What am I going to do with my life?

As I reread this letter, I don’t see the fine words I’ve been dreaming of writing you for so long. But I’m going to mail this anyway, because the words come straight from my heart.

Nipishish

18

AUNT MONA IS always telling me how much it costs to keep me. She never stops talking about money. But I know that every month she gets a check from the Ministry of Indian Affairs. She just stuffs it in the bottom of her bag.

One day she says, “Pierre, you are big and strong, you have to find a job. You could deliver groceries or pack bags at the cash, a strong boy like you.”

I just nod, but I don’t take her seriously.

It turns out I should have. The following week, in the middle of supper, she says, “I’ve found a job for you, Pierre!”

“A job?”

“Yes! They need a pin setter at the bowling alley. I know the manager, he’s my second cousin. I told him about you, told him you are strong and quick and smart. You have everything it takes to be a good pin boy.”

Uncle Méo is sitting at the end of the table, picking his teeth with a toothpick. He doesn’t say a thing.

“But I go to school…”

“This won’t get in the way of your classes. The bowling alley is only open nights and weekends. Besides,” she adds, smiling, “I spoke to the agent at the ministry. He said it’s good for you to learn how to work, that this will help mold your character, teach you the work ethic. You have an interview tonight at seven. You know where the bowling alley is. Right below the theater.”

I have no choice. Besides, if I make some money, maybe by spring I’ll have enough to buy a nice red bike like the one in the window of Légaré’s store.

At seven o’clock it’s already dark, and the neon sign for the alley is lit up, the arrow pointing to the lower level. People are already arriving. They open the big heavy door and are swallowed up into the stairwell that leads to the basement.

I wait. I don’t like basements. But it’s the end of November and my feet are freezing.

I at least have to go and see it. Then I can politely refuse the job and go back and tell Aunt Mona that things didn’t work out.

Another couple goes through the door and I slip in behind them. A strong smell of sweaty feet and old leather fills my throat. I hear what sounds like the beats of a drum, long and regular, mixed with the blows of an ax, as if someone is splitting wood. When I get halfway down the stairs I see the manager, Mona’s cousin, standing behind his shiny counter. I know right away that it’s him. He’s short, thick-set, with a wide mouth and forehead and a brushcut. He’s noticed me, too. He can see everyone who comes in before they see him, because of the way the door opens at the bottom of the stairs.