I am Luc of the Street

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. 

 
 

Pain Management

I’ve been in a lot of pain lately. Relentless, chronic pain. My bones ache; my muscles are in spasm, but I don’t know why. Hey, I'm a cop and footballer; I’m used to pain—the kind that comes from hard work, from hard contact. But this pain is something new. It’s everywhere, it’s deep inside, and it changes shape all the time: headache yesterday; backache today. It’s always there, and it’s all I can think about.

The police shrink calls it somatization, says I'm physicalizing deep suppressed emotion. “What’s bothering you?” she asked me in my mandatory bi-weekly session. Bothering me? Lady, how much time ya got? Let’s see—there’s my suspension, a serial killing case I’m locked out of, and evidence tampering charges hanging over my head. Oh, yeah, and a kid who keeps running off. “Your son running off,” she said, blank-faced, “how does that make you feel?” How do I fucking feel? Like doing damage to the asshole who's pulling my kid away. “That’s not an emotion,” she said. “That’s a reaction. Take a moment and search yourself for how you feel.”

Angry. Powerless. Rejected. Lost and alone.

Shit, I hate when she does that. Somehow she always brings it back to my days on the street—and my mom. I don’t understand it; my mom died when I was three, but somehow I’m still suffering from it. “Losing your mother was traumatic,” the shrink said. “You need to allow yourself to grieve, and mourn her loss.”

How did I feel about that, you ask? I'll tell you how I felt: I stormed out of the shrink's office. Oh, yeah, right, that’s not an emotion.

The emotions came later—about ten minutes later, on the Métro. I just…lost it. I fell apart on the frigging Métro. It was humiliating. I ducked out at the next station and into the first bar I could find. Whisky, I thought, would dull the pain.

Except, I had no more pain, just a wet face and a wounded ego. The pain that had been plaguing me had dissipated somewhere between the Cité and Châtelet stations. The physical pain, at least. I’ve just begun to learn how to manage the emotional pain.

No Rest for the Wicked

"Give it a rest," Henri told me today. "You'll kill yourself if you keep at it like this." He was referring to my relentless search for the killer. But I can't rest now. I have to keep searching, even without my badge. If I can get a good lead, catch a break, maybe I can get my badge back.

Truth is, I don't know how to rest, never have. That's what the streets of Paris did to me. On the street, rest equals death, and restlessness is in my DNA. I don't sleep more than a few hours at a time; never sit still for long. Even when I am sitting still, my mind is working; my eyes are watching. It's how the streets formed me: wiry and ready.

"Sit. Relax," Henri said, pouring me a whisky. Relax? Just the sound of the word makes me angry. How can I relax when there is so much to do? Is the killer relaxing? The families of his victims?

The police shrink says my restlessness is related to my inability to make peace with my past. She says I haven’t forgiven myself, or some such crap. I dunno, maybe she’s right. I did do some pretty bad things, I suppose, in the name of survival. I have to live with that, but I don’t know if I’ll ever really be at peace with it, or even deserve to be.

Like the killer. He shouldn’t be allowed to rest, either. Even if I have to run myself into the ground. No rest for the wicked.

My Mother's Son

You know the story of my sad childhood by now. My mom was a prostitute. A john cut her up and I found her. I was maybe three, or four. I don’t remember much about that day, but I can still see her tiny hand hanging over the edge of the bed. Cold and blue. There’s some part of my brain permanently transfixed on that tiny blue hand.

After that, the streets of Montmartre became my mother. While most kids sat on their flesh-and-blood mothers’ laps, I cozied up to the steps of Rue Mont Cenis. Those streets nurtured me, taught me all I know about life. Made me the man I am today. Like any good mother should.

Sometimes, though, I try to remember my real mother. Not her shape and form, but the feeling of belonging; the sensation of clinging to someone. The safeness; the closeness. It takes work, real focus, but if I let myself drift into that state between wakefulness and dream, I can almost sense her. It is a rare moment of bliss, of peace. Followed immediately by dread and rage, loss and pain.

There’s a reason I prefer my memories of the street. The street is eternal. It can’t leave you. You can control it, make it stay with you. It doesn’t get sick, it doesn’t weaken, never dies. The street is the constant mother my fickle mortal mother could never be.

Still, what have I missed, who would I have been, if I had had my mother all these years? I may have been softer, more patient, more loving. Maybe had a family by now. I might have been a better man instead of the antisocial miscreant I have become. But then, my mom wasn’t exactly a law-abiding model citizen herself. Maybe I am my mother’s son after all.

My friend Henri has said many times it’s no accident I'm a homicide detective. He says I’m subconsciously trying to avenge my mother’s murder. Maybe that’s so, but given the choice, I’d find a swifter, more effective way to get even with the man who robbed me of the most important woman in my life. And before you judge me, search your soul and ask yourself, if you could save your mother’s life, wouldn’t you do anything? Pay any price? Wouldn’t you?

Les Hommes Sans-Abri

I see them more and more—under scaffolds, in the Metro, in the small parks around town—some with a cardboard sign scratched with the words, Sans Domicile. Homeless. They are often young men, able and strong, but cast out by a quirk of fate, now lonely ghosts of the street, inspiring fear and disgust. Unwanted reminders of the flaws in the system. They are me.

There's a part of me still out there, still cold, still hungry, and like an old addiction, managed but never cured, I have an undeniable physical reaction when I see others toughing it out on the cold pavement. I feel what they do, as sharply as they do. “Courage,” I say as I pass. Courage, I tell myself. Stay strong.

I talk a lot about my days on the street; even romanticize it. And sure, I had some wild times as a kid. It’s all roses when you look back. You forget the unforgiving ground; the knife fights over a scrap of gutter; the pain of starvation. The pain of rejection. You forget how it was to be cut off from love—and how that made you want to lash out. It all comes back when I see them.

Courage.

There are a lot of new faces on the street these days. They're the ones with signs like apologies: Willing to Work; Just Evicted; Not on Drugs. They want you to know it's just a bad patch, that they are like you. I met one guy in Rue Rambuteau who told me he lost his apartment when the landlord wanted it for a relative. Because he didn't have a steady job, no one would rent to him—et, voilà, he was on the street. I asked him why he'd want to sit in the middle of the bustling Les Halles district with a sign, wasn't it humilating? "So they know we're here," he said resolutely. "So they know how bad it is."

I know how bad it is.

Why would someone turn to the street? Because you want something—self-flagellation, a cry for help, to lose yourself, because it's less of a hell than the alternative. Sane or not, conscious or subconscious, it's a choice. For me, the street was a big “screw you” to the orphanage; freedom and autonomy, a means of control over my universe. The street gives you whatever you want—but like a good whore, makes you pay for it. Hell, she still has her hooks in me. 

If you think those on the street are weak or deficient in some way, think again. It takes resolve, commitment. Courage. Next time you see someone homeless, think of me. Keep your pity; give up your respect.

Unplugged

Been without my badge for over a month now. Haddad checks in from time to time, but otherwise, I'm completely out of touch. It's the strangest feeling, being disconnected like this. At first, I was frantic and angry. I finally get the case of my career and they shut me down. But now, a month in, I'm feeling...apathetic.

I'm surprise how easily I've slipped into this mode. I should be fighting for my career, but I can't muster the desire anymore. I spend my days walking the streets, retracing the steps of my childhood, revisiting old haunts—and old ghosts. I let the day take me where it will. No plans. No schedules. Like old times. I'm starting to like being nobody again. Being invisible. There's power in that.

Maybe I like being off the grid. Maybe it's my true nature.

The Other Side of Me

I am two men, bright and dark. I suppose we all are, but for me it's much more real, much more polarizing, because I've lived in both worlds. After all, before I was a cop, I was on the street for ten years—and let's just say, I survived on more than wits. But Bruno saw something in me, another side, and took me under his wing, changing my life in a day. One day, like the flick of a switch. No one thought to wean me off the street. They just shut it down.

When they took my badge away, they kicked the switch over. The other side of me is starting to wake up. I feel him stretching his legs, wanting to walk the streets again. He’s itching to get out. He’s been switched off too long.

The street side of me constantly tugged at the cop side, but my badge was there to strengthen my resolve. Now it’s gone. Tant pis. I’m tired of fighting myself.

Maybe it’s time I stopped being half a man and got reacquainted with the other side of me.

Who Am I Now?

I don’t know who I am without my badge. It’s all I’ve known for twenty years. It’s my purpose, my identity. My badge was my connection to Bruno, to being someone, being needed. Being important.

What am I, if I’m not a cop?

When Bruno took me off the streets, he promised my life in the National Police would save me. I’m beginning to understand what he meant. That badge saved me, alright—from myself. It pulled me out of the dark. Gave me to the world.

What happens now? What if they take it away for good?

I can’t believe how lost I feel. What’s wrong with me? I’m the same guy, aren’t I? I just don’t have the credentials, that’s all. That’s nothing.

No, it’s everything.

“A man who is useful can never be cast aside,” Bruno used to say. He knew what that badge meant to a man.

I'm glad Bruno didn't live to see this.

 

Suspended

It took me ten minutes to work up the courage to type the word. But there you have it, the ugly truth, and the reason for my radio silence.

Suspended.

Yeah, okay, I crawled inside the bottle for a while. And yeah, that was a bad idea. But what do you expect? I'm having a hell of an identity crisis. Being a cop is all I know. It's all I have. It's who I am. Without my badge, I'm just a bum from the street. Nothing. Invisible. A nobody.

My badge defines me, keeps me clean, keeps me in the light. What now, Bruno?

A Battle of Won'ts

I won’t back down.

You won’t intimidate me.

They won’t see me sweating.

I got the case of my career. And a case of nerves. All of a sudden, I feel ill equipped. It’s like my brain is waging war against me, sabotaging my confidence.

You won't solve this case.

I don’t have a single lead. No hard evidence, no witnesses, not even a peep on the street. My gut isn’t even twitching. And there's going to be another one, soon. He's due.

Normally, I like a challenge. The tougher, the better. But for some reason, I feel stymied, cut off from myself. I'm shutting down; something is shutting me down. I don't know if it's the pressure from the brass, the high-profile case, or something else—like maybe I'm afraid I'm out of my depth. 

You won't solve this case.

Then again, maybe I need to get out of my way and get to work. Because no matter what, I won't go down without a fight. Even if I have to do battle with my own will.

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.

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? 

Fitting In

 When they were going to restore one of the ancient buildings that makes up the police complex, they decided to cover it with a scrim depicting real cops—one from each division. It was a way to present a personal face of the police to the citizens of Paris, who are historically suspicious of law enforcement.

Nobody asked me to pose for one of those photographs. Too bad. Who better to bridge the gap than Luc of the Street? 

I'm not surprised for a lot of reasons. I'm too much of an individual ("rogue" is the word I've heard), not a favorite of the administrators, and not exactly a clean cut example of an upstanding officer of the law (take that to mean whatever you want).

I try to fit in, I really do. Ever since Bruno took me off the streets and brought me home to live with his family, ever since the Academy, I've worked hard to blend in with The People. Even now, after being off the streets for two-thirds of my life, I'm constantly checking myself. It's exhausting.

The problem is, I was born to the gutter and spent my formative years there. By the time Bruno found me, I had seventeen years of it. At that point, it was like taking Tarzan out of the jungle. I'm not being poetic; I was a predatory animal, there's no other way to say it. Most people would have left me out there, a lost cause beyond taming, but Bruno was also from the mean streets, and he was undaunted. Only once did he confess he'd had second thoughts: when my squad was ambushed. But I don't want to talk about that now. The point is, every now and then, my animal urges come out. Call it a lapse, a lack of focus, but that's what everyone gets stuck on. Nobody sees the long stretches of time I flow with the norm. But I guess that's why they call it fitting in. 

I have to confess something, and I know I risk sounding like a sociopath, but when I try to fit in, I feel like I'm betraying something, or someone. Maybe it's my old friends on the street, maybe it's myself, I don't know. But I think that's why I fight against the tide so much. It's like I'm killing myself off day by day, selling myself like a whore in the Pigalle. The more I succeed at fitting in, the more I hate myself.

Paris N'est Pas Un Rêve

Paris is not a dream. This is graffitied on a wall on Rue Ordener, in the north of the 18th Arrondissement. It makes me smile every time I see it—but the kind of smile that comes after you kick someone's ass. Like Daffy in the graffiti artwork. The artist's message is more than a gentle reminder that the poor will not be ignored.

For millions of Parisians, Paris is hard reality. In fact, beyond Daffy’s wall, are some of the toughest neighborhoods you'll find inside the périphérique. It’s in these streets I earned my stripes as a kid, and as a cop. I love these neighborhoods; they’re more colorful, more raw, more diverse—more human. In a city scrubbed clean by Haussmann, where 90% of the architecture looks the same—row upon row of white stone buildings with gray slate roofs—these neighborhoods remind you that there's a real city out there. The perfection of Paris can be suffocating; the streets of the 18th and 19th are where I can breath the fresh air of real life.

This graffiti artwork embodies my life in Paris—as a former homeless kid and as a cop now. Bright and dark. The message cuts like a blade, but the image of a scrappy Daffy Duck makes me laugh. Life needs to embrace both sides—light makes shadow happen, and darkness gives light a purpose. I wish more people would wake up to the reality of this simple truth. But the City of Light still hides its dark parts behind walls so it can live in a dreamworld.

Born in a Garden

Bruno used to joke that the seeds of my career were sewn in a garden. It’s true, in fact. My first case—as an apprentice before the Academy—involved Le Jardin des Plantes.

It was 21 April 1978. I know the exact date because it was the day after Bruno arrested me for swiping money from a table at one of the little tourist traps in Place du Tertre—which was the same day he took me off the streets. You don't forget the moment that changed your life.

I was just a pup, and Bruno had brought me home to live with him and his family. He neglected to run the plan by his wife, Matilde. As she examined the filthy street tough in her living room, the look in her eyes said it all: shock, terror, disgust, rage—but duly restrained, as her lady’s breeding dictated, and offset by a tight smile of forced politeness. That smile was wasted on me. I felt much more welcomed by her eyes, which mirrored my sentiments exactly. What the hell was I doing there?

But while I passed the night in foreign territory, in the morning when Bruno and I stood over the body of a man in front of the Hotel de France near Gare de Lyon, I felt I'd come home. Blood and death? Now that I could understand.

It was still dark, about 5:45 a.m., and there was a small group assembled at the scene by the time Bruno and I got there. Bruno was the lead investigator. He presented me as his protege, and let me have first crack at it. I didn't understand how monumental this moment was, but Bruno knew; he stood beaming at me. "Go to it," he said, giving me a nudge. Go to it, as if I already knew what I was doing.

I remember it perfectly: the body was face down but twisted, with one arm tucked underneath and one across his back. His legs were flopped every which way. He'd been stabbed, but there wasn't as much blood as you'd expect. I had seen boys stabbed before and blood usually gushed everywhere, even from small wounds. I wanted to touch the body right away, but Bruno coached me to observe first—to consider the victim's expression, the way he was lying, his age, mode of dress, etc. "You know how to read people, Luc. A dead man can tell you as much as a living one, if you know what questions to ask."

Bruno had me call out every detail as I noticed it, then encouraged me to ask the victim questions. "Where's your blood?" I asked the corpse. "Why is there fresh mud on your clothes, but dry dirt under your fingernails?" There were other odd things, too. For example, there was a trail of blood from the body to the curb, but the trail grew weaker as it neared the body. And there were two distinct sets of footprints in the blood, but they went toward the body, not away in escape.

It felt incredible, this exploration; every one of my senses was cranked up. I gave over to it completely, my mind filling with questions and a deep desire to know. Bruno just stood there, smiling. He understood I was meant for this work, that my life on the streets had prepared me for it—and I was validating him. At one point, I sniffed at the mud on the victim's clothes then followed the trail of blood, like a hound, to the curb. I didn't know why I was doing this; it was the need to know driving me. Sure enough, the same mud was curbside, too. It was fresh and earthy, a rare thing in the middle of this neighborhood. I lived on the streets and knew my dirt—the Champs de Mars smelled like rock; the parks along the Seine: piss; the cemeteries: moss and mold. There were only a few places in Paris where the earth smelled fresh: les bois and les jardins. 

What was this mud doing here on Rue de Lyon and why this strange, bloodless corpse? I had all these pieces; now, I just had to put them together. It occurred to me, if I could ask a dead man questions, why not an invisible one—the killer?

"I know," I said.

I told them the lack of blood meant the victim was killed somewhere else and transported to the hotel site. I pointed out the fresh muddy tire marks. "It's the same mud that's on the dead guy." The body had been wrapped in something then carried from the vehicle and spun out of its wrapper onto the pavement. I pantomimed the act. "Comme ça." It explained the twisted condition of the body. It was a hasty job, bold but sloppy. "Someone is making a point," I said. I'd seen it before.

Bruno was so proud, he looked like he might pop.

The other cops just smiled politely. They were all seasoned, and had quickly assessed the same thing. But now, I was game to impress, so I told them I knew where the murder took place. "The mud," I said. "I know where it came from."

At that, even Bruno's eyes bugged out.

I didn't really know exactly, but I'd stuck my neck out, so I quickly ran through the short list of places with real earth, somewhere you could access with a vehicle. Bois de Boulogne? Too far, I thought. Bois de Vincennes? Maybe. Then I thought of the Jardin des Plantes. It was just across the river. I don't know why I felt the place had to be close; there was no real reason. It was just a lucky guess. Or fate.

When we arrived at the Jardins, we found the scene of a struggle in a garden bed, dirt and mud kicked up everywhere. No attempt was made to hide the crime. This was a heated act. A tarp had been pulled off a nearby bed; we could still see its imprint in the damp soil. This was used to wrap the body, which accounted for the mud on the victim's clothes. There were muddy tire marks leading out of the site in the direction of Pont d'Austerlitz and Gare de Lyon. Turned out, the murderer used the victim's own truck to transport him.

The interview with the hotel staff led to a female tenant who knew the victim. She told us the tale of two men—one, her ex-boyfriend from Rouen, and the other, her new lover, a horticulturalist at the Jardin, which explained the dry dirt under his nails. Jealousy, passion—et voilà—my first murder case. 

Word of my auspicious debut traveled through the force on wings. Soon, everyone started to take me on their cases. By the time I entered the Academy, I'd logged in more hard hours than some of my instructors. Those were some of my most cherished months, the only time I would work with Bruno, side by side.

My life started in the gutter; my career, in a garden. Seems I’m formed from the very dirt of Paris.

Football is Life

Anyone who knows me knows this: I love football. That's soccer, for you Americans. I don’t understand why you call that other game "football" when you use your hands the whole time. Call it what it is: Rugby for Sissies.

Like most Parisians, I was pretty much born kicking a ball around—yes, even a street kid like me—but I didn't start playing on teams until the academy. I've gotten pretty good over the years. If I'm not working, I play on Saturdays in a police league, but I’ve also had the opportunity to participate in pro and semi-pro exhibition games with—and against—some pretty big names. Incredible for an old street bum like me.

I love football because it's the great equalizer. It's not about class or money or power. It doesn't matter if your team has the most superstars, or leads the league. It can all change in an instant. Like life. There's no way to guarantee the outcome. It's decided moment to moment—one little red card or a penalty kick and the favorite falls. I especially love when the favorite falls.

And like life, football isn't always about skill; it's about seizing your opportunities. If you can read faces and body language, understand patterns in behavior—like me—you can really bring your opponent to his knees. It's always the cocky one, wandering down the field like he owns it, thinking he's in the clear. Meanwhile, he's telegraphed his intentions from twenty meters, and I'm right there, taking the ball away. They don't call it the beautiful game for nothing. Sweet.

In some ways, I learned more about life from football than anywhere. Like, if you put your heart into it, you might lose but the romantics will pat you on the back. If you put your will into it, you could win, but you'll wear yourself out. But if you really want to win, it's less about what you put into your game and more about what you take away: ego, fear, expectations. Strip it down to the essentials: you and the ball. Everything else is negotiable.

Follow the 2010 World Cup

Same Like Always

I've settled back into my department now that the move to anti-terrorism is definitely off the table. It took me a week to resign to the idea I'd be stuck in the same boring job. Henri was surprised I took it so hard. "I didn't think a creature of habit like you would want that kind of change."

A creature of habit?

I told Henri he was dead wrong. I'm the guy who grew up on the streets where nothing was predictable. I can adapt to any situation, flow in any direction I need. But Henri looked me square in the face and laughed his ass off. Then he pointed out, in great detail, what a slave to routine I am.

"I could set the clock by you," he said. "If you have the day shift, I can expect you just after four o'clock. You'll head straight for the tabac for a pack of cigarettes then sit at your usual table outside. At precisely 21:45, you'll go home by way of Rue des Saules. But if you have the night shift, I'll see you at 10:15, at which time I must have the morning paper and your coffee waiting.

"You will only eat ham and cheese sandwiches or roast chicken. You only shower in the morning. You have a cigarette every night on the balcony off your bedroom and every morning on the balcony off your living room."

He made me sound so pathetic. I protested. Henri said I shouldn't feel bad, that we're all creatures of habit. "Although for you," he added, "routine does seem to be a life line."

A life line?

I wasn't even aware until Henri laid it out, but it's true, I do stick to certain habits. Do I need them to survive? I suppose I do like things a certain way, but would I fall apart without routine?

Where Henri sees mindless habit, I see meaning and ritual. I go to his café every day because it's more like home than my apartment. It was home before I had a home. Henri and his dad were my touchstones when I was homeless, and Henri is still my anchor. I walk the same route home because it reminds me of the few bright moments of my dark youth.

It was Bruno who gave me my first ham sandwich the day he arrested me, and I ate roast chicken with his family the day he took me home to live with him. So yes, these are my favorite foods. As to starting my day with a warm shower and smoking on my balcony looking out at the Eiffel Tower, these are great luxuries to someone who grew up in the filthy streets and had nothing for so long.

Maybe routine does give me security, I don't know. After the unstable childhood I had, who could blame me? These small rituals make me feel like a rich man. Some people see power and money as marks of success, but to me, it's the things you can count on. The things that most people take for granted. I cherish these things. They remind me how fortunate I am.

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.