Victor was supposed to provide me with a gun, I told him I want a handgun, using an expression that I did not know the exact definition, somewhat furtively imagining that meant a weapon that we could hold in his hand, one could shake itself against almost hidden, almost buried in the hollow of a criminal hand.
He lived in a two and a half in the basement of a chiropractic clinic, you could hear the crackling and it sent me in the head images of a film that was part of my culture, my culture when cons- we were younger, JACOB'S LADDER, an old movie fucked up in that scene you showed the character in the making dismantle the back by his chiropractor, a fat man jolly who lectured at the same time the role of angels and demons, and I imagined that it was a chiropractor, a certain way: a man who undid thee bones you whispering in the ears of high-grade spiritual words. When we entered the building, he had to pass the glass door on which was pasted a beautiful curve in the whole spine like a snake harmless. If I wanted to have a column like that, I had an advantage in not descend to the basement, rather through the door and make an appointment with Victor's father, with his secretary sitting upright on his chair, Greek profile and iron bar in the back.
I often noticed that the son of divorced men who have a business often live in the basement of their father. Their father bought a building, they converted to office, office, they kept a space in the basement and eventually rent it to the highest bidder, and one day their son and they called a discussion shocking, shocking but not in the sense to raise the tone, scabrous towards sigh and silence weigh in the balance of the brain, a discussion about the scandalous neglect and scrolling, and that no longer necessarily equates loving mother in the head a child of eleven years to dislike his son, you should have thee doubt'd have never had to go buy a pack of cigarettes, etc.. And son moved into the basement of the clinic his father and they try to revive something that has never been tied, untied, tangled, or even entangled.
Victor said that his father was a respectable man , and took the word in his mouth a whole new meaning as a form of sarcasm in the third degree, or I do not know. Sometimes he climbed on the ground floor and massaged his father, explaining what was happening in his joints while he was interacting with her fingers and palms. They communicated well, in scientific terms like that and could not say there was nothing between them.
The father, Charles, I met him only once, several years ago, at the time the curfew was something we struggled in the national assembly, where the Bloc Quebecois was something that was still a kind of rationale, even if when members spoke, all members of all other parties should put their shit in their ear-bud to understand thesis damn frogs.
was the time when we were doing partying in the houses and from some time late at night, people began to show up and we had trouble understanding their connections, they were friends of a friend of the sister of a brother, they had heard of an evening, and they were there, there. They were allowed to enter, they were allowed to mingle with us and the beers that were lying and cigarette smoke that hovered and vintage music. Victor was always the first to say let them go, are welcome, everyone is welcome, the world is so welcome. Maybe I was already capable of in those days make me thought it was the absent father who influence, as a concept, I know.
I was more worried about the type of suspicious type. I smoked a joint and I was frozen for forty-eight hours at least, I was one of those people who do not support drugs, except alcohol, no hallucinogenic, and I identified myself willingly to Woody Allen, in all those films where he refused a joint or sneeze into a bag of coke.
Should I talk about Victor.
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