CHARISMATIC MEGAFAUNA

By Quiconque

Don't get me started
2004-05-09

Encounter on a Parisian Sidewalk

I spent most of last year in Paris, France, doing my dissertation research. In Paris, France, there are five kinds of ooze on the sidewalk. There is, of course, the ubiquitous dog shit, so aptly conveyed in Altman�s Pr�t-�-Porter. There is a lot of urine, both dog and human. There is also a lot of spit, which makes sense, because almost everyone smokes, and those who don�t get a heavy dose of second-hand smoke anyway. So, your given Parisian is going to be a bit phlegmy. Then there�s the bird shit, which is just as copious as the dog shit but scarier because it descends from above. And, finally, there are the tomato slices. I have never seen someone actually lose their tomato slice; so I don�t know if Parisians eat a lot of slippery sandwiches, or if Parisians are purposefully discarding tomatoes from their meals. For the shoe conscious, maneuvering through the streets of Paris is like playing a high-stakes game of hopscotch.

Within two weeks of my arrival, I realized that the people I lived with were crazy. I was still na�ve enough to believe the situation could be managed through avoidance. Therefore, I spent most of my day out of the apartment, roaming the streets and going to the movies. I often just sat on the bench across from the apartment and wrote long morose letters to my friend, Rabbit.

One day, as I was sitting on my favorite bench, an old woman approached me. She asked me, in accented French, if I lived in the neighborhood, to which I replied, �Yes.� She then asked me if my rent was subsidized, how I found the apartment and a whole bunch of other questions that I was both disinclined and unable to answer. Instead, I explained that I was an American student, living with a family, and that I was not responsible for the lease of the apartment. Somehow she took this to mean that I lived there for free. (Oh, but how I paid to live with those people!)

By this point, she had sat on the bench and showed no signs of going away. So, I decided to continue the conversation. After all, my French was never going to improve unless I used it and I needed to hone my interviewing skills. I learned that the woman lived in a nearby retirement home. She hated the place and wanted to move. She had no friends there, and the nurses were mean to her. Most of her family lived in Spain. She only had a son in France. I asked her if living with her son was an option.

�He is not normal, my son. He did not pass the bac until he was 21 years old. Most students pass it at 18. Twenty-one! He is not normal. Something is wrong with him. He never has a girlfriend! All his life, he only brings home boys.�

I was not about to out her son to her, but I really wanted to say, �Madam, your son is slow and gay.�

At this point in the conversation she looked down at her sandal and noticed a string hanging off the sole. I must admit that I have absolutely no idea what she said from this point onwards because she took off her shoe, brought it to her lips, and proceeded to try to remove thread with her teeth. It took a few tries. She sucked on that string a couple times before she snapped it off. She talked all the while, but I was dumbfounded. I kept thinking, �Five types of ooze, five types of ooze.�

I hastily bid her good day and caught the matinee screening of Fusion: The Core.


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