Do you think there’s a fucking sign outside the door, Jay?
I shake my head.
No.
At whatever little shithouse dump where they lived, do you think there’s a fucking sign?
I laugh.
No.
Do you think they’re going to have a parade for you?
Probably not.
There’s a reason they fucking left and went to America.
Yeah, though I don’t really know what it is.
It’s because Alsace sucks. It’s cold and rainy and miserable. And it’s boring. And in the summer it’s full of Germans, who drink gallons of beer and sing songs about fresh air and war and soccer and Christmas festivals, and who are the only people on earth worse than Americans.
I don’t mind Germans. And I love Americans, as long as they’re in America. Once they’re in France they’re awful.
I have a much better idea than some dumb pilgrimage to Alsace, which will only result in you throwing up on yourself after getting drunk on beer with a bunch of Germans.
What’s that, Philippe?
I’ll take a couple days off.
I thought you said garbagemen don’t get days off.
If I spill some garbage on my head I can call in sick for a few days.
Great plan.
Right?
What kind of garbage are you going to spill on your head?
Something nasty. Like rotten food. Probably seafood. Rotten shellfish can make you really sick. Especially if you dump a big bin of it on your head.
Great.
I know just the place.
Do it.
I will. Tonight.
And what should we do with your days off?
Amsterdam?
I don’t really like weed, and I just spent a couple nights on rue Saint-Denis.
Fun?
I don’t really know.
So fun.
Yeah.
Berlin?
You just said you hated Germans.
They aren’t really German in Berlin. They’re Berliners.
Too far.
We could see the wall, take a piss on it.
Too far.
It’s a shame you don’t have a girlfriend.
Why?
I’d get Laura and we could go away somewhere.
Where?
My parents own hotels. We just pick one and go.
And have a romantic couples vacation?
Or you and I get drunk and do dumb shit and the women casually sip fancy wine and complain about what idiots we are.
That sounds pretty fun.
Super fucking fun.
Sorry to let you down.
You don’t know anyone?
I know one girl, maybe.
Call her.
Don’t know her number.
Go to her place.
Don’t know where she lives.
Sounds serious.
I laugh.
Who is she?
It’s the girl from the bar.
The model?
Yeah.
She’s really cool and funny and beautiful.
She is all of those things.
If I was her I wouldn’t go away with you.
Can’t argue with that.
She’d probably get along with Laura.
I would think.
But you don’t have her number or know where she lives.
Nope.
Good luck with that.
I’ll go by the bar where we saw her, ask her friend.
That’s a long shot, Jay.
It’s the only one I’ve got.
Philippe finishes his drink. Tells me to call him in the morning and let him know my plan, tells me that whatever I do, he’s dumping the seafood on his head and taking a few days off and heading out with his lady. He leaves, I order another drink, another, another, build up my courage another. I finish start walking through Saint-Germain across Pont des Arts past the back of the Louvre past all the little pet shops on Quai de la Mégisserie into the 4th past Les Halles filled with break-dancers North Africans selling shit from North Africa past buskers singing love songs in French and English past men selling flowers. I stop and buy a rose from an old man with a bucket full of them. A simple red rose. Just one. If I see her. Whether she says yes or no. A simple beautiful deep-red rose. If I see her.
I walk into La Comédie. It’s half-full. No Americans, except for me. I see Petra behind the bar walk over sit down on a stool they have good tall broken-in bar stools here soft cushion but not too soft. Petra sees me smiles walks over says
Hi.
Hi.
Drinking?
Double Jack and coke.
She laughs.
So American.
Starts making the drink.
Looking for Katerina?
Maybe.
She laughs.
You’re not a regular, and this place isn’t much of an attraction.
It’s not bad.
It’s fine. Easy. A place where people come for a drink before they go somewhere else, or for a nightcap on their way home.
She hands me my drink. It’s strong, good. The whiskey burns, the sugar soothes it. She watches me taste it, smiles.
It’s more than a double.
I smile.
Just the way I like it.
I take another sip. Petra holds up a finger, indicates she’ll be back, moves down the bar to help another customer. I set the rose on the bar, stare at it, wonder where she is, Katerina, Katerina, Katerina, I stare at the rose it’s simple and deep red beautiful for Katerina I wonder where she is I wonder. Petra comes back.
That’s cute.
I laugh.
Thanks.
She’s used to guys sending her fifty of those, or taking her shopping in the Triangle d’Or, or zooming off to Monaco or Capri or Ibiza for the weekend.
I could only afford one.
Maybe that’s why she likes you.
I smile.
She tell you that?
She smiles.
She’s a bit crazy, but she doesn’t normally fuck guys in the bathroom.
I smile again.
Good to know.
I take another sip, burns, soothes.
Any idea where she is?
She shakes her head.
Nope.
Think she’ll be around at all?
No idea.
I finish the drink.
If she does…
What should I tell her?
You know Polly Maggoo?
She laughs.
That place is a dump.
Sure is.
Doesn’t even have toilets.
Something charming about a hole in the floor.
That’s your spot?
Yeah.
It’s not Ibiza.
Maybe that’s why she likes me.
She laughs, I leave some money on the bar, enough for a solid tip, pick up my rose, stand.
Thanks for the drink. You make them well.
No problem.
See you around.
Yeah.
I leave walk back through the edge of the Marais across Pont au Change, Île de la Cité, Pont Saint-Michel. The sun is down it’s dark the streetlights are glowing sidewalks crowded tourists everywhere the cafés bars and restaurants full I hear music voices laughter the whine of motor scooters an occasional horn I smell food everywhere deep heavy magnificent food I had a small piece of a baguette in the morning I almost threw it up and nothing since I’m hungry as fuck everywhere I go I smell food drifting through the dark through the glow through the noise the smell of food drifting hungry.
I carry the rose with me. Guard it. Make sure no one bumps into it, hits it. It’s her rose. Red and solitary. For her. Only her. Sometimes I keep it near my chest, near my heart, sometimes I let it fall to my side. It’s been a week since I saw her. Since she kissed me good-bye and went into the night. Left me in the bathroom with my pa
nts at my ankles and my heart pounding, hands shaking, dizzy and happy and dreaming, closed the door behind her and walked away. I’ve been to The Gates of Hell, didn’t see her, the d’Orsay didn’t see her, through Montmartre and Le Marais didn’t see her, Saint-Germain didn’t see her, walked avenue Montaigne and les Champs-Élysées didn’t see her, tried to get into Les Bains Douches they wouldn’t let me in didn’t see her. As I walk now with a rose in my hand half-drunk and hungry I look for her in every café down every alley in every shadow in the ring of light from every lamp at every table in every door at every chair I carry the rose, protect it, keep it safe, red and solitary, for her, her, her, I walk and I see and I smell and I look for her, for her.
Turn down rue de la Huchette no cars just people and Greek restaurants the smell of roast lamb I walk past Maison de Gyros in all of its glory the smell makes me insane the idea of a giant greasy pile of fake lamb and French fries and hot sauce makes me drool. I have enough money to eat or drink it’s an easy decision. I cross rue du Petit Pont the large doors of Polly Maggoo are open I can hear Led Zeppelin playing chairs have been moved out of the dark dingy interior onto the sidewalk a couple are filled a couple knocked over a couple empty. I walk into the bar order an absinthe they only serve it to regulars look around. A bunch of old drunk Algerians, a couple very drunk old French, a couple large thugs of unknown origin huddled against the wall, a single woman, looks like she’s in her sixties but probably much younger, sitting at the bar drunk and mumbling. No tourists. Not a one. With all of the sweet French fancy bars and cafés nobody wants to come to Polly and get stared at by a bunch of crazy, often hostile idiot drunks, myself included. I pick up my drink walk outside sit down in one of the chairs watch the world go by, couples hand-in-hand groups of girls laughing groups of young men shouting an old couple silent and content, families looking around half-lost half-awed, it’s summer in Paris hot and dark and alive, hot dark alive. After three glasses of absinthe, the edges of lights start to blur my thoughts start to blur my body starts to blur sounds echo boom boom I can feel the world spinning literally feel see hear it spinning boom boom hot and dark and alive boom. The rose is sitting on my lap safe and intact, red of petals deeper, heavier, sweeter, I stare and wish I could fall, swim, lose myself, drown in it deep heavy sweet red take me drown. I’m at the point of the night where I can go home or go to the unknown, to oblivion. Every drink I take will move me closer to blackout, to loss, to the hell of walking unconsciousness, to the bliss of it. Every drink will further blur the edges until everything blurs, will make the world spin more and more and more, make every sound explode, every drink I take will hasten the darkness, the loss of memory and control, the loss of humanity, every drink will further reduce me to a grunting screaming madman, every drink I take will hasten hasten hasten the loss. I reach this point every night, have this choice every night, I am aware that I make this choice every night, I am aware and I know and every single fucking night I go there. Oblivion desolation loss rage violence idiocy the unknown darkness, the darkest darkness black. I know and I’m aware and I choose and I go. Oblivion and desolation and blackness I go.
I stand go back to the bar I’m going to order a double I am going to fucking go dark black desolate it is time for me to check the fuck out of the world for a while check the fuck out. Polly is more crowded now, more tourists, Germans Americans Canadians a few English a few Irish most drawn by the rumor of available absinthe though some drawn by a place that doesn’t shine the way everything else in Saint-Michel shines. The regulars are all sitting in the corners in the shadows on the edges, isolated and scowling, lost in their drunkenness, dreaming through the blur of inebriation that September arrives soon, that all these motherfuckers go home. I move through the crowd slowly, each step an effort my legs heavy feet heavy body heavy, I’m unsteady and off-balance each step, each step. I hear some yelling, turn toward two large Irish and two large Germans facing off, somebody spilled a drink and somebody refused to apologize and somebody said something dumb, the pushing has started the punches are coming soon. Polly is a small place, it’s going to erupt and it is going to be magnificent. Chairs tables glasses bottles fists and feet blood and damage, the whole bit, it is going to be magnificent.
I love fights. Love watching them develop, watching them happen, watching how people engage in them, whether they run or throw punches, love watching shit get wrecked, watching how people act in victory and in defeat. Most fights are dumb and disappointing. Men yelling at each other, throwing a couple wild haymakers that miss, grabbing each other and rolling around on the ground before they run out of breath and get separated and yell some more. Every now and then, though, you get a good one. Dudes are sober enough or brave enough or skilled enough or smart or sneaky enough to land a punch, to do some damage, to provide some entertainment. And as much as I love watching a fight, I love being in them. Not because I’m very good at fighting, because I’m not, and not because I win, because most of the time I don’t, but I love them for the simple thrill, for the excitement, for the danger, for the unknown. A fight makes your fucking heart beat, beat, beat faster. That moment, however long or however brief, when you know it’s going to happen, but you don’t know how or exactly when or how it is going to end. It’s humanity at its most base, it’s man five thousand years ago, when we fought for food, for water, for shelter, for survival, grunting idiots throwing each other around until one of us submitted, until one of us won.
I arrive at the bar. The bartender, a Turk in his fifties named Omer who always wears black heavy-metal concert T-shirts and smokes cigarillos that smell like dogshit, motions toward the four about to fight, speaks.
Do me a favor?
What?
Get that outside.
There are fights in here all the time.
Usually between people too drunk to do any damage. Those idiots are going to fuck this place up.
You want me to fight all four of them?
Just get them out of here.
I’m too fucking drunk.
You won’t feel the pain.
Probably right about that.
Help me out.
What do I get out of it?
A night of free booze.
For just me or friends?
Just you.
Absinthe included?
No.
Two nights, absinthe included.
No.
The yelling is louder, they’re pushing each other, four big dumb meathead tourists. One of them bumps into a table, glasses fall, shatter. Omer pushes me away.
Fine. Two nights, absinthe, go.
I smile, hand him my rose.
Hold this, protect it.
Protect my bar and this will be just fine.
I laugh, turn toward the four, take a few steps toward them, yell
You dumb fucks.
They keep pushing each other.
HEY. YOU. BIG DUMB UGLY MOTHERFUCKERS.
They stop pushing each other, look at me.
We don’t like dumb pieces of shit like you fucks coming in here and causing trouble. You understand me?
I’m fifty pounds lighter than the smallest of them. I have no chance and I know it. But I’m still thrilled, heart beating, ready. I smile.
You understand me you fat ugly tourist shitbags?
The largest of them steps forward. He’s a German in a tank top, short blond Nazi hair.
Are you talking to us?
I am.
Seriously?
Nice tank top, fuckboy.
He looks down at it, it’s bright green and has some German writing on it, it’s ridiculous.
What’s wrong with my tank top?
You think people wanna see your fat arms and your back hair? They don’t, you dumb fuck. You look like a fucking idiot.
Fuck you.
Let’s take it outside, TankTop.
You want to fight me?
We kicked your ass in France in ’44 and ’45, I’m gonna kick you
r ass in France right now, you sausage-eating mouth-breathing lager-drinking motherfucker.
I turn and walk out of the bar onto the sidewalk. Everyone in Polly is watching, laughing. Some of the regulars have gotten out of their seats to see what happens. TankTop and his friend and the Irish are coming out after me. I know I’m doomed, that I’m about to get crushed, that I have absolutely no chance. All I want, aside from the two nights of free drinking, is to get in one shot, to make one of them hurt as much as they are going to hurt me. My only chance at that is to be devious and sneaky and quick and get it in first. I take a deep breath. The four are stepping out. I hold up my hands like a boxer, I know that TankTop will watch my hands. I’m wearing combat boots, which have steel toes. I smile, wave my hands around, try to distract.