I am Luc of the Street

Faith vs. Proof

“You’re a liar,” Jean-Paul said to me this morning. He pointed to my new tattoo, which says, Toujours Fidèle. Always Faithful. “You left me. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

I’ve heard this from him before, even when I was present and attentive. Maybe it’s true; maybe those years of living on the street made me selfish. Survive at all costs. Although it seems it’s those close to me who pay the price.

Still, JP is wrong; I am faithful. My actions may not always sync up with my heart, but it’s my nature to form strong attachments. If I love you, I love you forever. The few counted among my friends have my unwavering loyalty. I’m famous for it. It takes a lot to put me off a person I love. You really have to screw me over bad before I’ll give you up.

If I run off from time to time, it’s not because I’m unfaithful. Maybe I run off because I love you. Because you’ll be better off without me. I’ll sacrifice my own happiness to keep you safe from me. Isn’t that loyalty? Isn’t that love? Why can’t JP see that?

“Don’t tell me, show me,” he said. “Prove it.”

I guess he's right. And he’s not asking anything I haven’t demanded myself. After all, I’m a cop—I should know better than anyone how important evidence is.

Damage Control

Back in Paris after a few months in Marseille. Henri is pretty ticked at me for taking off for so long. Pas grave. I’ve seen it before, and I will again. But Jean-Paul isn’t angry at all. He's past anger, and has moved into apathy. Not good.

I got my work cut out for me.

What did I expect from the kid? I’ve been pulling away from everyone close to me because I’ve been in pain. At some point, JP had to protect himself from his own pain. The sting of rejection. What else could he do? He had to shut down.

One consolation: he didn’t run back to the streets. He stayed with Henri and his family, and hasn’t missed a day of work at the bar tabac. I owe Henri a debt of gratitude for that. He did what I could not; he domesticated my kid. Of course, he's better equipped to do it; he can teach by example. For me, all I had was the old “do as I say, not as I do” argument. JP saw through all that.

I guess I handed my kid over to Henri to rear. I didn’t mean to; it just happened. JP’s probably better off. I’m not jealous.

Yeah right.

Henri and JP are tight now, and I’m on the outside. Never mind I put myself there, I want back in. I gotta get JP to trust me again, before he's lost to me for good.

 

Leaving Myself Behind

I ran away from home. Needed to put some space between me and my problems—my life—so I got on my bike and rode out of town. The highway stretched out, the hours passed, and my suspension, the press, the crap at work began to fall away. All that was left was the feel of the bike and the road under me. I discovered if I just focused on that, nothing was wrong with my life.

So I took the road south, as far as I could go, and ended up in Marseille.

I hadn’t been in over ten years, since after the ambush, but Marseille has always been a symbol of escape for me. It’s a raw, earthy place with endless, winding streets I can lose myself in. Just what I needed. And while I was there getting lost, I got myself a new tattoo courtesy of my old friend, Emile, who put me up for a couple of months.

Toujours Fidèle. That’s what Emile carved in black ink on the inside of my right forearm. And on the left arm: Toujours Libre. Always Faithful. Always Free. These are the two halves of my nature. I know what you're thinking: how can you be both faithful and free without tearing yourself in two? You can't. That's why as soon as Emile finished drawing the last letter on my skin, I headed back home.

I thought I could leave it all behind, ditch everyone, and be free. Discard my life like molting a shell I've outgrown. But I’m bound to myself, as I am to my tattoos. Escape is an illusion. At some point, you just have to inhabit your skin—scrawled, scarred, and imperfect as it may be.