I am Luc of the Street

My Worst Fears

On my way to the Metro this morning, I saw some local kids hanging out on the steps of Rue Mont Cenis. By "local kids," I mean the runaways, or the kids whose homes are so bad, they'd rather live on the streets. Like Jean-Paul. "Hey, Papa Lion," they called out as I passed. "You got a smoke?" I love the name "Papa Lion," though I'm not sure where it came from. I've earned it, I suppose, because I look after them. They've hailed me by it for at least twenty years.

Sadly, Papa Lion has never seen any of his kids grow up—with the exception a guy named Milo, who now owns a club in the Bastille. My kids disappear before they hit eighteen. Where they go, you can only imagine. Me, I don't have to imagine. I was them, once.

It starts with petty theft and pick-pocketing. Eventually, drugs and prostitution. That leads to prison or death. But for the lucky few, someone with a kind heart takes you off the streets before your eighteenth birthday. Like Bruno did for me. Like I'm trying to do for JP. Eighteen is do-or-die time—either get off the streets for good, or make roots in the underground and bear dark fruit.

Jean-Paul will be eighteen on the 18th of April. "Eighteen on eighteen," he likes to say. It's do-or-die time. If I can't get him off the streets now, it will never happen. He'll be lost to me forever, a ghost wandering in the dark. I can't breath thinking about it.

And today, those kids who called me Papa Lion from the steps of Mont Cenis, told me my worst fears had come to pass: "Saw JP in the Pigalle," one kid said. "With some older guy. Seen him with that guy a few times."

I knew it. I knew there was someone drawing him away. Older guy.

I just stood there, gaping, when I heard the horrible truth. I thought I was going to puke. Pigalle+older man=very bad. I didn't go into work; I headed straight for the Pigalle and started to ask around.

When I find this "older guy," I'll make sure he can never touch JP again. Jean-Paul will not end up like the rest of my kids.

That Kid Makes Me Nuts

Jean-Paul showed up at my door last night after being gone about two weeks. We said "bonjour" like we just saw each other yesterday. No fuss from me, no lectures. I’m done.

I’ve worried about him until I’m numb. Now, I’m unable to feel one way or another about it. He comes when he comes. He’s a big boy, nearly 18. He’ll be fine. I just have to accept the fact that I’m not number one in his life; I’m just the guy who gives him a place to crash. And I guess that’s okay by me.

There’s someone else who has a stronger pull than I do, some unknown force. I can only hope whoever it is treats JP well. And JP does seem well-fed, healthy. Even happy. Makes me wonder why he comes back at all. But then, maybe whoever is out there, drawing him away, isn’t filling the bill as papa. That's okay by me, too.

So, what role is this person playing? Friend? Lover? Pusher? Pimp? I could go mad thinking about it. Can't rest until I know.

Hm, seems I’m not as numb as I thought.

Don't Touch Me

I'm too physical. That's what I was told by a guy who owns a club in the Bastille. He took offense to my touch. All I did was pat his cheek, just to let him know he was okay by me—a sign of affection, affirmation. What's the problem?

"You use touch to control," he said. "To dominate."

According to him, I'd been "touchy" during our entire conversation—squeezed his arm, patted his back, and like that. I didn't realize; I suppose I do it unconsciously. No one has complained before, but this guy puffed up his chest and told me to back off. "Ne me touches pas," he said. "I know you're supposed to be some tough guy, and you think I should be intimidated, but here, in my club, I'm the king."

Okay. But maybe, if you're feeling dominated by me, you're not the "king" you think you are.

I thought he was just some insecure oddball, but when I told Henri about it, he agreed. "It's just part of your makeup. You keep people in check." Then he compared me to his dog. "He uses his body to signal to the other dogs he's boss of the courtyard."

So, it's primal?

"You do it with Moudie a lot," he said. Then he laughed and added, "but he does it right back."

And I thought we were just being affectionate.

At work, guys are physical all the time—embracing hello, smacking each other on the back, clapping one another on the shoulder. Are we merely Alpha males vying for the kingdom? That's ridiculous. Right?

If I dominate, so be it. But it bothers me it's happening when I'm trying to make a connection. At least I think I'm trying to connect. What if I don't know the difference between affection and manipulation? What if my need to dominate is pathological?

Can I ever again caress a person without wondering if I'm mentally punching them?