MBut how is it possible to hear that here, right in the middle of restocking the shelves near the cash desks, between a box of Imodium boxes and another of Maalox? These synthetic opening notes, maximum depression, which will soon, she knows only too well, switch into complaints whistled on the flute. Out of the question to catch this wave in the ears and everywhere else. She’s not ready. She’s been dodging this song for almost a year, she looks away when her playlist, called “Chialade”, pops up on Spotify, she roams around, like a coyote around a chicken coop, wondering if she’s going, how badly it’s going to hurt. However, in 2022, there is really little chance of finding someone who knows this song.
In 1963, when Maurice Fanon released The Scarf, this masterpiece about breaking up, just after getting divorced, it caught fire on the airwaves, but today… and here, especially. While it is notably for the hypersquare soundtrack of the boss – an unsurprising blockhouse ensemble; hip-hop in the nails of the vaguely dark 90’s – that she tried her luck at the pharmacy on rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. Well, he’s also the only pharmacist to have agreed to take her on an internship when she was 40 years old and no other qualification or argument than “I love people and drugs and have always done so”.
The rescue dog
It must be said that, by dint of seeing her, almost every day, coming to buy antacids, anti-inflammatories, analgesics, anxiolytics, antibiotics for her imaginary patient, they had ended up creating a form of bond. He seemed to understand secretly the little drama of addiction she was going through, she, the unofficial nurse, the first-aid dog, working at the bedside of a never-ill man who bored the earth with viruses and fantasized pains. Crazy that she is; often, today, he misses his complaints and his grimaces. His indisposed ass head, still haloed by his scarves, carried by two or three, because he was convinced that he was wasting away under the onslaught of brain cancer, elbow cancer or a massive stroke.
She offered him scarves; wool, silk, linen, cotton. With the drugs, nothing gave him more pleasure. Its two revitalizing sources of joy. They had that in common, the passion for drugs. She thinks about it while compiling Rennie’s boxes. The pretty little colored boxes, the illusion of the miracle put in small, clean, easily storable boxes, with encouraging bright colors and reassuring figures (from 12 years old, 20 milligrams, 18 capsules; they think of everything).
In the intestinal disorders and digestive comfort department, she continues to pile up boxes, she must manage without crying the voice of Cora Vaucaire which infiltrates between the shelves and the customers. “If I wear around my neck/In memory of you/This memory of silk/Who remembers us/It’s not that it’s cold/The air is soft in the depths/It’s that still once / I wanted like crazy / To remember you / Your fingers on my neck. »
She looks at the epic and proud box of betaine citrate and its mustard yellow dressing which reminds her of so many moments of comfort and says to herself, swallowing down her dry drowning, that Maurice Fanon is a madman, that having written something about this not designed to suffer, it’s pure sadistic genius.