didn’t do something about the problem in the next few weeks, they would write him off as a hopeless twerp.
If only his Black Goddess were still there, the one he’d spent the summer dreaming of. He would have drummed up the courage to have a go at her, despite the difference in their ages! He might not even have had to work too hard at it; she might have simply gone to bed with him out of kindness, to make a man out of him. But she’d been out of school for some time. What was she doing now? he wondered. Working as a packer at Rose & Laflamme? A spinner at Grover’s? A go-go dancer in a downtown disco?
Steve Lachapelle swore he’d seen her coming out of the Macdonald’s Tobacco factory with a man much older than she was – may he rot in hell, the old pervert!
Since Blonblon had little time for anything but his affair with Caroline, Charles had begun hanging out with Steve Lachapelle, who was as scatterbrained as ever but still fun to be around. He convinced Charles to take up pool, which he said was “a real trip, man,” as much for the game itself as for the kinds of places where it was played. Since school began, Charles had been working at the Lalancette Pharmacy only on Saturdays, and so he and Steve took to going to the Orleans Billiards Hall on rue Ontario. To get there they had to go through a tunnel under a railroad overpass, a dark, filthy place that stank of urine; its vaulted ceiling and massive concrete pillars looked vaguely Egyptian and gave the place an aura of defeat; it gave Charles the creeps, but since he didn’t want Steve to think he was chicken he pretended it was the coolest place in the world. Every time they went through it they clowned around and sang dirty songs at the top of their voices while cars and trucks whizzed past their noses.
The Orleans Billiards Hall was, by comparison, like heaven itself. It was on the second floor of a huge, faceless building, above a supermarket. They had to climb a wide staircase with three right turns, as clean and shiny as a bank counter; the experience awakened a host of lively emotions in Charles. The pool hall pleased him very much the minute he entered it: huge and dark, the room contained some twenty pool tables with long lights suspended above them, only some of which were burning. Around these the players moved slowly, almost athletically, totally absorbed intheir games. On the left was a long bar behind which worked a very pretty girl wearing blue jeans and a tight-fitting blouse that stopped just above her navel. She made quite an impression on Charles. Behind the cash sat a heavy-set man in his fifties, with thick salt-and-pepper hair and the look of someone who had seen everything twice. He kept writing down numbers in a book and looking up occasionally to have a word with two customers perched on stools at the bar, sipping their beers. Three more were sitting at a table farther back, playing cards.
The mysterious clicking of balls, the bright-green rectangles glowing in the darkened room, even the dimensions of the hall, in which all sounds and voices seemed to dissolve into a vast, shimmering emptiness, gave Charles the impression of intrigue and adventure, and the heady feeling that he had entered into the world of adults.
He turned to Steve and smiled, and Steve gave a grunt of satisfaction.
“Not bad, eh? But you ain’t seen nothing yet. Follow me.”
He walked quickly and confidently up to the cash and asked for a table.
“Number eight,” the man said after looking him over for a second. “Be careful of the cloth, okay?” he added suspiciously.
Lachapelle frowned at him.
“You’ve never had a problem with me. I’ve been coming here nearly three months now. He’s new,” he added, nodding towards Charles, “but I’ll show him the ropes, don’t worry.”
“Just watch the cloth,” the man said again, going back to his notebook.
“He’s always like that,” Steve grumbled as they walked over to their table.
If only his Black Goddess were still there, the one he’d spent the summer dreaming of. He would have drummed up the courage to have a go at her, despite the difference in their ages! He might not even have had to work too hard at it; she might have simply gone to bed with him out of kindness, to make a man out of him. But she’d been out of school for some time. What was she doing now? he wondered. Working as a packer at Rose & Laflamme? A spinner at Grover’s? A go-go dancer in a downtown disco?
Steve Lachapelle swore he’d seen her coming out of the Macdonald’s Tobacco factory with a man much older than she was – may he rot in hell, the old pervert!
Since Blonblon had little time for anything but his affair with Caroline, Charles had begun hanging out with Steve Lachapelle, who was as scatterbrained as ever but still fun to be around. He convinced Charles to take up pool, which he said was “a real trip, man,” as much for the game itself as for the kinds of places where it was played. Since school began, Charles had been working at the Lalancette Pharmacy only on Saturdays, and so he and Steve took to going to the Orleans Billiards Hall on rue Ontario. To get there they had to go through a tunnel under a railroad overpass, a dark, filthy place that stank of urine; its vaulted ceiling and massive concrete pillars looked vaguely Egyptian and gave the place an aura of defeat; it gave Charles the creeps, but since he didn’t want Steve to think he was chicken he pretended it was the coolest place in the world. Every time they went through it they clowned around and sang dirty songs at the top of their voices while cars and trucks whizzed past their noses.
The Orleans Billiards Hall was, by comparison, like heaven itself. It was on the second floor of a huge, faceless building, above a supermarket. They had to climb a wide staircase with three right turns, as clean and shiny as a bank counter; the experience awakened a host of lively emotions in Charles. The pool hall pleased him very much the minute he entered it: huge and dark, the room contained some twenty pool tables with long lights suspended above them, only some of which were burning. Around these the players moved slowly, almost athletically, totally absorbed intheir games. On the left was a long bar behind which worked a very pretty girl wearing blue jeans and a tight-fitting blouse that stopped just above her navel. She made quite an impression on Charles. Behind the cash sat a heavy-set man in his fifties, with thick salt-and-pepper hair and the look of someone who had seen everything twice. He kept writing down numbers in a book and looking up occasionally to have a word with two customers perched on stools at the bar, sipping their beers. Three more were sitting at a table farther back, playing cards.
The mysterious clicking of balls, the bright-green rectangles glowing in the darkened room, even the dimensions of the hall, in which all sounds and voices seemed to dissolve into a vast, shimmering emptiness, gave Charles the impression of intrigue and adventure, and the heady feeling that he had entered into the world of adults.
He turned to Steve and smiled, and Steve gave a grunt of satisfaction.
“Not bad, eh? But you ain’t seen nothing yet. Follow me.”
He walked quickly and confidently up to the cash and asked for a table.
“Number eight,” the man said after looking him over for a second. “Be careful of the cloth, okay?” he added suspiciously.
Lachapelle frowned at him.
“You’ve never had a problem with me. I’ve been coming here nearly three months now. He’s new,” he added, nodding towards Charles, “but I’ll show him the ropes, don’t worry.”
“Just watch the cloth,” the man said again, going back to his notebook.
“He’s always like that,” Steve grumbled as they walked over to their table.
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