You Changed My Life by Abdel Sellou Page A

brother on the other side of the Mediterranean. They didn’t exist for me any more than I did for them. We were strangers to each other. In fact, I was a stranger to the entire world, free as the wind, uncontrollable and uncontrolled.

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    Actually, this judge- for-kids thing isn’t bad. Since I don’t get my money from the government anymore, she gives me a little allowance. Enough to buy me a kebab and fries and pay for my transportation. Every three weeks, I go to her office and she hands me my envelope. If I show up with shoes that are borderline too small for my growing feet, she adds a few bills. She hasn’t figured out that the nicer she is, the more I ask for. And it works! At the worst, she gives me a speech.
    â€œAbdel Yamine, you’re not stealing anything, right?”
    â€œOh no, ma’am!”
    â€œThat sweatshirt looks brand-new. It’s nice, by the way!”
    â€œMy father bought it for me. He works, he can afford it!”
    â€œI know your father is a hardworking man, Abdel Yamine . . . but you, have you found any training?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œWell what do you do with your days then? I see that
you’re wearing a track jacket and you like athletic shoes. Do you play any sports?”
    â€œYeah. Kind of.”

    I’m running. I’m always running. I run as fast as I can to get away from the cops who’re chasing me from Trocadéro all the way to the Bois de Boulogne. I sleep in trains in the suburbs, but I don’t sleep much. Once or twice a week, I get a room at a Formule 1 hotel so I can take a shower. I only wear new clothes. I leave them behind when I want to change.
    Tourists rush to the foot of the Eiffel Tower to take photos of themselves. They stand right on the axis with Trocadéro, click-clack-Kodak, the memory’s made and the camera almost put away in the bag: these Americans don’t really take care of their toys. They hold their cameras negligently, dangling from their hands, they’re loaded down with raincoats, water bottles, bags they wear on shoulder straps that get in the way of their walking. I give a demonstration to the younger kids looking to get into this line of work. I provide their training. I get closer, hands in my pockets, with the innocent, blissful look of a guy taking in the view and, suddenly, as quick as a cobra, I snatch the camera and take off toward the east. I cross the Trocadéro gardens, head down the boulevard Delessert, then the rue de Passy, and disappear into La Muette metro station. By the time the American realizes what’s happened and tells the police, I’m back in the neighborhood and the merchandise has already been offloaded. The field is well organized and its headquarters is the Étienne Marcel metro station. There you can always find a taker for a video recorder, a Walkman, a watch, a pair
of Ray-Ban sunglasses. I don’t bother with wallets; they’re not effective enough: since credit cards showed up, people almost never keep cash on them, so it’s not worth it. With technological devices, I easily guarantee myself a nice return. And what’s more, no labor costs.
    The guys that hang around Trocadéro have no common sense. Or they haven’t picked a side yet: thieves versus honest people. They’re the sons of storekeepers, middle managers, teachers, working-class people, these idiots who only skip classes one day out of two, who are looking for a thrill, but not really sure they want to find it. They’re willing to take risks for me, small, brown-eyed, nothing special. They think I’m cool, they’re lonely, they’d want to slum it a little, but since they weren’t lucky enough to grow up in the projects like me, they don’t know the ways to work that we all learn at the foot of our buildings. They act like puppies who run back with the stick their masters threw and pant with their tongues hanging out hoping for a piece