KISSING NUMBER
Philippe Saint-Jean
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Published by:
Philippe Saint-Jean at Smashwords
Copyright (c) 2011 by Philippe Saint-Jean
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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– Seriously? Texting? While I’m just across the hall?
– The apparatus moved last night.
– I mean I even heard you type.
– Check it out, though.
– Who touched it?
– No, no. All by itself, the little guy. ‘Bout a quarter to one. I looked at the video, no one was there.
– Antenna? Piezo? Nothing there?
– Nothing on the antenna. A little something on the piezo starting about 5 minutes earlier, but barely detectable... could have come from a train passing by far away. Although 5 minutes sounds a tad long for a train. I wouldn’t have picked it up if I weren’t looking for it. Of course I don’t know what happened after, since it knocked off the piezo once it popped out of the socket.
– Gamma burst?
– Nothing on the semi.
– …
– …
– Ça n’a aucun sens.
– I know.
– On se bat pour en sortir une douzaine d’électron-volts, combien pour le faire sortir de son socle?
– I know. We’re in macroscopic country here. Boggles the mind.
– It can’t be. –––– Show me the clip.
***
- 1988 -
Calvin avait l’habitude de marcher rapidement dans le corridor de son école secondaire sans lever les pieds. C’était possible, car le plancher du corridor en terrazzo était maintenu impeccablement propre – assez pour y patiner. En marchant, il laissait toujours sa main gauche traîner sur le mur, ne la retirant que lorsqu’il passait à côté des protubérances en bois compressé – peintes du même marine très foncé que le mur lui-même, fait de béton – qui servaient à masquer des tuyaux d’où provenaient des coulisses de rouille. Elles étaient couvertes de 2 à 3 centimètres de poussière. Le nettoyage de leur surface supérieure ne faisait pas partie de la description de tâche du personnel d’entretien. Zach et Javier regardaient Calvin venir vers eux en s’échangeant un sourire qui disait : on devrait lui dire de ne plus marcher comme ça, mais on ne le fera pas.
– C: I thought I’d find you guys in here. Couple of things I wanted to talk to you about.
– Zach: Hence the hyper-drive walking.
– C: You know Ganacks? From 304? The dude just got a step closer to the first Dexter Slam in modern history.
– Zach: No fudging way. He got to three? When?
– Javier: Dexter Slam?
– Zach: When, Calves? And most important, with whom?
– Javier: …?
–Zach: You’re kidding, right, Jav-boy? You never heard of it? Calves, would you mind explaining to our socially inadequate friend here.
– C: I can’t believe you’ve never heard of this, Jav. It goes way back, like thirty years ago or something. It’s a contest. Very challenging. Been won three times. First by Jean-Paul Maquette back in ‘66, then by another guy a couple of years later, though no one seems to remember his name which is strange considering the detailed descriptions of his achievement that has been well-documented, graphically speaking, frescoed on a somewhat hidden wall in the 3rd floor boys’ bathroom. Then finally, by Bruce Longhorn, most recent in line, 1978.
Most guys now believe that the last one really was the last ever and that it just can’t be done anymore.
– Jav : De quoi on parle?
– C: Je dirais que l’évènement a été victime de sa propre légende, parce que les parties intéressées sont désormais mises en garde à chaque début d’année, d’après ce qu’on dit, lors d’entretiens privés avec certaines enseignantes ayant elles-mêmes étudié ici à la belle époque. On devine facilement les raisons pour lesquelles elles ressentent le besoin d’organiser ces entretiens.
–Zach: It’s a bit of a weird thing, though, when you think about it. I mean, what’s the point of warning thirteen-year-olds about a thing like that? Old folks have this notion that we lack some sort of maturity that they are entitled to pass on to our age and, quite frankly, I find the whole attitude towards us quite contemptuous, plus the perception widely inaccurate. For instance, take any thirteen-year-old girl and consider for a minute the choices she has to make about encounters with boys. Completely unconstrained choices. Complete freedom. Projecting herself in the relationship, in the long-term, is just a kicker at her age. I look at my half-sister who’s now 23 and I can see her making poor decisions over and over — sentimental ones I mean — ‘cause now she’s starting to think about selecting a viable partner for eventual reproduction down the line, one that would also be able to contribute regularly to a mortgage and joint RRSPs and so on. So when I turn to her and ask what she sees in whatever new guy she’s dating, her answer is systematically: “I think he’s funny”, and while I typically restrain from commenting on this criterion I sometime feel gripped to confront her and tell her that measuring compatibility with a potential soul mate based on the limited fact that the counterparty can produce a single witty line under the influence of three beers might fall short of doing the trick, over the long-term that is, but I look at her and I can tell that she knows this already. Of course. But that’s all she’s got, and the realization of this shortcoming, I think, weighs heavily on the management of the sentimental realm of her life. So my point is: talk about a girl who needs guidance. She’s the one – along with of her same-aged friends, which incidentally probably includes some of the teachers Calves was referring to earlier – who could use a word of advice about guys. You know. While our thirteen-year-old girls, on the other hand, being a) already well-aware of all bio-mechanical considerations concerning the matters at hand —thanks to ass-kickin’, government-sponsored, -approved sex ed— and b) completely willing to engage in such relationships with the prior understanding that the counterparty might be a total ass, as long as he can perhaps pretend to be exclusive for a period of about a week or two, while as well practicing proper hygiene – minimal – and keeps wearing those cool sneakers. That’s about it. Plus the non-spoken rule that age difference with the counterparty shouldn’t exceed 18 months. Now I’m asking you, my friends, what’s wrong with throwing a little dextering in, assuming that proper hygiene is ensured throughout?
– Javier: Who’s Dexter?
– C: I’ve heard those annual awareness presentations are lead by Miz McClatchy. I think it makes sense. You can tell she has a past. Something in the tone of her voice, comme quand on a le trois heures de bio en ligne le vendredi après-midi et qu’elle fatigue vers la fin.
– Z: You bet she has a past. And a great future too, with yours truly, hopefully. But do tell about the Slam, I heard the set of rules once, I can’t seem to remember.
– C: You need to succeed in four different public spaces under the following categories: a) Transportation - either city bus or school bus, basically. There’s been discussion about whether the minivan for the sports team would qualify, but it’s been ruled out as “not public enough”. Also the vehicle must be in motion. b) Corridors and Classrooms - this one is pretty self-explanatory. Labs and the Art Room are allowed, but not the Phys. Ed. rooms c) Entertainment Venues - usually movie theaters, yet we’ve seen a few planetariums here and there and even a museum, although the entertainment value of a museum has been questioned and the verdict is still pending. And finally d) Cafeteria. That last one’s the real bitch, ‘cause the locker area is out of bounds. And with all the different counterparties across the board, of course, else where would the fun be. A lot of guys reach two, but that’s sort of a plateau, ‘cause the word usually starts spreading pretty quickly.
–Z: Wasn’t there some sort of time limit too?
– C: Before you reach the age of fourteen, and all four must register in a single academic year. You have to produce either a passport or a birth certificate. It’s a Junior Cup. I heard there’s a similar kind of extravaganza at the more senior level, but no one will tell me about it. I guess the oral tradition learned from its mistakes. Or perhaps there are some legal issues with the senior one.
– Z: How old is Ganacks anyway? Is he even thirteen? That cute bastard. They’re all just mad about him. Something about his hair, and him mixing red and orange in his clothing. I wonder if he’ll grow fat, as an older guy. His physiognomy seems to indicate so. –– Well, keep us posted on the story, Calves. Who knows? He might be the one to finally pull it off.
– Javier: I still don’t understand what you guys are talking about.
– Z: Then it’s none of your business, kiddo. You need to grow up. I mean literally. You should consider hormonal therapy, you look like nine or something. Calves, anything else?
– C: Oh! Jav, I came here looking for you, actually. ––– Y’a Monsieur Schnauzer qui te cherche.
– Javier: Le directeur? Qu’est-ce que j’ai fait?
– Quelque chose de grave, apparemment. L’ai jamais vu comme ça. Catatonique.
– T’aurais pas pu me dire ça en premier?
– Ça m’était sorti de l’esprit. Il t’a même fait appeler dans la cafétéria et tout le monde a dit: « Houuuu.... » en te cherchant du regard. T’as manqué ton moment Academy Awards, Jav-man.
– Bon, j’y vais
– Z: Jav, tu fais quelque chose ce soir?
– Pas si on ne me met pas en prison, pourquoi?
– On a un petit projet marketing/réaménagement urbain. On va à la bijouterie Rubis pour enlever la patte à 45 degrés du R sur l’enseigne. J’ai trouvé la bonne teinte de duct tape en boutique.
***
Quelques mois plus tard -
La mère de Javier est américaine, née à Boston, qu’elle s’obstinait à prononcer à l’anglaise malgré la prononciation d’usage avec la nasalisation de la deuxième syllabe. Elle protestait avec raison que même les Français prononçaient le nom de sa ville natale correctement, ce qui n’était pas peu dire selon elle. Javier se pliait à la prononciation maternelle en sa présence, mais n’osait plus le faire à l’école où l’on s’était moqué de lui. Il en allait de même pour son prénom, que ses parents avaient choisi comme une solution de compromis, n’étant pas parvenus à s’entendre alors que chacun souhaitait un prénom dans la langue de l’autre. Ainsi, ils s’étaient résolus à trouver un prénom hispanophone et on imagine bien que la mère de Javier insistait par respect pour les cultures hispaniques à s’arracher une jota grattante du fond de la gorge à chaque fois qu’elle s’adressait à son fils, de l’éveil criard du matin par ailleurs très efficace au « hhhhrrRrrravier, baby, have you brushed your teeth yet honey? It’s late time to go to bed ». À l’école, on l’appelait Javier avec un J à sa demande.
Javier avait appris le décès de son père de la bouche de son directeur d’école, qui avait trouvé si difficile d’avoir à faire cette annonce qu’un arrêt de travail s’était imposé. Le directeur n’était toujours pas de retour. Javier était lui retourné à l’école une semaine plus tard. Javier passait normalement un Noël sur deux aux États-Unis dans la famille de sa mère et parlait très bien anglais avec ses oncles, tantes et cousins, ses parents s’étant entendus pour l’élever dans les deux langues. L’année dernière sa mère s’était un peu fâchée avec son plus jeune frère Ulysses qui n’avait que 22 ans et qui laissait régulièrement échapper des jurons bien sentis en référence à quelque politicien américain d’ascendance républicaine. Javier riait beaucoup à chaque fois, ce qui n’était pas sans encourager son jeune oncle et contribuait à enrager sa mère davantage, sans égard au fait que Javier insistait qu’il entendait des gros mots de toute façon très souvent à la télévision et qu’il était assez grand maintenant.
Il se demandait comment serait Noël cette année.
***
‘90
Zach and Javier saw Johann some ways away getting out the door and walking towards the bus stop. Zach grabbed Javier by the sleeve and started running towards Johann.
– Johann, wait up!
– Hey, guys, I thought you were walking home, now that the nice weather is back.
– We are. I just wanted to thank you for what you did in class. The way you humiliated Mr. Carton, that was amazing. It felt so good, man!
– I didn’t humiliate him. I just asked a question.
– And quite a question it was. Did you see him turning all red? Tell me now that you didn’t want to humiliate him. You knew it! You knew he wouldn’t know the answer, didn’t you?!
– I knew he probably wouldn’t know, but I never intended to humiliate him. And I don’t think I did. I just wanted him to realize that his understanding was incomplete, and that if he expected us to understand his explanation fully he needed to make an effort beyond what was covered in the textbook. See, when sunlight strikes on a droplet of water in suspension in the lower atmosphere, while it is true that the light that strikes at wide angles will mostly go through, and that the light that comes at a certain angle will in turn incur refraction, color separation and then internal reflection, it doesn’t explain why light coming in at even shallower angles–––
– Yeah, yeah, whatever. You knew he didn’t know, that’s all. If you didn’t intend to mortify him in front of everyone, you could have asked the question after class.
– I’ve tried this a couple of times, but he never got back to me with proper answers. I though that making the question more public would incite him to dig a little more.
– So you did it for his own good, is what you’re saying?
– Well, I guess you could say that. His, and ours too.
– You’re so cruel. And a good friend. Thank you for this wonderful day. I really don’t need much, when you think about it. Happiness is a low-hanging fruit, for me anyway.
Johann turned to Javier who seemed lost in his thoughts.
– Hey, Jav. Comment va la boule d’aluminium?
– Elle grossit vraiment lentement. Don’t know why. You’d think I’d get better and better at it, with time.
– Well, the radius goes as the third root of the mass.
– What’s that supposed to mean?, added Zach.
– It means that doubling the size will take about 7 times as long as it took to get it to its present size, explained Johann.
– Why seven?
– Eight minus one.
Zach whispered to Javier that it was time for them to leave Johann while it could still be argued that this was indeed a good day.
***
TO STAFF PERFORMING INTERVIEWS:/AU PERSONNEL CONDUISANT LES INTERVIEWS:
‡ The following protocol should be understood as a set of guidelines for interviews and not as a rigid sequential procedure. Try to respect the order of the questions as much as possible and we invite you to ask follow-up questions and use good judgment in trying to obtain as much information as possible from this exercise. Bear in mind that the main objective of the protocol is to get a complete description of the psychological and sociological history of the subject. /
‡ Le protocole présenté ici doit être utilisé […] une description complète de l’historique psychologique et sociologique du sujet.
A) Please tell us a little bit about yourself: What you do, where you come from, etc. / Parlez-nous un peu de vous : ce que vous faites, d’où vous venez, etc.
B) Where did you first hear about this project? / Où avez-vous entendu parler de ce projet?
C) What made you consider participating in this project? / Qu’est-ce qui vous a convaincu de participer à ce projet?
D) Have you ever …
***
A)
Not sure I’m following you, here, darling. –– I mean, you guys know what I do, or more like what I did for a living ‘till fairly recently, right? –– OK. … –– OK so you’re just following protocol, basically, is what you’re trying to tell me here sweetie? –– No no, that’s alright, I don’t mind at all, just wanted to make sure that we were on the same wave length here. Yeah you got me worried for a sec there cutie. No I’m alright I assure you.
So you want me to comment on it? I’m guessing you want me to spit some socio-political platitudes ‘bout how the remnants of slavery-incarnated behavior imparts especially on us Ebonics girls, don’t you here sweetie? –– But of course, no you just want –– OK don’t worry I was just trying to see how to set the tone here. In any event I will tell you that there is indeed a lot that is economical-slash-political about the whole business, having worked on the London scene for a while –– yeah that’s right London UK not London Ontario –– yeah I suppose it’s kind of insulting but not to worry, I see that you’re just outta your league here, baby girl. And I’m not patronizing, I’m just saying. I actually like you, you’re really kind. –– Yeah.
So as I was saying, when I was in London you could pretty much tell how negotiations between the Eastern EU-wannabees states and the EU-states themselves were going, and how close the former were getting to fulfilling their economical to-do lists, simply by watching the ethnicity mix of new arrivals month after month. The Polish just went AWOL at some point, when they had been all over the place a moment before. Then we started losing Hungarians; Romania became a big thing. All of this happening with Russia as some sort of background noise, yet in this case you could tell to what extent the ruble had become a petro-dollar in its own right, no I am not kidding you, I did not have a car at the time —nor do I own one now by the way. Still I could tell you the price of a litre of gasoline within 10-pence just from the number of new Russian girls arriving in town.
That I think is a sad thing. Really shows how by no means whatsoever is it a woman’s choice – now I’ll stop right here before I get upset and all, ‘cause I sure know it ain’t your fault here sweetie and just looking at you I remember at least ten girls out there looking just like you and you should just thank the Lord you were born in the right place at the right time ‘cause no, it really ain’t no fun at all. There is something slightly Slavic about your face, cutie, but you know that, don’t you?
I’ll say one thing, though, ‘cause it’s been on my mind for a while and maybe it’s pertinent for your research here. What do I know, but whenever I reminisce about those old times, a single image always comes to mind. See for a few months back then I ended up working in France – and the way it used to work was that all of us girls would work in small perfectly white windowless trucks aligned side by side, by the dozen, parked right on the docks, and as you may or may not know there is something very peculiar about the morning sun in the dirty part of a French city, like there is sand in the air all the time or something, yet there’s no sand anywhere around, and still the sun shines on the water. So this memory coming back to me, as I was trying to explain, is of myself, just after, well, giving head – you know what that means, sweetie, don’t you? Okay, just checking, you seem so young. So right after, throwing up next to the back of the truck, steadying myself with one hand on the cold white metal of the truck, I could see this shiny chrome Renault logo, and it looked so clean and perfect and shiny, and I turned my head left and right and see this perfect line of trucks full of other girls also giving head or whatnot with the exact same shiny logo on every van, at the exact same spot, and it all felt very... industrial, you know... but almost in a good way. Like the whole process was all so efficient. Yet so depressing ... vulgar and gross, of course. Anyway.
But porn is indeed somewhat of a different matter, although to a large extent it still relates to the same economical-political argument I just presented so diligently a moment ago, though there is much more noise in the data – to use your word here. For example there is also a lot of not-quite-middle-class American porn being produced, even Canadian porn if you believe it. I mean I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t ‘cause I had to see it for myself before I believed it. Oddly enough you can tell that it’s no scam —where someone would have fashioned say American porn into Canadian porn just to increase the local-hungry clientele by a measly 10% — but by really looking at it you can see, I mean feel, the Canadian quality of it. Don’t ask me to describe it, it’s just there. Maybe there is some sort of extraneous innocence, or niceness or naïveté to it, I don’t know, but my point being that it’s there and there’s no point denying it –– yeah, I was born and raised here in beautiful Ontario and no, I don’t know exactly why I came back –– No, I’m more of a porntrepreneur than a movie star nowadays, although I still act from time to time.
So, still, porn is no fun per say but with the right state of mind you could make it into somewhat of a regular job if you see what I mean. Now I’m in noooo way telling you that one can appreciate it like a normal job – and by this I mean like people claim that they love their job and enjoy it and that they feel the whole thing is oh-so fulfilling. Well I surely wouldn’t say that about porn especially about the loving and enjoying and fulfilling stuff – unless I were looking to make a funny sex joke yuk! yuk! Yeah it is a little funny izn’it. No don’t be uncomfortable here sweetie, we’re just two girls chatting. I assure you though I’m aware you have a job to do and I respect that but no point in not interacting humanly, you and I.
So a regular job meaning a job that you do and get paid for that when you’re done you go back home. And you never thought you’d get killed or spit on —except of course if it’s in the script but then you’d know about it— or get beaten up or some shit like that. A job in the sense that you can come home with a somewhat clear head, if you see what I mean.
The one thing that used to upset me though was the number of people – and by that I mean guys – asking us whether we cum for real or not. What with that? You wanna know? No? Don’t hesitate to ask me a thing, I told you I like you sweetie, plus it’s not the same when a girl is asking out of curiosity as opposed to a guy with you-know-what on his mind. It’s not so much the question that bothers me. You know, sometimes we do and sometimes we don’t. Sometimes you end up doing it with a nice guy well ‘cause most of the time you know them somehow and they’re nice to you. Whatever the script says, he might be acting all nasty and shit but makes all sorts of little gestures to let you know during the scene he means no harm. So when he pulls something off that he knows you won’t like, and he knows his face is out of the shot, he grins or gives you a shy smile to tell you he’s sorry he’d sort of overdone it but hey, it happens. This ain’t no Sense and Sensibility we’re rolling here is it now? So as I was saying when a nice guy keeps pounding on you, and though you would rather do it off-camera, still, there’s the remote chance that you will, indeed, cum. But what exactly is anyone trying to achieve in asking the question? Even in a non-porn setting, that is? A woman fakes it and then you ask her the question. As if she’s gonna tell you Yes, I faked it or No, I didn’t. And if so, you gonna believe her? On what grounds? But the real reason the question upsets me is that the cuming-for-real or not shouldn’t be the point. The question should be “Do you, the actress, enjoy it or not”, meaning “Does the camera and the whole set and crew act as extra enticement or something?” And to answer this much more pertinent question, I am telling you the answer is “no”.
Well. Not for me anyway.
‘Cause I feel obliged to tell you this cutie. I don’t know why but there are actually – well a rather small – bunch of girls out there that I wouldn’t say are actually enticed but certainly approach the whole thing very differently and by that I mean they see the whole thing as a true performance. And by that I mean, like a professional sport or something. Most of them use drugs – well much like professional athletes yuk! yuk! but they don’t overdo it, they take just enough to get them through astonishing performances – again just like athletes! And looking at them either on film or on set, you feel them aiming for a 9.5 or a 10, like they’re making great time or somethin’. Take the double pen, for instance –– what now? Oh. Well the double pen is –– OK now you got it? OK so the double-pen, by all means, is the worst thing a girl might have to do on set – makes the rating move from R to unrated/illegal-in-all-states. I mean just think of how small that little piece of skin is in between and how un-synched the double pounding is bound to go... Then compute for me, won’t you my scientific cutie, the strain and tension and torsion and squeeze and shearing that this half-inch of anatomy must go through in the process –that it ain’t no picnic. And the sickest thing is that the guys participating in it are far from crazy about it, with their balls bouncing off one another’s, you see. Makes me wonder why the whole thing has such appeal to the male viewer, but apparently it does so whaddya gonna do?
So those girls I was telling you about, those athletes, they somehow look forward to it. They see it, and I am quoting one of them here, as an opportunity to put it out there. As a challenge. Those girls, they train, you know. They insert dildos the size of a pineapple up their ass —and in some cases, so I’ve heard, real pineapples, although this might be urban legend— no lube, just as a warm-up, at home. These are girls who train for deep-throat underwater. No kiddin’. I had the chance to go on set for one full day with one of them and I’ll only mum the name ‘cause she’s pretty well-known – most of them are anyway – although you probably haven’t heard of any of them, you sweet peach, good for you –– and I gotta tell you the one thing that reeaally troubled me is that it is impossible to tell whether they are really cuming or not. And I mean I was on the goddamn set and I mean, like in the scene with the girl, like an inch from her face and sometimes no inch at all, and you look at the other footage as well and you can never tell. So I didn’t want to ask ‘cause, as I said, I believe it’s such a vain question but yet I felt enthralled to ask… which got me to realize an important thing about the question itself. Because even though I thought the girl would answer me in all honesty, you know as a co-worker and all, I knew I still wouldn’t know for sure. I considered the possibility that I wanted to ask the question just to force her into perhaps lying some more, or maybe to have the whole liar’s paradox move to the second degree or something. But that’s not what this is all about. I’ll tell you what it’s about. It’s about the need to mouth the words. Almost as a mantra. Do - you - cum - for - real. Were I to write it down, I wouldn’t even put a question mark. I felt like I could just say the words and then turn around and walk away without an answer. Isn’t that odd?
B)
Well I guess this doesn’t apply to me, sweetie, since you contacted me. I am looking at your sheet upside-down, from here, I see I’m ID number 001, really? So you’re looking for a 3-digit range, here? [...]
C)
You are aware that I’m getting paid to be here, don’t you? OK, just checking. So the other won’t be? ––––
***
Printemps 07
Zach, Javier et Johann décidèrent de terminer la soirée du vendredi tous les trois à l’appartement de Zach; ce dernier était parvenu à mettre la main sur une bouteille d’absinthe qu’il souhaitait boire au complet en une soirée, mais pas tout seul, et insistait pour la partager avec Javier et Johann. La soirée était belle et déjà avancée. Ils avaient commencé à boire en terrasse beaucoup plus tôt et avaient atteint un stade d’ébriété où la vie en société en terrasse ne constituait plus une attraction suffisante pour compenser l’inconfort des chaises en résine de synthèse qui la meublait. L’abus de bière aqueuse et insipide servie dans des verres de plastique blanc avait hyperstimulé leurs amygdales, qui réagissaient en sécrétant une salive de fond de gorge, pâteuse et âcre. Ils avaient envie d’autre chose.
Zach said to Javier in a mellow tone,
– Don’t get me wrong, I can see that it is very beautiful with the little spoon and sugar and all. My question was: how does it mix with beer and wine?
– Well, here’s the thing, Jav-boy: absinthe completely abstracts anything you have ever ingested prior in your life.
– What can that possibly mean?
– That’s just the way it is.
– Abstracts?
Puis Johann prit la parole et se lança dans une longue explication concernant l’absinthe et son illégalité encore en vigueur dans plusieurs pays, redevable à la présence de thujone dans l’alcool. Il expliqua comment on avait longtemps cru que la thujone était responsable de certains troubles mentaux observés chez les artistes qui en consommaient régulièrement, bien que l’on ait prouvé depuis quelques années que seules des concentrations dépassant largement celles contenues dans l’absinthe pouvaient avoir de telles conséquences. En fait, expliqua Johann, l’absinthe, malgré l’aura qui l’entoure, n’est rien d’autre qu’un digestif à forte teneur en alcool.
– Well since Johann simply had to be the party-pooper here, how about we put our own additive to give those nevertheless beautiful drinks an edge? Thhheeere. Here’s a little extra for you gents, with all my loving care.
– What is this, Zach?
– Just pop it already.
– I won’t ‘till you tell me what it is.
– If I say Ibuprofen, will you believe me? ––– Alright. I’m on an old classic theme tonight, as you might have guessed. It’s mescaline.
– ...
– ...
– Why would you call it classic?
– Z: You’re kidding, right? The Cubist manifesto? Picasso, Braque? Where did you go to school? Or is it the classic quality of absinthe that you fail to see?
– ...
– Z: I gotta admit a special bond to mescaline, though. Have you ever watched that TV show, Little House on the Prairie, you know what I’m talking about? I used to watch reruns en français, can you believe it? La petite maison dans la prairie, dialogs were completely off but I didn’t care back then.
The three of them swallowed Zach’s prescription, exchanging weird smiles. Zach continued,
– So. Anyway, there was this one episode, where the eldest Ingalls’ son —adopted, by the way, or his cousin, I can’t say for sure— was caught intoxicated with mescaline. A profoundly dramatic episode, and certainly the funniest of all. I’ll tell you one thing, this script wasn’t in the original children’s books on which the series was based. Mescaline! Can you believe it? The seventies were just that kind of decade. Anyway, the episode’s climax is when the kid is in bed, vomiting, with the father holding him down and helping him through the process of what could only be described as sevrage. Now, how drole, the show’s staff came up with the idea of giving him —the son-slash-cousin, or rather the actor playing him— some kind of lactiferous liquid to put in his mouth, not for him to swallow, but rather to project all over the floor, the bed sheets, and pillows. I always wonder whether it was actually milk. If it was, it must have been strawberry-flavored, since there was this rosy tint to it, though it might have just been the settings on my mother’s TV. I remember that at the time, it had made me think about this weird syrup my mother used to give me when I was sick, sort of a creamy, mushy, grainy syrup, tasted horrible, not a strong taste, but like a complete absence of taste. No, not absence ‘cause that would mean watery, – more like a negative taste, chalky, why would they make such a thing? I wonder if I could still find it. Gotta ask Mom about it... I crave this syrup soooo much, right at this precise instant...
Javier interrompit Zach dans ses rêveries en se tournant vers Johann.
– Johann, on parlait de quelque chose avant que Zach ne sorte son absinthe et sa petite pharmacie et nous fasse peur avec des histoires de vomi rose.
– Ehmm... second law of thermodynamics.
– Oh God, I took out the absinthe specifically so that we would change the subject. Why did you have to bring it back, Jav?
– What’s wrong with a few knowledgeable facts about thermodynamics?
– J: We don’t have to discuss it.
– No, no, since you’re at it, Zach added on a forgiving tone. It’s just... that everything you were talking about was just so unfathomably boring, is all. Proceed, yet, please.
– What do you mean?
– What do you mean what-do-you-mean?
– OK, let me see – perhaps I could put it–––
Johann marked a pause and gazed at the ceiling as if he was contemplating what he wanted to say next. This lasted just a little too long to be considered normal and gave away the fact that he got lost in some other thought along the way. Finally he said,
–Alright. Remember that bar you forcefully dragged me to a few weeks back? Can’t remember the name of the place… short name…
– No.
– I’d say two weeks ago, maybe three. Huge place, lots of girls, dancing…
–You’ll have to be more specific.
– At some point over the course of the night’s events you found yourself standing up on the bar, pseudo-ejaculating alcohol and whipped cream down the mouths and throats of young girls lying kinda on their backs, well their backs on the bar, that is.
- Again, somewhat typical. You might be more successful asking me about a bar where no whipped cream was sprayed. Then again I don’t remember a single one in recent history, save tonight, and I prefer to warn you that this won’t be happening, ‘cause I once had this one pretty bad experience mixing whipped cream with mescaline…
- There was this cute brunette onto which you "accidentally" poured some whipped cream, right on the revealing top – or rather the microscopic film – she was wearing, and for a second she looked horrified, then realized half a sec latter that the incident had pretty good odds of happening considering the vertical distance between your own crotch where you were holding the whipped cream aerosol in a mock-penal simulation and her tiny little mouth way below, so she quickly went from absurdly jolly just before the spill, straight to horrified, then back to absurdly jolly — and you noticed during the transition phase, for that split second, there was a moment of Buddhist-like calmness which was just so unexpected or even almost misplaced considering the joyful occasion and all. Such that you came to me right after and described the whole thing in similar terms, yet a bit more crudely.
- Ha! Yes, I remember. Oslo, being the name of the bar. Nadiah-with-an-H, the girl’s name. For her last name I would need to go to my files.
- Good enough. For a moment there I thought we would never connect. Tu y étais aussi, Jav-man, non?
- Oui oui, je m’en souviens. Some of it, anyway. But tell me, though, can one really hurl some kind of pink milk just like that? I mean, naturally?
– Sooper. So here’s the setup: in that bar. OK?
- …
- Donc. Souvenez-vous que le bar était divisé en deux grandes sections, l’une plus animée, où se trouvaient le dance floor – incidemment Nadiah-with-an-H et ses copines – qui, par ailleurs, semblèrent réaliser toutes en même temps que la crème fouettée, riche en lipides, laisse des taches sur les vêtements, taches légèrement tridimensionnelles dû à la nature émulsive de la crème qui, lorsque mal essuyée, finit par sécher en formant une pellicule diaphane sur le tissu, pellicule qui n’est pas sans rappeler l’allure de véritable sperme séché, ce qui est dans un sens heureux, car c’était là l’intention originale, que de simuler ces éjets… Et l’autre section qu’il conviendrait d’appeler chill room, avec une atmosphère plus lounge, malgré le fait que cet espace avoisinait la première section si bruyante. Faisons ensemble un effort imaginatif supplémentaire en supposant que la foule hétéroclite qui s’y trouvait pût se diviser en deux classes de gens bien distinctes: des gens plus calmes, relax et cool, essentiellement composés d’étudiants en arts, littérature, philosophie, et ostéopathie; et le groupe complémentaire, de jeunes gens plus actifs, excités, motivés et joviaux, plus bruyants aussi, droits sortis de leurs départements de droit justement… ou encore de commerce, d’administration et de médecine, parfois la médecine dentaire qui fonctionne au cas par cas comme chacun sait.
– Oui, c’est vrai, ça. On trouve de tout chez les dentistes, ajouta Javier.
– Moving on. Dans le bar, un corridor sépare ces deux sections. Remplaçons-le par une porte coulissante. Imaginons qu’un simple mur sépare les deux sections, et que, pour une raison qui nous échappe encore mais sans doute liées à l’identification du produit et à sa section dédiée dans le plan d’affaires original, la direction souhaitât garder la section lounge lounge, et l’autre autre. Ainsi, la direction dépêche une vigile, plutôt une sentinelle, enfin bien des mots féminins pour décrire ce bunser qui s’installera près de cette porte coulissante séparant les deux sections, et qui aura comme responsabilité de trier les clients sur le volet.
– Une véritable brute, en quelque sorte.
– Merci pour cette couche de féminisation supplémentaire. Maintenant, permettez-moi d’ajouter quelques détails d’importance. La porte en question est rudement bien huilée. And I mean it. Avez-vous déjà eu le loisir de faire glisser une porte patio en moustiquaire, alors qu’elle venait tout juste d’être installée et huilée? Vous savez, lorsqu’elle s’ouvre d’un simple tremblement du petit doigt, admettant qu’on la fît trembler dans la bonne direction?
– Oui, moi, j’ai déjà vécu cette expérience, répondit Javier. Infiniment satisfaisant. On dirait que si le rail était plus long, la porte ne s’arrêterait jamais. Je la vois. Dans ma tête. Cette porte qui ne s’arrête jamais. Wow.
– Get up to speed, guys, I’m about to start watching TV in my head.
– Cool your jets, Zach, faut que tu me laisses aussi prendre un peu de plaisir. Et merci à toi, Javeur-du-mois, c’est précisément du genre de lubrification dont je parle. Cette porte parfaite se trouve dans notre cas de figure sous le contrôle du susmentionné bunser. Sa tâche cependant est un peu différente de celle que vous imaginez. Plutôt que de jouer le rôle habituel d’une membrane semi-perméable qui ne laisserait passer que les filles, celui qui nous intéresse veille à interagir minimalement avec la clientèle. Tout ce qu’il doit faire, c’est prendre note lorsqu’un membre du groupe des hyperactifs se trouve par malheur du côté lounge, et d’attendre le moment opportun où ce dernier se rapprochera de la porte pour l’ouvrir et le laisser passer de l’autre côté, là où la direction de l’établissement souhaite le retrouver. Et vice-versa pour le philosophe égaré du côté des mini-jupes métalliques à talons assortis, qui de toute façon devrait concentrer ses efforts sur cette jolie historienne de l’art qui l’attend poliment du bon côté des choses. Tout ça est très réducteur, j’en conviens, mais je vous présente un modèle simple. Notez en revanche que dans le cas de figure où un théologien – se trouvant déjà du côté lounge – rendu confus par son vin de messe et pensant que la fumée et la lumière des lasers qu’il entr’apperçoit de l’autre côté annonce une multiplication des pains, ce qui aura tôt fait de l’attirer vers la porte, notez que dans ce cas, dis-je bien, notre bunser prendrait soin de fermer la porte à temps et de forcer l’agent pastoral à rebondir d’où il vient.
– Jav: Rebondir?
– Disons-le comme ça. Maintenant si je vous demandais de commenter la tâche du cerbère vous me répondriez sans doute : « quel travail facile ». À quoi je vous répondrais––
– Z: Enough with the conditional tense please, you know I’m allergic plus I left my Epipen in the car. Anymore of it, or of that subjonctif of yours for all that matters, and you’ll be driving me to the hospital, oh yes you will, good sir.
Zach was not looking too good at that point, as if the skin on his face was tightly stretched like a plastic film. His demeanour remained very calm though his body language didn’t say much. He still looked pretty relaxed. Javier, however, had gotten up and was actively walking around and displaying intense – yet short-term – interest in just about any object he came across in the room.
– Jav: Well, not for me, Zach, Johann, my good friends, no need to go to the hospital for me. I cannot believe how unaffected I am by this absinthe-slash-mescalin mix Zach kindly-kindly offered us. I reeeeaaaally feel like telling you guys about it, though, the unaffectedness of it. It’s like, wow, I really don’t feel it at all. It’s so absolutely perfectly not affecting me, at all. Adall-adall-adall. Zach, you’re such a good egg and friend, providing us with things that have no effect whatsoever in just that exact way.
– …à quoi je vous réponds : Pas si vite chers amis. Car ce que je ne vous ai pas dit encore, c’est qu’il y a beaucoup de monde à cette soirée, I mean loads of people. Like, guess the number of people who were really there that night, multiply it by a billion and you got yourself a ballpark figure.
– Z: A billion? Losing credibility, dude, right there. And I really don’t feel like experimenting incredulity at this point in time.
– Convenons tout de même que je ne vous présente pas un pitch pour une télésérie sur HBO, je vous dessine une analogie thermodynamique, après quelques bières, le vin, l’absinthe, et la friandise de Zach qui a décidé apparemment de commencer par remplir mes doigts. J’attends donc un effort de votre part. D’ailleurs à prime abord ça ne change pas grand chose qu’il y ait tant de monde, pour le bunser j’entends, puisqu’il n’y a malgré tout qu’une seule porte à contrôler. Le problème apparaît après un certain temps, lorsqu’une part significative de ce tri est déjà accomplie. Bien entendu le transfert d’individus vers le bon côté se fait de plus en plus rare, mais au surplus, lorsque l’événement survient, les chances de voir l’individu en question se présenter seul à la porte sont de plus en plus faibles, surtout s’il s’agit d’une jolie fille. Bien que la chance qu’elle soit suivie par un groupe d’admirateurs ne soit pas plus grande qu’en début de soirée, en revanche la chance que ce groupe soit déjà du bon côté des choses, elle, augmente, puisque de plus en plus de gens se trouvent déjà correctement triés du fait de la diligence et de la méthode dont fait preuve notre ami portier. Ainsi, le travail du portier s’en trouve compliqué, car il ne dispose que de très peu de temps pour ouvrir la porte, parfois même il ne peut pas l’ouvrir si trop de gens s’y pressent en même temps, de gens déjà triés s’entend, afin d’éviter de gâcher le travail accompli en les laissant retourner du mauvais côté. J’ajoute qu’il se trouve aussi d’autres individus de l’autre côté de la porte, eux et elles aussi déjà bien triés, et qui voyant une porte s’ouvrir sans raison seront sûrement tentés d’aller voir de l’autre côté, pensant qu’il s’agit peut-être d’une section VIP. Ce qui nous amène à réaliser la chose suivante: en fait, le travail du portier ne se limite pas à faire du tri comme ça vient, mais consiste plutôt à anticiper un mouvement. Non pas un mouvement de foule, mais bien le déplacement de chaque individu appartenant à cette jeunesse verdissante. Pour la première fois, rendons le travail de notre ami un peu plus facile et imaginons que la trajectoire de chacun soit assez simple, et même qu’elle soit prévisible, en fait. Dans ce cas, même si son travail n’est pas facile, en y mettant suffisamment de temps et en supposant qu’il dispose d’une liste complète des invités et de leur « horaire » de déplacement, en quelque sorte, il pourrait arriver à mettre à peu près tout le monde du bon côté.
– Now are you ever going to tell us why he wants it so bad for things to happen that way? — apart from the fact that it’s his job, as we already know, a rather hypothetical-sounding one might I add, still I get the feeling that you did not make up all of this just for the thomistic fun of it. And could I be so bold as asking you to please answer quickly? — as I am sort of in a hurry in my head right now.
– I’m glad to see that you’re still following, Zach, I thought I might have lost you right after that last reference to Nadiah.
– I know, for some reason I’m still listening, something to do with inertia obviously. Questioning my interest however makes it slightly... mmmmhhh... I would say… granular. So we better move on.
Javier interrompit,
– Je ne sais pas pourquoi je pense à ça en ce moment, mais je revois cet animateur télé français qui recevait Madonna pour une émission de variétés et qui cherchait à lui dire dans un anglais moins qu’approximatif : « Pour la première fois, ce soir Madonna vous avez transformé le studio en une piste de danse », et qui a décidé de structurer le tout sous la forme « For ze first time toonite Madonna, you bicome, ze stoudio, hay dainceflore! » Pas de farce mot pour mot je vous dis, avec de longues pauses après « Madonna », « bicome » et « stoudio », et l’expression de Madonna à ce moment était vraiment presse-laisse. Ça s’explique mal, il fallait être là. Elle a fait comme un petit sourire en coin, et a marmonné quelque chose comme: Alright, then. Son amusement était authentique. C’était la première fois que je la sentais humaine. Je me sentais très proche d’elle, tout d’un coup. Comme une amie. Madonna était mon amie, à cet instant. Fin de la parenthèse.
– …
– …
– Jav: Moving on. ON, baby! ON!
– OK. Admettons maintenant que tout le monde se trouvât désormais du bon côté. Classement parfait. J’ajoute un élément qui va sûrement vous faire tiquer. Ce mur qui sépare les deux pièces n’est pas fixe, mais bien mobile. Sur des rails, lui aussi, mais des rails perpendiculaires au mur. Autrement dit, il permet de modifier la taille respective de chaque pièce, si vous voyez. Cependant, on ne s’en était pas rendu compte jusqu’ici puisque le mécanisme est muni d’un frein qui bloquait le mur en place.
– …
– …
– Oui, demandons maintenant à notre ami la brute – qui n’a plus rien d’autre à faire pour l’instant considérant que tout le monde est du bon côté – de débloquer ce frein, encore une fois un petit mécanisme très simple et rudement bien huilé, définitivement tout baigne dans cet endroit. Vous aurez compris sans que je n’ai besoin de le dire que le mur mobile est ainsi accroché à des rails au plafond et au sol, et que la qualité de la lubrification de son roulement n’a rien à envier ni à la porte coulissante de toute à l’heure (qui fait partie intégrante de ce mur, d’ailleurs) ni au loquet de son frein. —Zach ? Would you like to add something here? No? Sure? Are you feeling alright? Too many jokes trying to cram through the door perhaps? — Que se passe-t-il alors? Un jeu de tire-à-la-souque, mais renversé, un pousse-à-la-souque se met en place lorsque le groupe actif, sous l’effet d’amphétamines consommées plus tôt, entre en contact avec ce mur à grande vitesse, surtout au moment où le DJ dans un excès de nostalgie décide de servir à ces derniers un vieux succès de Nine Inch Nails. Pendant ce temps de l’autre côté du mur joue une petite chansonnette de trip-hop de l’école de Bristol sur laquelle nos amateurs de chanvre réinventent le communisme, mais en mieux, et comme ça ça pourrait vraiment fonctionner. Yes Zach, I too will have another beer to wash down the absinthe, thanks. De toute évidence, il y a un débalancement dynamique entre les deux parties et il appert inévitable que les danseurs surexcités, éventuellement, n’entrent en contact avec le mur, avec bien plus de vigueur et bien plus souvent que les intellectuels avachis de l’autre côté. On en déduit aisément que le mur va peu à peu se déplacer et agrandir la piste de danse au détriment du chill out.
– Zach: What’s tiralasouk?
– Ah oui. Je ne sais pas comment on dit en anglais.
– Jav: Tug-of-war.
– Z: Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Johann repeated,
– Tug-of-war? Ah! That’s what that means. I’ve heard it before, but there was never enough context for me to figure out what it meant exactly, and I never looked it up, which I should have. Merci, Javier, tu es très érudit, tu sais.
Javier acquiesça en secouant la tête de haut en bas à plusieurs reprises. Johann reprit avant que Javier n’ait cessé ce hochement, car rien n’indiquait qu’il eût l’intention d’y mettre fin.
– Non, Zach, la blonde ou la rousse, m’en fout. Non, pas la blanche, ça me fait vomir plus vite. Comment? Oui, plus tôt, pas plus vite. Hein? Non, jamais mesuré la vitesse en question, ne doit pas être facile d’ailleurs... faudrait concevoir l’appareil, peut-être un tube avec une turbine, ou plus simplement un bol sur une balance électronique branchée à un board d’acquisition…
Poursuivons. Le mur se déplace. Le mur est immense, mais ne pèse presque rien. Rigide, cependant. Notez qu’il n’y a pas de perte d’énergie dans le processus. Les excités–
– …aux narines blanches! cria Javier.
– …en bondissant contre le mur, vont perdre un peu de vitesse au rebond qui sera transmise aux intellectuels ––
– ¡Hasta la revolución siempre! ¡Para el pueblo cubano!
– …se trouvant près du mur de l’autre côté, et qui en seront projetés un peu plus loin, mais le bilan est nul. Le déplacement du mur s’achève lorsqu’un nombre suffisamment élevé de gens calmes –
– Philosophes-à-gogo!
– …ont été ainsi énergisés, et qu’en contrepartie les plus excités –
– Young Republican National Federation!
– … s’en trouvent proportionnellement essoufflés. Ici mon analogie atteint ses limites, car on peut désormais trouver des gens de chaque côté avec des niveaux d’excitation variables. Voyons-le comme un changement de vocation de certains. Désormais le mur s’est stabilisé, mais le lounge a diminué en taille, et le travail du portier reprend. À nouveau il bloque le mur à l’aide du frein et recommence à trier les gens sur le volet, mais cette fois en invitant les surexcités à se rendre du côté originalement plus calme et vice-versa.
– Jav: La direction promeut un modèle d’affaire assez sophistiqué. ––– Stiqué-stiqué.
– Tu ne me le fais pas dire. Mais acceptons-le pour tel et faisons l’observation suivante : vu de l’extérieur, ou de haut, ou de loin, un observateur intéressé verrait se déplacer ce mur gigantesque du nord au sud puis du sud au nord et ainsi de suite, admettant que l’endroit soit vitré, tel un piston de moteur. Hein? Non, pas vitré tel un piston, non: le mur tel un piston visible, car vitré, pas le piston, les murs extérieurs, vitrés, le mur intérieur séparant les deux zones n’aillant pas besoin d’être vitré, même qu’il est préférable qu’il ne le soit pas afin qu’on le voie bien de loin, supposant qu’on le regardât de loin. – Zach, sorry about the subjonctif and thanks for the beer, cheers – Ce piston en soi n’effectue aucun travail, car il est très léger et se contente de se déplacer sur ses rails; il incarne toutefois un mouvement perpétuel à grande échelle, macroscopique, grâce aux mouvements désordonnés de ceux qui de loin nous apparaissent comme de minuscules êtres confus, microscopiques, la clientèle. Or une telle situation n’est pas admise par la deuxième loi de la thermodynamique. Dans ce contexte, cette dernière, en gros, stipule que dès que l’on ouvre la porte pendant un certain temps, et que l’on relâche le frein du mur, le système trouvera un point d’équilibre dont il ne s’éloignera plus, peu importe le nombre de fois que l’on refermera-rouvrira la porte et/ou enclenchera-déclenchera le frein retenant le mur, toute autre configuration étant quasiment infiniment improbable et donc non viable sauf pour un très court laps de temps, fuyant, telle une amourette d’été.
Javier s’approchait progressivement de la fenêtre et manifestait un intérêt marqué pour le long rideau qui la couvrait et descendait jusqu’au sol.
– Zach: So?
– ...?
– What about it? What doesn’t work in your example? That’s what you’re saying, right? That some law of lame-o-dynamics won’t allow it? Quick, please, I feel a headache coming on... God... I can actually see the headache.