Fossa

Army Leave, V

I smoked three more cigarettes to give me some time to think and then went to see Marc.
- Hey. . .
- What?
- Marie . . .
- What?
- You have to let me have her.
- No.
- I'll punch your face in.
- No.
- Why not?
- Because this evening, you've had too much to drink and I need my pretty face on Monday for work.
- Why?
- Because I have to give a presentation on incidential fluctuations in an acquired perimeter.
- Oh?
- Yeah.
- Sorry.
- Don't worry about it.
- And Marie?
- Marie? She's mine.
- Not for sure.
- What are you talking about?
- Ah! It's the sixth sense of a soldier who has served in the artillerie.
- Sixth sense, my ass.
- Listen, I'm boxed in here, I can't do anything. It's like this, I'm an idiot, I know. So let's find a solution at least for tonight, okay?
- I'm thinking . . .
- Hurry up.
- Fooooooos. . .
- What?
- We'll play foosball.
- That's not very gallant.
- It will be between us, Mister Buttcheeks who tries to take other people's girlfriends.
- Okay. When?
- Now. In the basement.
- Now?!?!
- Oui, monsieur.
- All right, I'm going to make a cup of coffee first.
- Make me one too, please.
- No problem. I might even piss in it.
- Army cretin.
- Go warm yourself up. Tell her goodbye while you're at it.
- Shut up.
- It's not too bad, go for it. I'll console you afterwards.
- Count on it.


We drank our boiling coffee on top of the sink. Marc got down first. While he was doing that, I plunged both hands into the flour jar. I thought of my mom when she made us breaded scallops!

Now I had to take a piss, that's the worst.

Before going downstairs, I was thinking of a way to improve my chances, because if I'm a maniac at pinball, my brother is a master of foosball.

I played like a foot. The flour, instead of stopping me from sweating, just balled up into dough between my fingers.

Moreover, Marie and the others came down when he was up by six, and at that moment I let go of the handle. I felt her move in my back and my hands slid over the levers. I smelled her perfume and I forgot my offense. I heard the sound of her voice and I let in goal after goal.

When my brother slid the score marker to 10 on his side, I could finally dry my hands on my pants. My jeans were completely white.

Marc looked at me like a sincerely sorry bastard.

Happy birthday, I thought.

The girls said that they wanted to go to bed and asked to go up to their room. I said that I was going to sleep on the coach in the living room to finish drinking in peace and that no one should bother me.

Marie looked at me. I thought that if she had measured 1.29 meteres and weighed 26 kilos at the moment, I would have put her inside my shirt and carried her everywhere with me.

And then the house was finished. The lights were darkened one after another and you didn't hear anything more than some giggles here and there.

I imagined that Marc and his friends were making jokes and scratching at their door.

I whistled for the dogs and I locked the front door.

I never got around to sleeping. Obviously.

I smoked a cigarette in the dark. In the room, you couldn't see anything besides a little red point that moved every so often. And then I heard a noise. Like a piece of paper being crumpled up. I thought first that it was the dogs making noise. I called:
- Bozo? . . . Micmac?

There wasn't any response and the noise had gotten louder, scritch scritch, like taking off a piece of Scotch tape.

I got myself together and stretched my arm to turn on the light.

I am dreaming. Marie is naked in the middle of the room trying to cover herself up with wrapping paper. She had blue paper over her chest, silver on her shoulders, and ribbon on her arms. The craft paper that had covered my moto helmet that my mom gave me acted as sort of a loincloth.

She is walking half-naked in the middle of the wrapping-paper, between the full ashtrays and empty glasses.

- What are you doing?
- You don't see?
- Um, no . . . not really. . .
- Didn't you say that you wanted a present right away, when you arrived?

She was smiling the whole time and tied the red ribbon around her waist.

I got up a bit.
- Hey, don't wrap yourself, I told her.

At the same time that I said this, I asked myself if "don't wrap yourself" meant "don't cover up your skin like that, let me, please".

Or if "don't wrap yourself" meant "don't go too fast, you know, not only have I always been seasick but, what's more, I'm leaving tomorrow for Nancy like the rest of the group, so you see . . ."

Army Leave, IV

All the girls with their buggy fish eyes and their small chests who don't think of anything more than last night's party.

All the girls that wrote their addresses in Sharpie on his arm in the schoolbus while they were pretending to sleep. And those that cry in front of their parents while they take them away towards our family 4-L.

And me . . . . I just get seasick.

I remember Marie quite well. One night, she told the others that she had surprised a young couple making out at the beach and that she heard the sound of the girl's bathing suit that clicked.

How did it go? I asked her just to make her uncomfortable.

And she, looking me right in the eyes, pulled her underwear through her dress and let it go.

Clac.

Like that, she responded, still looking at me.

I was eleven years old.

Marie

You speak and I remember. Clac.

As the night went on, the less I wanted to talk about the army. The less I saw her, the more I wanted to touch her.

I drank too much. My mom threw me nasty looks.

I went outside to the garden with two or three friends from tech school. We talked about cassettes that we meant to lend each other and cars that we would never be able to buy. Michael had installed a great stereo in his 106.

Almost ten thousand francs just to listen to techno...

I sat down on the iron bench. The one that my mother had asked me to repaint all these years. She said that it reminded her of the Tuileries garden.

I smoked a cigarette and looked at the stars. I didn't recognize too many. Whenever I get the chance, I look for them. I recognize four.

Another thing from Glenans books that I didn't retain.

I saw her coming from far away. She was smiling at me. I looked at her teeth and the shape of her earrings.

Sitting next to me, she said:
- May I?

I didn't say anything because I got another stomachache.

- Is it true that you really don't remember me?
- No, it's not true.
- You remember?
- Yes.
- What do you remember?
- I remember that you were ten years old, that you were one meter twenty-nine centimeters high, that you weighed twenty-six kilos and that you had had the mumps the year before, I remember the doctor's visit. I remember that you lived at Choisy-le-Roi and at the time it cost me forty-two francs to come see you by train. I remember that your mother was named Catherine and that your father was Jacques. I remember that you had a turtle named Candy and your best friend was a guinea pig named Anthony. I remember that you had a green bathing suit with white stars and that your mother made you a robe with your name embroidered at the top. I remember that you cried one mroning because you didn't get any mail. I remember that you glued sequins to your face the night of the party and that with Rebecca, you made a musical with the music from Grease . . .
- Oh la la, I can't believe what a good memory you have!

She was even more beautiful when she smiled. She bent backwards. She rubbed her hands against her arms to warm up.
- Here, I told her as I took off my large sweater.
- Thanks . . . but what about you? Are you going to be cold?
- Don't worry about me.

She looked at me in a different way. No other girl would have understood what she understood at that moment.

- What else do you remember?
- I remember that you told me one night behind the Sailboat Hangar that you thought my brother was a show-off . . .
- Yes, I did say that, and you told me that it wasn't true.
- Because it isn't true. Mar does a lot of things easily but he doesn't show off. He does them, that's all.
- You always defended your brother.
- Yeah, he's my brother. Besides, you find more faults with him now, don't you?

She got up and asked me if she could keep my sweater.

I smiled at her as well. In spite of the swamp of misery that I was dealing with, I was happier than ever before.

My mother came up while I was smiling like a big simpleton. She told me that she was going to sleep at my grandmother's house, that the girls had to sleep in the first room and the boys in the second . . .

- Mom, we're not kids anymore, it's fine . . .
- And don't forget to make sure that the dogs are inside before shutting the door and that you . . .
- Okay, Mom.
- You make me worry, you all drank like fish and you, you look completely smashed . . .
- You don't say "smashed" in this case, Mom, you'd say "gone". You see, I'm completely gone. . .

She got up and shrugged her shoulders.
- At least put something on your back, you're going to catch your death of cold.

Army Leave, Part III

I drop my bag onto my feet on the doormat; I open it and begin to search for my keys that were at the very bottom under pounds of dirty socks.

The dogs beat me and I went to turn on the hall lights . . . no electricity.

Ohhhhh crap. Oh crap.

At that moment I heard that moron Marc say:

- Eh, you should be polite to your guests. It's always dark. I tell him:
- What the heck are you talking about?
- Oh, you are the uncurable second-class lieutenant. Too many swear words. We're not the barracks of Hickville here, so you will watch your language or else I won't put the lights back on.
And he turned the lights back on.

No one was missing. All my buddies and family were in the family room with glasses in their hands in the middle of singing "Happy Birthday" under the streamers.

My mom said to me:

- Put down your bag, my big boy.

And she brought me a glass.

It was the first time that they had done something like that for me. I must not look handsome with a gawking face.

I shook hands with everyone and hugged my grandmother and aunts.

When I got to Marc, I went to punch him but he was with a girl. He was holding her by the waist. As for me, at first sight, I already knew that I was in love with her.

I smacked him on the shoulder and pointing with my chin, I asked my brother:
- Is that my present?
- Dream on, moron, he said.

I looked at her again. It was like something was doing a somersault in my stomach. I was sick and she was beautiful.
- You don't recognize her?
- No.
- But it's Marie, Rebecca's friend.
- ???
-

She said to me:
- We were roommates. At Glenans, don't you remember?
- No, sorry. I shook my head and started to think of a plan. I got myself something to drink.

You ask if I remember. Sailing training, I still have nightmares. My little brother always first, the little pet of the teachers, tanned, muscular, always at ease. He read the manuals at night and he understood everything once on board. My brother who set out on trapeze and whooshed yelling into the waves. My unsinkable brother.

Army Leave, Part II

At the beginning, I had insomnia due to all of their movement and speech but now I'm used to it. People say that the army, it changes a man; personally, the army made me more pessimistic than before.

I'm not close to believing in God or in a Superior Thing becuase it's not possible to have created the barracks of Nancy-Bellefond that I see every day on purpose.

It's funny; I realize that I think more when I'm on the train or metro. . . even the army has its good points.

When I arrive at the East Station, I always hope secretly that there will be someone waiting for me. It's idiotic. I know full well that my mother is still at work at this hour and that Marc is not the kind of guy to cross the suburbs just to carry my bag, but I always have that weak hope.

Before getting off of the escalators to catch the metro I give a last look around in case there's someone . . . and each time on the escalator, my sac seems even heavier.

I'd like for someone to wait for me somewhere . . . it's really not complicated.

Let's go, it's time to get back to the house have a good fight with Marc because here, I'm starting to think too much and I'm going to blow a circuit. While waiting, I light a cigarette in line. It's against the rules, I know, but if they come after me I'll just whip out my military card.

I work for Peace, mister! I woke up at four o'clock this morning for France, ma'am!

No one was at the Corbeil station . . . that was even worse. Maybe they forgot that I was coming tonight. . .

I have to go on foot. I'm sick of public transportation. It's everything in public that I'm sick of, I think.

I met up with these guys on the block that I went to school with. They don't insist that I shake hands with them, that's for sure. A soldier, it scares them.

I made a stop at a cafe that is at an angle to my street. If I had spent less time in this cafe, I probably wouldn't have ended up at the Unemployment Center in six months. At one time, I was behind the pinball machine more often than on campus . . . I would wait five hours and when the others came out of class after listening to the professors all day, I would resell my free games. For them it was a good deal: they paid half price and had a chance to write their initials on the high score board.

Everyone was happy and I bought myself my first pack of cigarettes. I swear that at that moment I believed that I was king. The king of fools, yes.

The boss said:
- So . . . still in the army?
- Yeah.
- That's good.
- Yeah.
- Come see me sometime after I close up so we can talk . . . I have to say that I was in the army and it was really something else. . . no one would ever let us get away with that for a yes or a no . . . I tell you.

And with that he stayed at the bar counter to relive the war with alcohol-induced memories.

The army. . .

I'm tired. I've had enough of this bag cutting into my shoulder and the street that never ends. When I arrive at my house the gate is shut. Oh, this is the last straw. I want to cry right here.

I've been awaye since four o'clock in the morning, I just crossed half the country in a stinky train and now, it would be time to just let everything go, don't you think?

The dogs were waiting for me. In came Bozo who jumped for joy and Micmac who bounded three feet with each jump. . . it was a party. You could say that this was a welcome!

I threw my bag onto the curb and crouched down. My two dogs jumped all over me and, for the first time in weeks, I felt better. So just like that, there were living beings that loved me and waited for me on this small planet. Come here, my treasures. Oh yes, you're a pretty one, oh yes, you pretty things . . .

The house was dark.

Army Leave

Every time I do something, I think of my brother, and every time I think of my brother I remember that he would have done it better than me.

This has been going on for twenty-three years.

You can't really say that it's made me bitter; actually, it's made me think more clearly.

Here, for example, I'm on the train number 1458 in the province of Nancy. I'm on leave; the first time in four months.

So, I'm doing my military service like a regular guy while my brother is in a higher regiment, always eats at the officer's table, and gets to go home every weekend. Give me some of that.

I'm going home by train. When I get to my seat (which I had reserved beforehand), there was an old matron sitting with all of her children spread out on her knees. I didn't dare tell her. I sat down facing her after having balanced my enormous canvas bag in the baggage hold. In the compartment, there was also a cute-looking girl who was reading a book about ants. She had a freckle at the corner of her mouth. Too bad.

I had already bought a sandwich in the train restaurant.

And here's how I would have spent my day had I been my brother: he would have given a huge smile to the old matron and shown her his ticket, "excuse me, ma'am, listen, perhaps I've made a mistake, but it seems like . . . " and the lady would have excused herself like mad and shoved all her stuff in her bag and gotten up right away.

As for the sandwich, he would have made a little fit next to the station saying that for 28 francs, they had better put a little thicker piece of ham on, and the server with his ridiculous black cardigan would have changed it right away. I know; I've already seen it happen.

Onto the girl; it's even more vicious. He would have looked at her in such a way that she would have fallen for him immediately.

But she had known at the same time that he had noticed her freckle. Then, she would have been hard-pressed to concentrate on her ants.

That's if he had been interested in her.

Because in any case, the non-commissioned officers travel in first class and, there, it goes without saying that the girls don't have freckles.

Me, I wasn't able to tell if this cute girl was interested in my cowboy boots or shaved head, because I fell asleep right away. They had us wake up at four in the morning to do some stupid drill.

Marc, my brother. he did his service after three years of prep school and before starting engineer school. He was twenty years old.

Me, I did it after my two years at tech school and before looking for work in the electronics sector. I am twenty-three years old.

Anyways, it's my birthday tomorrow. My mom insisted that I come home. I don't really like birthdays, I'm too old now. But oh well; it's for her.

She's lived alone since my dad ran off with our neighbor the day of their nineteenth anniversary. Symbolically, that's pretty strong.

I couldn't understand why she didn't get together with anyone else. She could have and probably still can, but . . . I don't know. With Marc, we talked about it once and we thought the same thing, that she was afraid. She doesn't want to risk being abandoned again. Once, we tried to get her to put an add in the dating section of the paper, but she never wanted to.

Since then, she's gotten two dogs and a cat, so you'd think with a menagerie like that, it's practically mission impossible to find a good guy.

We live in Essonne, next to Corbeil, a little villa on the National 7. It's fine, it's calm.

My brother, he never says 'villa', he says 'house'. He finds the word 'villa' too redneck.

My brother never got over not being born in Paris.

Paris. He never stops talking about it. I think that the best day of his life was when he first rode the Metro. For me, Paris or Corbeil, it's all the same.

One of the rare things that I remember from school was the theory of a great philosopher of olden times who said that the important thing was not where you are but the state of mind you find yourself.

I remember that he wrote his for one of his friends who got restless and wanted to travel. The other said to him roughly that it wasn't too bad to have to drag around all his crap with him. The day that my teacher told us that, my life changed.

It's one of the reasons that I chose manual labor.

I prefer that my hands reflect my life. It's that simple.

In the army, you meet a bunch of morons. I live with these guys that I never would have known before. I bunk with them, I go to the bathroom with them, I grub with them, I play cards with them, and still they disgust me. It's not a question of being a snob or anything, it's just that these guys aren't anything. I don't mean like having sense, that's like an insult, I'm talking about weighing something.

I know I'm not explaining very well but at least I understand myself; if you take one of these guys and you put them on a scale, obviously you'd have weight but really, they don't weigh anything. . .

None of them could be considered as substantial. Like ghosts, you could put your arm right through them and touch nothing but noisy emptiness. Them, they would tell you that if you put your arm through them you would risk losing an arm. Snarf snarf.

Carrefour Mascot

So . . . the Carrefour kids' mascot. He's a goofy dude, and heavily concentrated in the cereal/cookie aisles. I'm sure there's even more boxes of crazy product that I didn't even see.

To start, this is a bag of gummi candy, which is the best thing ever. They're 'super bears', which is nice, but the Ghostie is sticking his stripper pole right into the koala bear's butt. The bear looks concerned.




Cereal time! He's glutted the market. This stuff was everywhere. There was an entire line of it the entire way down the cereal aisle. Most of the 'chocolate'-themed cereal had similar imagery - Ghostie being wacky! and the milk splashing every whichway.




One last time. Here, he is surfing, on a bent spoon. Is there a point to surfing if you are a ghost?







OH MY GOD! HE'S NOT A GHOST AT ALL! Upon enlargement, it is clear that he is a GENIE! Oh, this is just too much for my weak heart. The lamp really is in each photo so far, but it's kind of like a 'Where's Waldo' to find it. I'm just . . . wow. Genie is pretty far down on the list of things that this blue blob resembles.

Carrefour Mascot II

Note that previously, 'crocc' has been the accepted spelling, but now it changes to the fancier 'croq'. Not like it makes sense anyway. Just checked the dictionary - a 'croc' is a fang. No help. Perhaps it's short for croquant, which means 'crunchy'.



Moving on. The same handy dictionary informs me that fourrées means 'filled', or also 'fur-lined'. Hee.







This looks strikingly similar to the last cereal, except for the dairy-based center.







Why is this in English? Neither 'corn' nor 'flakes' resemble their French counterparts, and Carrefour doesn't really have a tradition of keeping the original names of any other cereals. They almost got me with this one - the lamp is hidden in the sparkledust of sugar that is about to coat the flakes.

Carrefour Mascot III

Continuing on from breakfast cereal . . .

This is an eight-pack of mini cereal boxes, but I can't even focus on them right now since Ghostie (he'll always stay that way in my heart) is so rad! With that huge boombox and backwards hat, I'm not sure if I'm comfortable anymore with my favorite mascot. It's a slippery slope. Note how all of the individual boxes have been funkified to fit with his new image. I'm starting to worry about this trend.

Now, onto savory biscuits. I am sighing relief, since nothing says 'uncool' like a scooter, especially one with crackers for wheels. He'd better hope for a lot of gentle downward slopes, since I can't imagine that a scooter would be the easiest thing for someone without legs.

Nothing really going on here except a Jenga situation of cookies. It's interesting to note that imprinted on the actual cookies, his hat looks distinctly more turban-ish, which makes more sense for a genie than a dumb red hat.

Not really sure what he's doing to the tasty chocolate bar here, except levetating. He does include, however, the paradox of being both 'crunchy' and 'tender'.

Carrefour Mascot IV

Things are wrong with this box. First, the name of the product is "Low-fat Sugared Snacks, Filled with Chocolate". Then, Ghostie attaches handles to the bottom of two of the cookies to help him fly, which is ridiculous because he can fly just fine on his own. What's more, he seems to be having difficulty staying up with them. Maybe they're weighing him down. They are a flying impediment.

I think that I just have to stop worrying about why he needs vehicles or aids to help him mobilize. Instead, I'll ponder why he looks so droopy-eyed in his portrait of chocolate imprinted on every biscuit.


Same product, different chocolate.
But, why is he holding onto the rug? Is he afraid of falling off? Is it going too fast? The wagon above seemed pretty speedy but he was doing just fine.

Carrefour Mascot V

In a stunning move of consistancy, this product is called "Little Boats of Strawberry Pulp", and Ghostie is riding in a little boat! Of strawberry pulp! I must take issue with his lame sailor's hat, though.


Oh, he listened! The hat is gone, and he's surfing his cares away while surrounded by light-pink raspberries that are acting as buoys.



Getting a little wild here, Ghostie. I can't tell what he's holding onto around the sail - it looks like it's just a hovering pink ring. It also seems as though the sail has been fashioned from his very own hat.


WHOA! He's going EXTREME! Bad-boy sunglasses, surfboard practically vertical - what kind of example is this for children? And, dare I say, I detect a hint of malice in his genie eyes that have heretofore only reflected innocence and light?

Carrefour Mascot VI

I don't know why he's ramming into the Squishy Cookie package, nor why he is wearing a helmet when he seems to be using the facemask as a shield. Also, how is that hat still following behind him? It's been replaced.


Repeat, groan. Except now the Squishy Cookie contains a strawberry-milk hybrid filling, and Ghostie's on a bobsled! His running team seems to consist of a strawberry-filled cookie, while the vanilla-filled ones desperately try to keep up.

We've made our way into the juice market. From this photo, it seems like he's actively batting the orange away from the drink. Shoo, real fruit. We don't need your kind around these parts.


Apple juice is always boring, even with a supernatural mascot that posesses manual dexterity.




Phew. The saga has finally reached its end.