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.