But first, a kebab. I'm fuckin' starving. The closest doner place is closed though, so I stomp back up the hill towards Sacre Coeur, back up the road we came because I know we passed one on the way down. I remember looking in with longing eyes as we shuffled by. I don't think the girls realized how far the opera house was when they threw all their eggs into frat boy's basket and romped off to this mystical crepe place. Good luck, ladies. Me, I got some fresh euros in my wallet because I need some weed, but what's more pressing is this grumbling tummy of mine.
"Je voudrais un hamburger du poulet et des frites sil vous plait," I say. The motherfucker's only 3,50. It's a no-brainer.
"Sauce?" asked the middle eastern fellow behind the counter.
"Uhm, ouai, spicy." and he spices it up. He takes his time, and I take a piss in the wash closet and text Guive for the weed. He tells me to meet him at the University cafe in two hours. So I wolf down my hamburger and fries and hop on the closest metro, Trinite d'Estienne d'Orves, some monstrous name of a metro station, and start trekking south.
It's an hour and a half ride. I wish I'd brought my journal with me, mais non, I am journal-less. With nothing but an iPod to keep me company. Truthfully, she's not a bad companion. I listen to her, and what's more, I like listening to her. She's always saying something I want to hear. She whsipers gentle every Cotton Jones song I know. Every LCD track. Every Cat Power croon. Racing away on the lonely underground. When the train finally comes out and takes a high rail, the sun's in it's setting minutes and pink orange is splashed on the scattered clouds. City is turning to red-roofed suburbs before my eyes as the sky darkens. Twlight seems to linger just long enough to light my walk from the last stop to the school grounds. It's just too cold to sit outside, and they're no chairs inside so I pop up onto a long table by the wall and sit cross-legged and wait. Guivre should be here any minute.
But he's not. After thirty miuntes I call him, and he tells me he's running a little late. "Maybe thirty more minutes," he says. Thirty minutes? Fuck. Well, it's not like there's anything else I can do. Nothing else to do but wait. I'm going to be late for Erin's showing, but that's none of my fault so I can't really feel bad about it. I feel badf about waiting though. I hate waiting. It leaves the mind guessing at what could've been with this wasted time. I wonder if there'll be any more wine left when I get back to the Seventh. Will the cheese be gone? Are all the crackers left going to be smashes and forlorn? Fuck waiting. But what else am I going to do. I play silly games on my iPhone. I pace. I walk around outside with my hands deep in my pockets because the night air is absolutely frigid, and before long it starts drizzling. Where's Guivre. I almost don't want this weed anymore. It's almost not worth it. Almost. Besides I've come this far, and I've only seen futility in giving up. Quitting's for the weak. I think my father told me that. "If I'd a wanted to raised quitters, I'd a tried a lot less," he'd say when I'd thought the going got tough. Looking back, the circumstances were always so pithy. But when you're a little kid, the pithy things seem so damned important. It's silly. And so, I think, is this frustration brewing. I have to wait, so what. Roll, roll, roll with the punches. "It keeps you pretty," I say to myself. Adaptation. It's the root of true charm. It keeps me intriguing, and at the same time constantly intrigued. And that's worth a smile.
[stop]
I soak in the surroundings, trying to catch the minutest details. Try as I might, I can't understand a lick of what's being said by the healthy mix of college-aged French youth in the room. Must be strange to see, if anyone even notices the strange quiet kid set on the table with what I imagine is a look of rapt focus on his face, pretending to fiddle on his phone, but in reality, just desperately trying to make out what the hell's going on around him. I probably look like some woeful degenerate wallflower without any thought or interest in social interaction. It's sad to say in my head because the yearnings burning around inside are only the opposite. All I want is to talk to everyone, to the magnificently beautiful women that grace this campus, speaking their fast French. It's unintentionally alluring, and like watching foreign films without the subtitles on it's just a sequence of expressions. But one mustn't stare so I watch with a sideways glance that's always shifting and unfocused whenever I look up. I catch a word here and there on occasion. Some phrase I remember, half a sentence. Mostly though it's just sounds like pretty birds singing to each other. Some lovely song that sounds so beautiful, but means nothing to someone who doensn't speak bird. I could listen to it all day. But my legs are getting antsy, and the night outside's getting cold now as I go for a circular stroll. The sky starts drizzling, and still no Guivre. I call him, and he doesn't pick up.
In five minutes he calls. "I am so sorry, bro. I got caught up with some other business, you know?"
"No worries, mate." I try to hide the exasperation in my voice, it's been almost two hours. "How much longer you think?"
"I will be there in ten minutes, I promise you."
"Cool, see you then." Ten minutes, huh? I tell myself it's for real this time. And I laugh at myself a little for all the ridiculousness I've put myself through just for a measly little sack of weed.
You fucking fiend.
Eh, it is what it is. I enjoy a good spliff. The satiation of it. The deep breath, then the calm nerves. It's a feeling well worth it in my mind. Especially when one's all alone in a tough city. And trust me, Paris is a tough city when you're all alone and your French is shittier than the food at the shittiest Chinois (there's definitely some questionable ones).
[stop]
How did I get here? These situations always seem to so horribly sneak up on me. Rachel was here a second ago it felt like, but she isn't here now. We're all shit-housed. Wasted. I vaguely remember her saying something about walking back to her place. It's honestly all a haze haze though. A spinning haze that stinks of spliffs and red wine and cigarettes. The hour's late. It has to be. It certainly feels like it. My eyes are heavy, but they're afraid to close for fear of everything taking a tilt towards nausea in the dark. So I blink quick, and I take my breaths with a deep inhale.
Lili and Victor are busy making eyes at each other on the bed, whispering with their faces coming just close enough so as not to touch. She's a perpetual romantic, that girl. She looks most alive, she smiles the most, in the throws of some new romance. She thrives off the feeling and, fortunately for her (and unfortunately for some) she carries herself with the manner that every man wants. Or should I say more specifically that any man can't help but want, which is strange to see because it's so discreet. She's a hopeless flirt, a quick talker and a free spirit with a curious eye that always wanders and is infinitely intrigued. She holds a gaze with rapt focus, and since high school has developed not unlike myself from another perspective. She comes by men quite easily and she's only gotten better at it. But such a blessing is so cursed sometimes. She sees a pretty portrait and if she can, she must have it, which doesn't take much on her part. This breeds sticklers, I know that too well. A pretty picture come unraveled often times when one gets close enough to see the details. They're demystifying most times, especially to a seasoned eye. The one exception is a true masterpiece.
