Untitled (Totopoly)
Gouache and ink on paper mounted on greyboard, bookbinding cloth
30 x 40 cm


The Estuary Garage is still open.

The car won't go any further anyway.

Eric and his wife. And his kid with his oversized cap, pitch-black hands and face, and with his sole tooth.

He must have had another one but it probably fell out when his father lost his patience.

Eric is beautiful too, his green eyes, two marbles like the lights of an old truck seen from far away in the distance at night.

He could hump me right on the desk, amidst the dusty papers, with Galaxi, the guard dog, staring at us or tossing his chew-toys around.

The successive layers of dust and soot have reconciled the furniture, the bird cage, Galaxi’s toys, the car lift and everything else, so that you could think all is useful for the job.

The grey flattens everything; and only by taking a closer look can another room be seen behind the opaque windows.

He drives me to the Sap Mill, an almost empty camping site with mini-golf, pool table, trout fishing and restaurant-bar, of course.

Worn out plastic tables and chairs, fluorescent yellow and orange price tags, bleached by the sunlight and stapled to the trees.

Between 10am and 1pm, 1.5 hours of walking for the price of 1 hour, and even 2 hours for the price of 1 hour, if you leave between 10 and 10:15am.

The old white pedal boats have preserved fallen leaves and rainwater from the past seasons in their crevices.

Stéphane, the cook, blond with blue eyes, his face cooked like his rib eye steaks and rings on every finger, wild eyes and discreet expression.

Everything is here, even the tag "faggot" in the toilet and me, who hopes that the cook is a fag.