One might even claim I loved being a children’s entertainer more than I loved Jerome.
That job was fun. It didn’t pay well, but when combined with the 400 euros that Mom gives me for helping her in the shop, it wasn’t too bad. I made a living. For the last three years, I proudly put fresh-baked wholegrain bread on our table. Now, with only one part-time job left as Mom’s multipurpose aide, it’s bye-bye to the yummy loaves from the baker, and hello to the indestructible slices from the supermarket. They’re so absorbent I used one last night to sponge down the kitchen.
How many chemicals does it take to make bread like that? On second thought, I don’t want to know.
At Croix-Paquet, I get off and hotfoot it to the shop past the colorful old buildings of central Lyon. I dip into a secret passageway common in my neighborhood, atraboule,to cut through a block of buildings.
As always, I fancy myself a fearless member of the Resistance, ducking into a hidden pathway to get away from the Nazis. As always, I emerge on the other side thankful that Hitler lost the war. I’m part Jewish on my father’s side, and I hate to think what would’ve become of my paternal grandparents if that deranged monster had won.
Mind you, I barely knew my paternal grandparents, and I hate Dad for leaving Mom and me. But still.
I enter the convenience store on the corner to buy some sponge bread, cheese, and ham. The usual hobo by theentrance hands out the free daily edition ofLyon, Lyon. I always pick up a copy and give him a twenty-cent coin. But after spending two euros on amétroride, I can’t bring myself to part with twenty cents tonight. In self-punishment for my stinginess, I refuse the copy ofLyon, Lyonthat the hobo holds out for me.
Inside the store, I quickly find the items I need. There are copies of the free daily strewn all over the shelves. I’m tempted to pick one up, but I resist.
While waiting in the line for the cash register, I spot a stack ofLyon, Lyonnext to the chewing gums and mints. The copy on top is open on the “Classified Ads, Job Offers” page.
I reach for it, but the line moves forward, and I let it be. In my experience, following up on job offers inLyon, Lyonis a total waste of time. The gigs tend to get even more candidates than the one I just failed to land.
After I get home, Mom takes the groceries to the kitchen while I make a detour to the bathroom to wash my hands. When I sit down at the kitchen table for dinner, she puts a bowl of lentil soup in front of me.
I don’t mean to wince, but apparently, I do because Mom justifies herself. “Lentils are healthy.”
“How was your day?” I ask her. “Any customers?”
“One.”
I look up. “And?”
“Just a lookie-loo.” She releases a sigh. “Spent over an hour in the shop, asked me tons of questions, but didn’t buy anything. Told me she was newly retired with too much time on her hands?—”
“Selfish cow! Like your time has no value!”
“What about your day?”
“They didn’t pick me.”
Mom skews a smile. “And what about your yesterday’s selfless act of kindness?”
“The kids had a good time…” I growl. “Must you rub salt into my wound, Mom?”
“Sorry, sweetie!”
Suddenly, she jumps up from her seat, darts to the counter, and returns with a copy ofLyon, Lyon.“It was in your grocery bag, open on the Job Offers page.”
I jerk my head back. I haven’t the slightest recollection of picking up the paper at the store and sticking it into my bag.
She puts it on the table next to my soup plate. “I assumed you’d found something of interest.”
Am I going crazy?
Did the cashier or a customer drop the paper into my bag while I was counting my coins to pay? Why would they do that? Disconcerted, I scan the page. An ad catches my eye.
Wanted: Junior Consultant
The Modern Institute for the Neat, Diligent, Fair, and Useful Conservation of Heritage (MINDFUCH) is looking to recruit a junior investigative consultant for a period of one month.
Remuneration: €6,000
