I am Luc of the Street

Being Needed

I’ve never been comfortable with being needed. In relationships, I mean. In my job, it’s different; being a cop is all about being needed and there’s a kind of importance in that. But on an intimate, one-on-one basis it feels like a heavy load.

I mention this because Jean-Paul is a bundle of need and it’s freaking me out.

JP seems to be attaching himself to me more and more each day, like a kind of surrender. I admit it can be a wonderful feeling but at the same time, I sense his immense, relentless need and I become overwhelmed. When I come home, he greets me like a puppy, jumping on me the second I’m through the door with a flurry of affection—and questions: “Pa, could we go to Girard’s for dinner?” “Pa, did you know we’re out of toilet paper again?” “Pa, where were you? Did you forget to tell me about your double shift?” It can be jarring at times; I’m used to coming home and unwinding.

I suppose I expected JP to be quiet and independent like me but the thing is, he’s not very good at taking care of himself, domestically speaking. In fact, he’s extremely dependent on me. He won’t even eat without me. It’s almost as if he waits for me before he lives his day. How do I handle that much need? Is it even possible?

Some people like to feel needed. My lovers for example, who have always complained that I’m too independent, too much of an island. They felt shut out, and I suppose that’s why they left in the end. I don't understand it. I would think it would be a good thing to be self-sufficient, not to be a bother to someone. I’ve always done for myself in my life. Sure, people have helped me but I never asked for it. I don’t want to feel I owe someone something. I don't know...maybe I have some kind of deficiency. Maybe I should I try to learn to feel good about needing and being needed. Yes, I probably should before I screw things up with the kid.

Sweet Life

It’s been over a month now and Jean-Paul is still living with me. It’s the longest my boy has ever stayed. I’m afraid to hope, to jinx it; he might bolt again. Still, he seems to be settling in more and more, and with four solid weeks together, we’ve begun to fall into a kind of rhythm of everyday family life. It’s the first time I’ve ever experienced it.
 
When I come home from work, JP is there, waiting. When I am off in another room, I can still hear him, perhaps foraging in the refrigerator or running the shower. He’s the first person I see in the morning and the last at night. I will admit, it was hard for me to adjust to another being in my space for so many days on end; I’ve gotten used to being alone. But now, I’m comforted by the sounds of his life as they fill the quiet spaces of mine. It’s a sweet mix. A sweet life.
 
Thing is, belonging has a bitter side: the longing. I don’t like that feeling at all. As soon as you have something to hold onto, you begin to fear losing it. You begin to cling too tightly. It’s a weakness to need like that. To fear like that. To know with certain dread that one day I will come home to find JP gone again. It’s just a matter of time.
 
Sweetness like this can’t last long. Can it?

Disgruntled (and Sober)

Five more days until Henri comes back from vacation and reopens the bar tabac. Yes, I'm counting the days. I’m like a fish out of whisky. I miss my usual hangout, my favorite table, my best friend—especially now with all the change in my life.

I hate drinking in strange bars; I'd rather stay sober. Today, after another boring day at work, I wandered, lost and thirsty, around Montmartre looking for a place to have a whisky before I met up with Jean-Paul. Desperate, I finally plunked myself down somewhere near the Abbesses Metro station, at a table outside one of those quaint little places the tourists love so much (and I detest). English spoken to the left of me, English to the right. Putain, I was a foreigner in my own neighborhood. Did I mention I hate August?

I ordered a whisky from the waiter but he gave me a look. “Can you pay?” he asked. Can I pay? It’s been years and years since I’m off the streets. I had to ask if he was joking. “Fine," he said, "but you cannot smoke here.” He sneered at my cigarette. I argued that I was sitting outside in the open air but he just shook his head. “You will annoy the customers.” What customers? These tourists? Wasn’t I a customer, too? I live in this frigging city!

After about a minute, the whisky did not arrive, but the manager did. He told me I couldn’t sit there and would I please leave. “Look at you,” he said. “You can’t even pay, I’m sure.” Honestly, I had to check myself to be sure I hadn’t stepped back in time somewhere on Rue des Martyrs. Was I fourteen again? Do I still look homeless? Is that something that marks you forever like a scar on your face? Okay, so I hadn’t shaved and my hair is on the long side, and maybe I didn’t manage a shower today, but do I deserve to be treated like a dog?

For a moment, I was actually about to slink away, ashamed. Then I thought, NO! I’m not that homeless kid anymore; I'm captain in an elite division of the national police. And yes, in fact, I can pay. I pulled out my wallet, stuffed with bills, and tossed it on the table in front of the manager. “Enough?” I asked. He studied me but said nothing. So I pulled out my police ID and held it up so he could read my name. “How about now?” His eyes popped. “Oh, it’s you,” he stammered. “I’m sorry, capitaine. I didn’t realize.” He rushed inside and sped a whisky to my table. I took a victory sip and settled myself into the seat I deserved, even if I didn’t really want to be there. It was the principle.

Then I lit up a cigarette and had me a nice long smoke. Yeah, that’s right, asshole. It’s me. Luc of the Street. 

Le Roi de Montmartre

I heard it again today. King of Montmartre. They’ve been calling me that for years now. I guess I’ve earned it—I've lived here long enough—and it’s meant with love I suppose, but it’s a little heavy to carry around.

Still, if a man like me were to have a kingdom, I suppose Montmartre is a suitable enough place. It’s not fancy, just a little hill village, really. Perched high above the city, it feels different from the rest of Paris. The air is different; the people are different. More real. We Montmartrois are like a tribe and we're fiercely devoted to our rebel village. Anytime you find people talking over too many glasses of wine, you're bound to hear the word, "secession."

You live in Montmartre because you love it, because you want to be a part of something that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a belief. You have to take Montmartre as it is, good and bad. It takes grit and determination to live here, in dilapidated buildings propped up on steep streets—some so steep, they’re stairs. It can be unforgiving, especially in winter. And except for a small area that’s been tarted up for the tourists, the 18th district is mostly pretty raw, especially north of Rue Ordener and east of Boulevard Barbès. I should know; I’ve lived here all my life and know every inch of every stinking gutter, so excuse me if I don’t quite get the quaint paintings they sell to the tourists in Place du Tertre. My Montmartre may not be pretty but it has heart, and I love it like a mother. It’s the only mother I’ve ever really had.

I admit that I spend most of my free time within the boundaries of my neighborhood. You could argue that I have the entire city of Paris to play in—and I do from time to time—but Montmartre is in my blood, it tugs hard when I’m away and draws me home. I suppose I don’t feel at rest anywhere but in the bosom of my mother. I am Montmartre and it is me. I guess that’s why they call me king.

Boss for Real

Well, it finally happened: Moudie called me “chef.” I guess now it’s official. Chief. Yeah, that’s me—the boss. Whoa, I just got a little rush. Of anxiety.

It’s not that I mind being in charge; I can run an investigation no problem. It’s being responsible for my team’s happiness that makes me uneasy. It seems very little about being boss has to do with police work. I spend my time being part shrink and part father. They come to me with their problems, their needs, complaints. And I’m meant to solve it, find a salve for it, fix it up. It’s a little bewildering because, as we all know, I’m not very good at being a father.

Moudie, on the other hand, is the only one who comes to me with solutions. It's refreshing but at the same time, I think it's because he sees himself as boss. He's almost never deferred to me. I don’t know if it’s personal or a matter of control. He's an "I got that" kind of guy. "Don't you worry about it, I got that."

At first, I was happy to have someone to fall back on, especially as I was wading through so much bureaucracy and politics, but now that I'm settled in and wanting to take the reigns fully, Moudie has been pushing back. It's a little disrespectful, no? I mean, hey, I'm the boss, right?

Then on Friday, it happened. I actually heard the word “boss” come out of Moudie's mouth. “What do you need me to do, boss?” he asked. Just like that, all of a sudden. It didn’t sound like, “sir;” it sounded affectionate, like a nickname. I wasn't insulted by the tone, quite the opposite, because the way he said it, so round and full, was like he really meant it. Like a vote of confidence. Now, suddenly, everything is “boss” this and “boss” that. It’s something special, really.

At the end of the day, I'm not looking for blind deference; what I want is an ally. Every good leader needs one. And when Moudie called me “chef” the way he did, with that tone, I knew it meant I finally had my real number-two guy. A brother. Someone who'd take a bullet for me. I've finally earned his respect and trust, and it means everything.

Did I need Moudie to validate that I’m boss for real? Maybe. When I was on the street, it was the other kids who voted me chief. I didn’t grab the crown like some kind of Napoleon and stick it on my own head. I’m no emperor. Sure, I’m chief now, but because my superiors put me here. It meant nothing until Moudie seconded it.

Bored

I’m not sure about my new position. I'm bored out of my mind. I spend all day in painful meetings—staff meetings, procedure meetings, reorg meeting, meetings about meetings. If this is what it means to be captain, I want a demotion. I think I’d even be happy to go back to the BRI—if they’d have me. Putain, at this point, I’d even settle for a commission in the banlieue if it meant there would be a little action. My department is so specialized that we have nothing to do. Such a waste of talent.

Still, for some reason, even with nothing to do, I’m exhausted at the end of the day. My mind is tired—from dealing with the politics, maybe. There is so much of it at this level. I don’t know who to trust, who my friends are. I’m not sure when to speak my mind or when to just nod along, dumb. They say they want my opinion but then they roll their eyes and whisper behind my back. I offend at least one person a day. I’m just not good at dealing with egos and psyches; I’m good at being a cop. I used to be top in my field but now I'm doubting myself all the time. I feel stupid and useless, like I’m starting all over again. It hasn’t been this bad since the academy.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about retiring.

If I could just get back out there, back in my element, I’d feel right again. I just need a good murder to chew on. Anybody? 

The Dead of August

Henri reminded me that he was taking off for the seaside with his wife and kids, and that Girard’s Bar Tabac will be shut until the end of the month. I was not happy about it. I hate August when all of Paris goes on vacation. Life stops. What about those who have to stay behind? What happens to us? How are we supposed to live?

August to me is like a kind of death. When I was on the street, August was the worst time. Everything slowed down and the usual human activity that sustained us gutter rats would dwindle to nothing. Like Lagache’s Grocerette—a place I frequented with my sticky fingers—would close for the whole month. We lived on the food I used to swipe from that old guy, but no shop meant no food. It would get worse and worse as the month wore on and we would be forced to move further down into the city—into the 8th and the Champs-Elysées—where there were at least some tourists. The problem was, that area was also crawling with cops. And unlike the cops in Montmartre who knew us and would often look the other way, these guys loved to round us up in their little wagons. You had to be really desperate and hungry to take chances in that neighborhood, and by the end of August, we were.

Salvation only came with the rentrée in September, when everyone returned to Paris for the new school year. Our lives would improve immediately. Girard’s Bar Tabac would open up again and Henri’s papa would feed me regular. The hunger of August would be gone at last.

Yeah, I suppose I know why I hate August. All these years later, a part of me still feels the dread, the abandonment. Still feels hungry.

I Drank Too Much Yesterday

I was still drunk when I woke up. I guess Henri was right. But he was the one pouring the whisky.

In Henri’s defense, he says it’s impossible to tell when I’m drunk, so it’s often too late by the time he realizes. I don’t get sloppy; I just get melancholy, or “dark” as he says. “You need to go home now,” he said last night. “You’re getting dark.” He looked worried. Thing is, he looked worried for himself. It's strange, but sometimes I feel Henri is a little afraid of me. I don’t know why he should be. Doesn’t he know how much I love him, my best friend since 25 years? I would never hurt him. No matter how “dark” I get.

I’m not sure why people fear me, but I see it from time to time in their eyes. I don’t know what it is in me that inspires fear—I’m a quiet guy, I don’t rant or wave my fists around. I don’t strut through the streets like I own them. Still, I do sense their fear. I can smell it like a dog. Sometimes it’s a good thing; it gets me respect from the scum I have to deal with every day in my job. It was especially useful when I was in vice. And of course, when I lived on the street. Fear keeps people at a distance.

But what about Henri? My colleagues? My lovers? Jean-Paul? Does it keep them at a distance? Maybe that's why JP keeps running off. Why I sleep alone. Still, I can't control the darkness inside. I suppose that’s why I drink too much.

Jesus Saves

Today I saw this scrawled on a wall near my home. JESUS SAVES. I was with Jean-Paul at the time and he insisted I take a picture with my phone. He was laughing hysterically—not at the scrawled message, but at my question: “Jesus saves what?” He was dumbfounded that I didn’t understand. Between chuckles he blurted out, “Your soul, you heathen!” Those words went right into me and tugged hard.

Heathen.

He used to call me that, the boy I lived with on the street, my best friend. He was a Catholic; his mother took him to church all the time before he ran away. He knew so much about religion—saints, God, angels and like that—and would teach me about the statues and engravings in the cemetery where we often camped out. I remember how he loved hiding out in the old churches of Montmartre, but I didn't understand why. Unlike him, I never had any religion in my life, never learned about God in a formal way. He used to laugh at me, like JP did, and call me a poor heathen orphan boy.

Heathen. I hadn't heard it since those days, not until JP said it today. It was like being pulled straight back into the past.

Am I a heathen? I suppose so. But anyway, we French aren’t the most religious people, as a whole. Knowledge is our religion—philosophy, science and like that. I’m definitely much more cerebral than spiritual. But above all, I’m physical. If I can’t see it or touch it or smell it, I don’t bother about it. I don’t pray or wish or hope—I take action. I’ve always known that you have to make your own way in life. Just live, that's all. And if you’re lucky, like I was, a real-life angel will come and save you.

God? I'm not sure there is one. Well, except maybe Zinédine Zidane.