I started writing this story in late 2019, when I was in a semi-successful indie rock band, Slim and the Beast, preparing for a major European tour in March 2020.
Many friends, acquaintances, and even an incompetent music label thought we were going to—and perhaps even wanted to —“become famous.”
We didn’t. Ah, what a difference a global pandemic makes. I don’t know why exactly I’ve returned to this story today, but it has something to do with revisiting a chapter in my life wherein I felt consumed by words like “success” and “fame” and “making it” at the expense of the pursuit of passion as an end in itself.
It is 8:27 A.M., and the boulevard gleams with the orange glow of headlights shimmering in this light Parisian rain.
Petrichor.
This particular café terrace on Boulevard Montparnasse lies in wait for the first inevitable customer of the day, a grey-haired man whose eyes seem far away, or otherwise trapped somewhere within his withered face. He looks like he could be seventy-five years old or an alcoholic sixty. His face is red with rosacea and is worn like a pitcher’s glove, rough and leathery. Judging by his mouth’s droopiness, he was either at the dentist this morning or recently had a stroke.
When he arrives, he doesn’t say anything to the waiter. He does, however, cough up phlegm before sitting down. At his corner table, he pulls out a pack of rolling tobacco and plucks out a clump with his fingers, long and spindly, their edges yellow from the poison he inhales.
His jacket is stylish and expensive (no outward seams), but paired with his tight black jeans and black leather boots, the man looks like a farce, a caricature, a misguided attempt to maintain a wilted identity. With slow-motion effort, this ropy bag of bones turns to look inside the café and get the waiter's attention.
He fails and returns his attention to the lonely boulevard, shimmering and wet. Soon enough, a waiter in a lime green vest and violet shirt arrives with two pints on a serving tray.
“Desolé, Franc. Je ne t’ai pas vu.”
The elder neither answers nor waits for whoever will drink the second pint to begin. It is just after 8:30 A.M.
A few minutes pass before a man-child with scrappy facial hair, a bowl-cut hairdo, and a beer belly takes a seat next to his elder.
“I could’ve helped, Dad. You shouldn’t walk alone.”
The elder only grumbles and maintains his vacant gaze. His son sips the frothy pint, his cheeks swollen and red like his father’s, just like the sadness in his eyes.
“Michel says we have to be there at nine-fifteen,” the boy says.
Another grunt. The father says, “Whatever.”
Both men sip their beers methodically, wasting no time. Within a few minutes, the waiter is back again with two more. Neither father nor son say merci or even acknowledge the waiter’s presence.
The son pulls out a bag of American Spirit tobacco and rolls a cigarette on the table. It is just after 8:45 A.M. The rain patter on the café’s fabric awning puts them in a trance; the only sound they emit is a groan or a closed-mouthed burp—strangled, putrid breath forced down into the belly. After the second pint, the son rolls a second cigarette—a dangling, burning, flaccid thing with tobacco sprouting from the end—and inserts it into his father’s limp mouth. With his task complete, the son leans back in his chair and pulls a cell phone from his chest pocket. He inhales deeply, fills his chest cavity with smoke, and puffs it out to exhale a thick cloud across the windswept terrace.
To the chagrin of both father and son, it stops raining. “At least we got twenty minutes of peace,” the son says.
The morning street lamps turn off, the sun comes out, and within minutes, it’s as if all of Paris is arriving this Saturday morning to enjoy the heated terraces of the boulevard cafés. A passing man in a suit unashamedly stares at father and son and pulls out his phone. The son glares at him. “Keep walking,” he says, but the businessman takes a photo anyway. A few minutes later, a group of squealing middle-aged American women passes and interrupts their tour guide mid-conversation. “Is that them?” she bellows unashamedly.
The tour guide lowers his voice to the tourist. She pretends to understand, but she’s too American to care, and she can’t help but make her presence known as she walks away. “I love you!” she yells.
Her piercing voice attracts three teenage boys who’ve each tucked their black sweatpants into white tube socks. They scurry over to the café armed with flip camera phones. The largest amongst them approaches to try and get a better snap. The bloated son stands up to confront them while his father remains catatonic in his chair, a withered cigarette dangling from his mouth, turning to embers.
“Keep walking,” the son faces up to the teenagers. “I said, keep walking. Leave us be. Get out of here.” The teenagers laugh and run across the street. A variation on this theme plays out over and over again—furtive glances, outright laughter, delicate murmurs of doubt, excitement, and embarrassment.
Human beings are drawn to tragedy like moths to a flame.
Two eco-tourists—their backpacks and hiking boots give them away, as do the white woman’s dirty-blond dreadlocks and the man’s offensively scraggly beard—stop in front of the terrace. They aren’t bashful about lingering, but they aren’t American. Both hipster tourists pull out their cell phones to confirm the truth, their faces glued to the screens like witches above a cauldron.
“It is him,” the woman whispers.
“I can hear you,” the son says. “Keep walking, granola munchers. We’re not taking any pictures. Just get away.”
Still, the eco-tourists persist. They’re too progressive to believe in insults, anyway.
“Hey, take it easy, man,” the bearded man says. “We just wanna say hey. Your dad’s a fucking legend.”
This is a lie, of course, but the man’s tone of voice is convincing.
“We’ve just returned from a two-week hike in the Swiss Alps, okay?” he explains. “These phones are solar-powered, man. We climbed to the top of Mont Blanc, but there was a storm, and we couldn’t get any pictures. This would mean so much to us. We didn’t get anything up there.”
“This’ll make our trip. Like, seriously,” the woman says as her bearded companion walks over to the elder without the son’s permission.
“Just one picture. Come on, dude,” he says.
“I’m not your dude,” the son snaps. “I said get out of—what are you doing!”
“Just a picture,” the woman says. Her partner is already kneeling next to the emaciated elder, who doesn’t so much as glance at these human specimens.
“Just leave him alone,” the son says. “Can’t you see he’s just trying to have a beer?”
“Just one, bro. It’s all good,” the bearded backpacker puts his arm around the old man’s shoulders.
Snap.
“It’s an honor, sir,” the backpacker sticks his tongue out and flashes a rock and roll sign, but the elder doesn’t even blink, doesn’t even whimper, he just goes on staring into some distant abyss, his sleek leather jacket now covered in cigarette ash.
“Awesome!” The female backpacker squeals and scurries towards them with a selfie stick in hand to take a final family portrait of these four perfect strangers.
“Thanks, man. You’re a fucking legend.” The intrepid explorers walk to the edge of the terrace to gloat over the photos.
The waiter has witnessed the spectacle and wants to make them pay. “Bonjour. Qu’est-ce que je peux vous servir, messieurs dames ?”
Realizing that they might have to actually pay for something, the eco-tourists stand up, swing their packs over their shoulder, and are off to climb other mountain peaks without another word.
It is 9:15 A.M., and something unimportant is trending on a website popular with teenagers. A singular grey cloud now blankets the city of Paris in obscurity, swallowing up the sun and giving way to rain drops that fall rhythmically atop the fabric cafe awning.
The waiter in the lime-green vest returns with two more pints. “Desolé, Franc. Il y a des touristes partout.”
“Sorry dad,” the son says. “At least it’s raining again.”
The black streets shimmer with the orange glow of headlights as the son rolls another cigarette and sticks it between his father’s lips.
And now, a faint smile emerges at the corner of his mouth as the Paris rains lap at the shores of this empty, quiet terrace.
I enjoyed this - even if I've never really understood why people would seek fame, nor feel much empathy for those who have sought it - but I wonder why you have such an axe to grind with hippy tourists?
Terrific work. I could see and hear every character as the story progressed.