Free You Changed My Life by Abdel Sellou

moment when I pass out is the one when my father gets up. He drinks his coffee at the kitchen table and joylessly gets ready for another day at work—he’s old, tired. I’ve understood how indecent it is to dive into the sheets Amina irons for a long time now.
    I can’t stand it anymore. I’ve slept in commuter trains too many times. I’m wiped out. I want a blanket, hot meals. I want to watch Looney Tunes every Sunday night on TV. So, here it goes. I’m on my way to Fleury.

15
    Welcome to the rest home.
    The day starts gently with a news flash. At eight o’clock, a reporter rattles off that a train jumped the tracks in the Doubs region, with four minor injuries and passengers suffering from shock evacuated by rescue workers. Cock-a-doodle-doo. Alain Prost won the Grand Prix in Budapest, Hungary. The weekend weather: sunny skies and scattered clouds in the northeast with a chance of rain, seasonal temperatures. I slowly wake up, the news anchor gets replaced by a bad song from Jean-Jacques Goldman, but I’m not worried. During the course of the day, I’ll get treated to La Lambada, the summer hit, from what I understand, at least three or four times. At least that’s what they’re trying to make us think, anyway . . .
    The locks fly open. I stretch and rub my neck, yawn wide enough to break my jaw. Won’t be too long till coffee; I can hear the cart coming down the hallway. I hold out my bowl, grab my tray, head back to my bunk. It’s a commercial break
on Cherie FM. A chorus of girls is excited because shoes are at 199 francs. According to them, “you’d have to be crazy to spend more.” How ’bout if I told them I have a ton of ways to not spend anything at all? I dunk my toast, the margarine dissolves and forms tiny yellow beads on the surface . . . Breakfast in bed, what more could you want? Some quiet, maybe. I turn the radio volume down as much as possible—it’s going to continue its serenade until lights out. It’s impossible to shut it up completely. Liane Foly, Rock Voisine, and Johnny Hallyday are the worst kind of torture for the inmates of Fleury-Mérogis. Like Chinese water torture. You could go nuts if it weren’t possible to drown out the asthmatic meowing of Mylène Farmer with the reassuring purr of the television. I’m rich, with more than twelve thousand francs when I got here, and you only need sixty per month to rent a AV set. I treat myself. We get all six channels including Canal+. Now it’s time for teleshopping.
    Pierre Bellemare wants me to call him. He’s trying to sell me a waffle iron. I look around my cell, no need to get up. Sorry, Pete buddy, but there’s no more room for powdered sugar in my pantry . It’s full of cigarettes (for newcomers in need, because I don’t smoke) and Pepitos (for snack time). When I need to go shopping, I give my prison ID number, which is the same as my account: 186 247 T. I’m debited directly at the source, with no sales tax, and no withholdings. I improve on the ordinary, but I really can’t complain anyway: the day I got here, I was welcomed by Ahmed, a buddy from Beaugrenelle. Since he was about to get out, he gave me all the necessities: a sponge and Saint-Marc detergent, a small, rectangular mirror in a pink plastic frame, soap that doesn’t dry your skin out, the
AV set for listening to CDs, headphones included, of course, and a thermos for keeping water cold or coffee hot.

    My world has been reduced from limitless to a few square feet. I still breathe fine all the same. Mid-morning, a guard suggests I get some fresh air. It’s not mandatory; I could stay and watch out for deals from the old mustachioed guy on the shopping channel. But no, I like to go outside. It’s often a chance to do business. Being weaned off Gitanes can be cruel for the newly arrived smokers. With a little bit of luck, and if they happen to get a