Tobac

Tabac

The man with fat lips like that of a cartoon turtle and short black hair fills out Rapido lotto tickets by the dozen. He has yet to win. Not sure he wants to. He seems content just filling in the circles and drinking the 25cL glasses of Amstel Light.

Nothing Compares is playing and though the girl that comes in wearing a bright red pea coat looks nothing like Sinead O’Connor I think she shares a resemblance—short hair if nothing else. I’ve always had a certain affinity for the song and with beer in hand and cigarette burning thousands of miles from Los Angeles, I magically feel comfortable mouthing the words.

I think of my friend Mike Cuglietta who used to play Nothing Compares on his guitar while shrieking an Irish inflection. He would continue to sing Emperor’s New Clothes and No Man’s Woman begging me to sing along. I simply mouthed the words. A smoky studio apartment in Tampa, FL at night isn’t all that different it seems.

The song changes to Time of Your Life and I think of my mom’s crush on Patrick Swayze when Dirty Dancing came out and my little brother and I watching Road House on TBS one day when we both stayed home sick from school. Nothing cured a cough like a country bar ass kicking.

The two men behind the bar look like brothers themselves—both balding at the same rate, eyebrows full, bellies filling. The one selling the Tabac eats a sandwich of ham, salami, and cheese. The one serving the beer eats without salami. They both handle the baguettes like batons. They’re sweaters half unzipped chase behind them when they spin to make change.

A French pop song comes on and the girl with a black headband screeches joyously and calls a friend. It reminds her of the time she made out with Niko for the first time—happy and sad. He left Bordeaux before the fall. He left for school up north. It was the best summer of her life.

Two others un-bundle their scarves and order coffees, nodding to the old woman smoking cigarettes as thin as her hair. Her fingers’ bones squeeze the filters of their breath. The ash reaches out unbroken, turning lava red every fifteen seconds. She speaks to no one and ignores the harsh breeze that rushes in every time customers come in to buy a pack of smokes or beer or coffee.

And the brothers spin and make change and the man with the turtle lips fills in the lottery bubbles to pass the time enough to forget he isn’t a dreamed of a boy far away at school up north for the season. And I think of my mom and my brother and Fridays so long ago when it was okay to sing Sinead O’Connor in a studio with a friend and his guitar. Too poor to be in France writing stories. Too poor to drink anything but large cans of beer and plastic bottles of vodka.