this hellhole? I can’t believe it. It’s like Brigitte Bardot working the cash at the Supermarché Quatre Frères!”
“Yeah, it’s just like that,” I answered.
“Shouldn’t you be married to a millionaire?”
“The minute one walks in and asks me, I’ll say yes.”
“Ha, ha, ha. You’re funny.”
People figured that when you were in the public eye they could walk up to you and say anything that they pleased and you would have to listen and smile, which is what you pretty much ended up doing.
Raphaël walked in without looking at me. I felt like someone had just pulled a fire alarm. My heart started beating like crazy and there was almost a ringing in my head. He was chewing on a toothbrush while flipping through magazines in the rock and roll guitar section. He had a half-smoked cigarette butt behind his ear and a Remembrance Day poppy in his jacket lapel even though it was five months away or seven months ago—I wasn’t sure which. Two dogs were on the sidewalk waiting for him. One of the dogs was a good-looking German shepherd. The other was a hound dog that looked like a man who had lost a lot of weight but hadn’t had time to buy himself a new wardrobe.
He picked up the newspaper with me on the front cover. He held it up for me to see.
A police officer passing by outside spotted Raphaël and came in. The officer asked Raphaël if he could search him. When Raphaël consented, the officer patted him down and confiscated a doorknob that he was carrying in his pocket for some mysterious reason.
“What is this, a weapon?”
“Actually, it’s for opening doors.”
“Wise guy.”
I was about to go after him down the street when the telephone rang. The phone was covered in stickers advertising restaurants that no longer existed. I walked over to the wall and picked the receiver up. Nicolas was on the other end, yelling.
“Channel ten, motherfucker!”
I hung up the phone and climbed up onto the counter in order to turn on the television that was balanced on a thin metal shelf. A little black cat with white paws fell off the counter and whined. It looked like a boy at a funeral whose suit was too small for him. I glanced down at it for a second until it righted itself and then I flicked on the television.
The news was showing footage of me in the parade. Then it cut away to old footage of us on television talk shows, a “best of” reel. I put my hand over my mouth. We’d been out of the spotlight for a long time and now look what I’d done. There we were, up on the television screen, seven years old and singing
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