Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Who You Think I Am

everyone had to lose it, if something was dead as far as he was concerned, it couldn’t keep going someplace else. One of the last times I saw Joe in Paris before the meltdown, he just showed me the photos Chris was taking and posting on Facebook to drum up some interest, make a bit of buzz, as he called it. He wasn’t very kind about his “best buddy”; according to him, Chris wasn’t really looking for a job. He was fed and housed in Lacanau, so why move? Then his ambition was to become famous without lifting a finger—maybe just his index finger to press the start button. “He’s hoping someone will notice him one day and turn him into the next Depardon,” Joe scoffed. His photos were good, I looked at them in detail, but only because it was a way to spend time with Joe. Chris? No, I never actually spoke to him, before. Well, yes I did, it came back to me the other night, I had a nightmare and the words came back to me, should I tell you this? You’re interested in nightmares? Okay. It was morning, I had a lecture, I went into the amphitheater, all dressed up, nice makeup, I headed for the podium and just then all the seats emptied in a flash, all the people were wearing blue, they got to their feet as a block, clumped noisily down the stairs, and walked out without even glancing in my direction, a thumbs- down, and I was left alone on my platform, an empty platform and not a train in sight. I was frightened, I turned around and there was something written on

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