I am Luc of the Street

An Offer I Can't Refuse (Can I?)

Things are humming along in my new department—my team is bonding with me; I have a nice rapport with Haddad; I’m getting the feel of being in charge. And just when I'm settling into a nice rhythm—wouldn’t you know it? I just received a really sexy offer from the anti-terrorism unit.

It came from a guy who was my teacher and counselor at the academy, and who has been a guiding force in my career ever since. A few months ago, when I was miserable, I asked him to keep an eye out for an opening somewhere. I never expected it would be in his department. Anti-terrorism is the ultimate prize.

Now what?

I've spent all day weighing the pros and cons. It would be a lateral move, but I wouldn’t have many direct reports because of the way the department is structured. Still, I would be working for the man I have admired my whole career, and would even get a small boost in pay since the grade is higher. Of course, having anti-terrorism on my CV doesn’t hurt either; it would open doors to intelligence agencies worldwide, including the UN. I’d kill to live in New York City.

Sounds like an easy decision, right? So why isn’t it?

The job will be a challenge, no doubt, but I don’t think that's why I'm hesitating. I’m just now feeling at home in my new department—do I really want to start all over again?

Then again, maybe I do.

Maybe it’s time to shake things up, embrace change. I’ve been complaining of boredom for months now, and there would be no shortage of work in anti-terrorism. Even my chief, who knows about this offer, encouraged me to pursue it. It's possible he just wants me out of his hair, but I think I’m going to take his blessing and run with it.

New year, new job? Yeah, why not?

Joyeux

Okay, so I finally understand the whole Christmas thing. It's a family, sharing, eating, laughing, making memories thing. A joy thing. Oh, yeah, and before JP calls me a heathen again—a baby Jesus thing.

I never celebrated Christmas until I met Bruno, so I missed the wide-eyed innocence of the Papa Noël stage. I don't have a deep attachment to the memories of the day—or thankfully, the melancholy that can come with that.

Like so many, Jean-Paul clings to his early memories of Christmas. Even though he was raised in a hellhole, those memories are strong and meaningful. Maybe they stay with him because they were the only happy days he had then. I don't know.

When JP asked to spend Christmas with me, to create new memories with his new pa, I was surprised and humbled. He wanted a tree—his first in years—so we bought a small one and carried it up the five flights to the apartment. We put it in front of the window, and even though it blocked access to the balcony where I have my smoke, I didn't mind. We had no ornaments, but we smothered the tree in white lights. JP was very precise about the lights; he weaved them through the interior then draped them on the edge of the boughs. It came out beautiful. He's very artistic, that kid, and even fashioned a star out of some wire he found in my toolbox. Honestly, it's quite extraordinary.

We fell asleep looking at that tree.

We spent the next day with Henri and his family. It was noisy, all those people in one small apartment, but there was no shortage of laughter. Sitting at the table, I realized I wasn't just the guy who came to dinner after his shift finished, I was part of a family—brother to Henri; tonton to his kids; Pa to JP. I had the belonging I always hungered for, and understood for the first time, the joy everyone attaches to Christmas.

The Gift

Every year, Henri and his wife give me the same thing for Christmas: a big bottle of a fine single malt. He knows what I want and what I like. That’s the hallmark of a great friend.

I’m a simple guy; I think you know that, by now. I don’t have much in the way of material riches, and I don’t care. I measure wealth by a warm shower and a smoke on my balcony looking out at the city. Friendship; love; a good case to chew on—these are the treasures I seek.

A gift, to me, is anything I didn’t expect or something I wouldn’t dare hope for—being exonerated of the evidence tampering charges; finding my old friend from the street who disappeared when I was fourteen. Jean-Paul telling me he's ready to get off the streets.

If I had to choose between getting rid of the charges against me, or getting JP off the streets, I’d pick the latter. If I were a praying man, I’d be on my knees asking for that, right now. Or whispering into Papa Noël’s ear, like Henri's children do.

Petit papa Noël
Quand tu descendras du ciel
Avec des jouets par milliers
N'oublie pas mon petit fils. Translate this.

Click here for the proper words to this French carol.

Plans for the Holidays

Every year, I offer to work on Christmas. I don't mind; it doesn't mean as much to me as it does the married guys. Anyway, I'm often done by late afternoon, and if I feel like it, I can always spend what's left of the day with Henri and his family. Or Bruno's family, if I want to make the trip to Neuilly-Plaisance. But I don't do that as much since Bruno died.

This year, though, Jean-Paul asked if I could take the day off so we could spend it together. I was blown away. He's been so fickle lately, I would never have expected it. He's already made plans for us, as if he's been thinking about it a while. Even asked if we could have a tree. A tree! I don't know where this is coming from, but I'm not going to question it.

JP finally thinks of me as family. For once, I won't be tagging onto someone else's holiday; this year, JP and I can create our own.

When I put in for leave, my chief went into shock. And when I told him why, his eyes grew even wider. "I didn't know you had a family," he said. Neither did I.

Haddad can work Christmas. I'm going to spend it with my boy. I just hope the kid doesn't expect me to cook a goose or something.

Things I've Never Done

I think they have ice skating on the first floor of La Tour Eiffel again this year. Supposed to be magical and all that. I've never done it, but before you ask—no, it's not on the top of my list.

There are a lot of things I've never done, some of which may surprise you. I've never ridden a bicycle, for example. I own a motorcycle, but never tried the pedal version. I've never been on the Bateaux Mouches, either, but I've stowed away on a barge or two in my younger years. I've been on a high-speed train, but never crossed the Chunnel. In fact, I've never been out of France.

Of all the things I've never done, my only regret is that I've never had a long-term relationship. My record is eight months. Henri has been married twelve years. It mystifies me.

Maybe I just think I need a life partner because it's the social norm. Most of the time, I'm happy on my own. C'est compliquée, l'amour. I'm not sure someone could deal with me—my moods, my schedule, my habits. My past. If I could find that person, I'd hang on tight.

That would lead to other things I've never done, like plan for the future; say "nous" instead of "moi;" ask for leave on Christmas. And maybe that person could push me to finally go to London, or even New York City. Sometimes you need to be dragged outside your comfort zone to understand you weren't as content in your small world as you thought.

Still, don't expect me to slap blades on my feet at sixty meters above the ground.

Acceptance

Jean-Paul comes and goes. I suppose I should be thankful he shows up at all. I have to take him as he comes—when he chooses to come, that is.

I've never been very good at accepting things as they are. I learned to live aggressively on the street. Adapt—yes. Roll over? Never. Scrapping is as much a part of me as my beating heart. I push back; I hold tight; I stand firm. Any other way feels like defeat.

Jean-Paul is really testing my limits. I can't rest if he's out there on the street. No matter what else is occupying my mind at the moment, somewhere inside, I'm clenching a fist. I can't let go that I can't control what he does.

Hey, I can accept some things. Like, that it takes me an hour by car from the center of town to Montmartre, even though it should be a ten-minute ride. Or, that if I want to be around a while, I may have to start thinking about cutting down on my smokes. But don't stand there and tell me I have to accept Jean-Paul hanging around the Pigalle doing who knows what with who knows who—except, I do know what; I can fill in the blanks with my past.

Henri says if I could learn to accept events and people as they are, I'd find peace. But first, according to him, I have to accept myself. I'm not sure what he means. I'm not at odds with myself. I have no regrets about my past. I'm content. Most of the time. Isn't that the same?

Does it trouble me that my mother was murdered by a john? Sure. Do I wish I could have saved her? Yeah, but I was just a babe hiding in the next room, scared and confused. I couldn't have done anything to change it, could I have? I don't really think there was something I could have done, right? Right?

Or maybe I do. Maybe that fist inside is shaking at me. Maybe that's why acceptance is so hard.