You Changed My Life by Abdel Sellou

Ranelagh, the area is home to city mansions and buildings constructed in
grand style . . . People didn’t live in apartments here, they lived in vaults. You can fit twelve people into a toilet; every room has an en suite bathroom; the rugs are as soft as the sofas. In this neighborhood, with no shops, you see little old ladies in fur coats who have their lunch delivered to their doors by the very best caterers. I know that because Yacine and I used to entertain ourselves by cutting off the delivery personnel (who were sometimes little old ladies themselves—we nicely offered to carry their load and then took off with it). We had the commendable intention to create a gourmet food guide, but before doing that we had to taste everything! We tested Fauchon, Hédiard, Lenôtre and even fish eggs from I-can’t-remember-where. Don’t take us for bumpkins: we knew those little jars were worth gold and contained caviar. “Caviaaaar,” as the locals called it. Honestly, it was nasty.
    So, here I am on the way to avenue Léopold II . . . I don’t even look at the description of the job they’re telling me to try for: I already know I won’t get it. I just want to get the summons signed so I can prove I really did show up. I’ll send it back to the employment agency saying, alas, once again they didn’t want me. Life is hard for youth from the projects, you know . . .

    I’m standing in front of the door. I back up. I step forward again. I put my hand on the wood, carefully, as if it might burn me. Something’s weird. It’s like the entrance to a castle. Lower the drawbridge! In a minute, I’ll hear a voice through the wall. It’ll say: “Be on your way, peasant! The lord doesn’t give alms. Be gone before I throw you to the crocodiles!”

    Is Abdel Yamine Sellou going to make movies? It seems that way, because I feel like I’m taking on the role of Jacquouille la Fripouille in Les Visiteurs 2 . That’s me, the visitor. I look for hidden cameras behind the cars parked along the sidewalk, perched on the shoulders of contracted cameraman. I’m happy in my little daydream. I look like a real whackjob there on the sidewalk . . . It’s okay, Abdel, relax . Still, I realize I probably shouldn’t have thrown the other summons away, the one for Garges-lès-Gonesse. I have to at least send a signature to the employment agency . . . I check the name of the street. It’s the right one. Then I check the building number. That’s right, too. But still, something’s off. Unless . . . wait! Don’t tell me they’ve sent me to the rich people to do housecleaning!
    I look at the summons again and read the job title: “Life auxiliary to a tetraplegic person.” “Life auxiliary”—what does that mean? I remember them talking about the auxiliary verbs “to be” and “to have” at school. Did “life auxiliary” combine the two? Was this about being and having? It was a strange term. Sounded like I was being recruited by a sect. I could already see myself in the lotus position on a bed of nails, meditating on my path and my salvation . . . and tetraplegic? I’d never seen that word. Made me think of Tetris, or tartare, like the meat, or of magic, or logic. But there wasn’t any logic to this.
    I touch the wooden door again. I need to feel it to believe it. I’m tiny by comparison. You could stack three of me one on top of the other and still pass through it, and at least twenty-five of me side by side! I look up a little and see a tiny button embedded in the stone and a screen a few square inches in size. An intercom trying to go incognito. I press it, hear a click, and then nothing. I press it again. I talk to the wall.

    â€œThe listing for the job, the assistant and everything, is this the place?”
    â€œCome in, sir!”
    Another click. But the huge door doesn’t move.