I don’t know, I say.
You don’t know?
I shake my head. The light has changed again. The totem pole god has been replaced with a hand sign indicating no crossing. Good thing too with all the cars zooming by.
Well, Norma says, straightening out but still holding her side, the least you coulda done was grab your own freaking bag. What am I? Your slave or something?
She holds out one of the bags for me to take. It’s blue – one of those blue sport bags – and has a large white tag dangling from the zipper.
My bag? I say, scratching my head, not yet prepared to accept it as such. I don’t remember –
Look, she says. You got a name, right?
I nod. Not that I’m sure, really. Does everyone have to have a name? I guess so. I guess it makes sense.
So, she says, there’s one freaking way to find out, isn’t there? She points at the name tag: Is that your name – or what?
I peer down at the tag. The word “G-I-U-L-I-O” is spelled out in large letters. In large block letters. With a felt pen of some sort. I try to pronounce it in my head. Soft “G”? Hard “G”? I’m not sure. Beneath the name, scribbled in much smaller writing, is an address. All I can read is the word “Montreal”. I can’t make the rest of it out, no matter how hard I squint. A permanent blurring.
Well? Norma says.
Thanks, I say, taking the bag even though I’m still not sure it’s mine. The bag is heavy for its size. Must be more than clothes in it. I walk back from the curb and lean against the nearest wall. There, I unzipper the bag. Lying across the top are several books and what looks like a videotape cassette.
Whatchya got there? Norma asks, reaching in to pull out the larger of the books. The Bible! It’s the freaking Bible! Are you a Bible thumper?
She’s shouting and waving it in the air. The passersby start to give us a wide berth. I look at the second book: “Creation Myths of The Amerindian: An Ethnography”. I hold up the videotape. There aren’t any identifying marks on it.
You need a TV and a VCR for that, Norma says. She looks around, then takes my arm. Come on. I know where to find one.
It can wait, I say, replacing both the books and the videotape. I don’t have to watch it right now.
What, are you kidding, she says as she leads me down the street. This could be important. Very important. This could be a matter of freaking life and death, you know. Could be a message like. From God.
She laughs her manic laugh.
Could be a blank tape, I say – but only to myself.
We walk down the street arm in arm. It’s almost completely dark now – or would be if it weren’t for the store lights, which cast our shadows clear into the street. I’m shivering, unable to keep my body still.
How far? I say, my teeth clicking.
We turn a corner and there before us is a vast island of light, glowing and throbbing in the dusk, its brilliance shooting off in all directions.
Here we are, Norma says, reaching into her jacket for another cigarette butt. Welcome to Paradise.
Paradise? It’s only the name of the store: Paradise Factory Outlet, Electronics For The Plugged-In Family. Our motto: You Don’t Have To Be Nuclear To Be Happy. But It Helps. A wall of TV sets broadcasts bright images onto the street, images that change every few moments. Above them and to the sides, colored strobe lights pulse in rapid succession. They seem to be timed to the beat of my heart. Thu-thumping . . . thu-thumping. And they’re draining me of energy. No, not energy. Will power. Sucking at my will. I feel malleable. Ready to be re-made. Shaped and fitted into someone else’s mould.
Come on, Norma says, her voice sounding suddenly a long way off..
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