TGV

If it weren’t for the two gay men I’d be able to see the countryside. But they speak loudly and act louder. I can’t block them out. Like a baby crying. M-Dogg wants me to listen to a song on his headphones. They’re huge. Block out all sound except the music.

He’s right. The gays are gone and now I see steeples. My, God the steeples. My, God the grass. It’s green. So fucking green. And what of the houses? What of them? I’d answer. They’re god damn historic as fuck too, I’d say.

The train stops in the middle of nowhere. There’s an announcement I don’t understand and I assume we don’t have to evacuate. The gay men aren’t so I stay put.

Off in the distance a man rides another bike of France—the ultimate in transport. Who needs nationalism when you have bicycles? It takes him three minutes to travel between telephone poles. He moves in light strides and his windbreaker, black and white, stays still.

The field is brown but still fertile. I think of my grandfather in Phoenix’s desert land. Nothing but cactus and rock. No soy beans. No corn. Just retirees. But here’s my grandfather. Among the farms again. His natural habitat. I’ve never asked if he used to ride bikes, but looking at the man in the growing distance among the freezing ground that will yield crop for a nation, I believe he has.

Fred “Black Panther” talks between cigarettes puffs. I’m looking north. He’s looking south. The ticket checker is roaming and smoking is not aloud. The only place in the whole of France it seems.
I gave him the cigarette and I feel it’s my obligation to help him smoke it. In appreciation he teaches us how to open a bottle of wine with his thumb. Mind-blowingly cool.

We all share the wine. He says it’s not very good. I think it’s fine but I don’t have a clue. I’ve already drunk several strong Belgium beers. Everything is starting to taste the same.

He’s from a small island off the coast of Africa, just south of Madagascar. I aced geography but haven’t a clue.

He has brand new Timberland boots on and he speaks French to me like a native. Luckily Johnny knows enough to converse and he sticks around until his station. Turns out the train is slow and stopping so much because people on strike are setting fire to the railroad tracks. I feel like I’m a part of something big. The uprising!

We discuss the qualities of rap and for once in my life I feel I pwn a black person as he tells us his favorite rapper is 50 cent.

He’s returning from seeing his three-year-old son in Portoille. He lives in Toulosee. We want to hear more and drink more. Thankfully I have another cigarette to keep him company. I place it under the brim of his hat until he finishes the other. He loves the idea. Calls it American. I just saw it as convenient.

The train goes dark as we disappear into a tunnel and everything goes silent. I try to drink from my cup of newly poured wine but spill instead so I wait for it to get light again. I have enough stained shirts in my closet.