Milos, Bordeaux
18:00 TheyÕre making out openly. PDA in America, possibly some other acronym here. Le publise dilais de affecion, as I would say since to me, speaking French is simply speaking English with an accent that isnÕt all that authentic. But they make out all the same. HeÕs just rolled a joint and smoked it. He chose to go outside to smoke it. I wasnÕt sure it was a joint until he went outside—a cool cigarette is all. Self rolled with trampsÕ tobacco. Tramp chic. But tramps were British and I donÕt know the French equivalent. IÕm not read enough. If I continue to drink perhaps IÕll come up with something. The
beer is from an abbey. Like medieval times, IÕve chosen to drink beverages made
exclusively at monasteries. I feel holier than I do when I get wasted from Anheuser Busch.
ItÕs cold out so they stay close, though if it were a million degrees it seems theyÕd be just as close. They speak between bouts of make out sessions and cigarettes. What of I havenÕt a clue but I assume itÕs about a ch‰teau theyÕve just visited and hated because it was too bourgeois. They continue to revolutionary matters. Communism is of course not the answer, but who knows, maybe greed just keeps screwing it up. They make out again and decide communism is a terrible idea; complete anarchy is the only answer. I agree that she would look great in a black deep v-neck sweater with a big red A on it. Then gain she would look great in nothing at all. They continue to chat and smoke and make out and I wonder if they see me writing. Do they know IÕm writing about them? Know IÕm writing about how heÕs tickling the palm of her hand and sheÕs scratching his neck. No one else seems to notice. Perhaps itÕs just too hard to see through all the smoke.
18:43 Two girls laugh and a bartender tries to set fire to an incombustible drink. His lighter burns his thumb and he swears—I think he swears. I wouldÕve sworn. He held the fire for some time without success and aside from frustration, temperature can make one quite impolite. The drink goes out all the same, the patron too in love with the waitress to notice or care, and upon delivery she walks off without noticing his appreciation. HeÕs in a heavy sweater, afghan like, which zips twice at the collar. His hair is curly and dances when his head follows after her. His mouth is small compared to the thinning mustache above it, which he runs his hand over habitually. His friend is too busy counting records that decorate the walls. He has yet to touch the amber beer before him. The raspberry flavored sugar added to the drink just gets stirred endlessly. The waitressÕ ass doesnÕt afflict him either as it does his friend even as she bends to pick up a lighter dropped by an old man at the bar. The curly headed one coughs his cigarette out in acknowledgement. And heÕs right to do so. Her ass is a work of art, better preserved by denim than perfect humidity and glass frames could ever accomplish. The two continue to say nothing as they eat a small plate of olives. Toothpick to mouth and pit to plate. Over and over until the olives are gone and they slide it aside as if there were a main course en route. But no main course comes and they are left to cracking their knuckles and drinking and stirring. After he finishes the unlit drink he runs his hands through his curly fop and licks the black hair above his lip. It still tastes of the sweet anise meant to go a flame, though nowhere near as sweet as heÕd like. His friend stirs on and they refrain from speech till she returns for another order. ÒAutreu,Ó he says with a nervous smile and she walks off without acknowledging the other who adjusts his glasses and looks away.
19:17 He continues to kiss cheeks. Every time the door opens he continues to kiss cheeks. They may be coming. They may be going. He kisses them all. After he kisses he shuts the door firmly and talks to himself about how he must fix the warped wood before it gets too cold—or too hot, depending on profits. He closes the sticking door all the same and goes back to his stool at the bar, dropping his lighter every so often. He and the waitress seem to have a game going of which thereÕs only one clear winner, but perhaps she gets wage compensation that isnÕt evident in her facial expression each time she turns away. He wears a tight black sweater that accentuates his large belly. Whether this is a sign of authority and nobility still IÕm not sure. I think of movies and paintings of flamboyantly large kings at feast with petite beautiful young woman at their sides and wonder if France hasnÕt moved on from the medieval age. Are the fat still in charge? IÕve eaten several crepes, several donuts and waffles, and still feel like a peasant. He gets up and does a walk around the bar. He surveys the women, single and taken alike, in his black pleather pants and pointy black boots. I feel IÕm not in France anymore for no such absurdity in fashion should happen in what IÕve created as such a profoundly classy place. I wish for him to sit back down, for him to leave entirely, so I can go back to my innocent world where my trip takes me to Bordeaux not Backersfield. After finally sitting back down he lights another cigarette and the bartender gets him another drink. ItÕs house rouge, a larger helping than us customers, which he drinks down like milk. He breathes heavily and laughs at a man sitting next to him who opens his umbrella and yells something aloud. The man calms, and looking across the bar to a mirror, drops his lighter to the floor.
© 2007 Tyke Johnson |