My friend Henri says I smoke too much. His dad just died from lung cancer, so now Henri is on my case. It's a little hypocritical when you figure he owns a bar tabac. He keeps me in Gitanes and whisky, my two vices. I love him for that.
I miss Henri's dad, too. Papa Girard. Especially now, because I could use his advice. He was a great guy. When I was a kid on the street, he used to feed me for free at the bar tabac. Imagine? A filthy gutter rat like I was? Let me sit as long as I liked and treated me like a human being. Asked me questions like he cared. Called me, "son." He was a great, great man. His son is the same and he's my best friend for nearly 25 years. He loves me in spite of my many flaws. That's real unconditional love, believe me.
I probably spend way too much time at Henri's bar, but it's like my other home. Henri is as good as my brother. When you're an orphan you learn to borrow family. Like Jean-Paul. He's not my real son, sure, but I love him just the same and we need each other. Since he's been gone I suppose I have been drinking and smoking too much. Between Jean-Paul's latest disappearance and the political games playing out at work, all I got is my hangout and my little vices. And so what? Henri says it's dangerous for me to be idle with whisky in my belly, but somehow he keeps pouring, and stocking up on my brand of cigarettes.
