First, I lay in bed and listened to two things: the rain dripping down through the trees, and my head giving the French Premier Ministre the rant he deserves (according to my head). The rain didn’t stop and I doubt the Prime Minister’s mind experienced so much as a faint tremor of doubt as to his Manifest Destiny. So I took out the dog along with an umbrella.
As luck would have it on this rainy Sunday morning, the dog and I happened out on the Esplanade at a crucial point in some deal making. At that point, whatever deal was taking place involved some seven or eight young men in two cars, and two more pissing against a wall. The dog wanted to make friendly, of course. This sent a third young man scurrying while I repeated “tout droit!” (straight ahead) to my dog, and kept my eyes off the young men’s faces.
Apparently, the deal didn’t involve food and there were soggy and appetizing pizza crusts ahead, so the dog obeyed and we walked on. Took the other route home, and avoided a third car screeching over to the esplanade.
Whatever the time setting says on this blog, it is now seven thirty five am local time. I’ve had my first coffee and my head’s now involved in background humming of a song medley of La Rugissante’s Russian repertoire.
I introduced a local drunk in my current attempts at fiction. Fiction won’t do him justice though so these few words as the only testimonial he’ll ever get other than the usual police and social worker write-ups: he was nine years old when his boss in Morocco – a hairdresser – introduced him to alcohol in lieu of payment for his runs back and forth to the tea shop for the customers. He made it over to this side of the Mediterranean (I have no details on that part of his life story). Met a beautiful girl with a long history of foster home placements. They had a child (whom I now coach on Mondays). He attempted a work re-insertion program a few years ago, where I taught him some basics in reading and writing. Since there’s not much point to a work re-insertion program if there aren’t any jobs at the tail end, he went back to what he knows best i.e. getting drunk. He’s a quiet and friendly drunk, in his early thirties now. His features have started to blur and I never mention his son to him anymore because that only sets off more turmoil between the father and his estranged former love.
The joke in all this is… the joke is me. Still hoping a few good breaks will come along for me and my pals. You share the bad times, any wonder you hope to share some of the good ones too?
(Finished the Faulkner yesterday. What can I say about The Sound and the Fury that someone else won’t say better? Nothing. I’ll simply say it’s the kind of book – once first read – you can open at random at any page at all and read through a page of masterful writing. A keeper, in other words. I also watched part of a rugby match at my neighbor’s house with someone explaining the game. The stadium was jam packed, plus millions of people watching big burly guys with no visible protective padding slamming into one another for the privilege of grabbing a ball. Best I could make of it? We’re a strange breed.)