In Which I Agree to Live with Bruce (première partie)
The following Friday, I went to see Bruce’s apartment at 20h (that’s eight o’clock to you and me). After close to half an hour of wandering up and down the rue du Faubourg St-Denis in search of the Passage Brady, I had to call Bruce and ask for him to meet me on the corner.
Bruce came down and led me back to the tiny alley that I must have passed eight or nine times without realizing it. Lost amid the dozens of nearly identical Indian restaurants, épiceries, and coiffeurs that line the passage is the front door to Bruce’s building. He punched in a code, and we passed through a dark hallway to the stairwell. We climbed up to the quatrième étage gauche (that’s the fifth floor on the left to us English-speaking folks—I suddenly understood how Bruce got those tree trunk thighs). Finally, we reached a door that was thumping and throbbing from within. From his pocket Bruce produced a most medieval looking contraption and used it to unlock a series of deadbolts. With a wave of his hand, he invited me in.
A cursory look around chez Bruce provides ample evidence that the apartment is occupied by un célibataire (for those of the Anglo-Saxon persuasion, that means a bachelor). When I enter, the television is on and Bruce has turned up so it can be heard over the heavy bass of “Fous ta cagoule” (number one on the French hip-hop charts for months running), which is blaring from his computer where a game of Mortal Kombat is paused.
— Well, this is it, says Bruce.
— Yes, I see.
He turns off the music and the television, and begins to give me the grand tour. The place isn’t huge, so another couple of waves of his hand is all it takes.
— Voilà le salon…
The off-white walls are bone bare, and there’s but one small, shaggy rug beneath the coffee table. Along with the enormous television and Bruce’s computer, there’s a couch, a coffee table (where I notice a twelve-pack of miniature beers is sitting), and his workout equipment. Throughout the apartment, the runners have been glued into place, and in the corners they’ve come loose. Naked bulbs dangle from open light fixtures.
— … la cuisine...
The counter space and cabinets are decent, but the shelf screwed to the wall looks unstable. It bows beneath the weigh of a large container of Trans-X creatine powder, a bucket of Cytogen Whey Pro (“The Must-Have Protein Formula”), and… a vase of flowers? The sink is choked with piled pots and pans, plates and plastic cups.
— … et la chiotte…
The shower stall, pink inside with mildew, has been pulled a good foot from the wall, exposing pipes and tubes. Behind the door, the water heater drip-drip-drips into a pail to keep time with the sink, and the toilet seat is noticeably smaller than it should be. The room smells vaguely like a basement… Come to think of it, the whole place has a mildly cementy aroma.
— I did all the renovations myself, Bruce announces with a twinge of pride.
To be continued…