I am Luc of the Street

Disgruntled (and Sober)

Five more days until Henri comes back from vacation and reopens the bar tabac. Yes, I'm counting the days. I’m like a fish out of whisky. I miss my usual hangout, my favorite table, my best friend—especially now with all the change in my life.

I hate drinking in strange bars; I'd rather stay sober. Today, after another boring day at work, I wandered, lost and thirsty, around Montmartre looking for a place to have a whisky before I met up with Jean-Paul. Desperate, I finally plunked myself down somewhere near the Abbesses Metro station, at a table outside one of those quaint little places the tourists love so much (and I detest). English spoken to the left of me, English to the right. Putain, I was a foreigner in my own neighborhood. Did I mention I hate August?

I ordered a whisky from the waiter but he gave me a look. “Can you pay?” he asked. Can I pay? It’s been years and years since I’m off the streets. I had to ask if he was joking. “Fine," he said, "but you cannot smoke here.” He sneered at my cigarette. I argued that I was sitting outside in the open air but he just shook his head. “You will annoy the customers.” What customers? These tourists? Wasn’t I a customer, too? I live in this frigging city!

After about a minute, the whisky did not arrive, but the manager did. He told me I couldn’t sit there and would I please leave. “Look at you,” he said. “You can’t even pay, I’m sure.” Honestly, I had to check myself to be sure I hadn’t stepped back in time somewhere on Rue des Martyrs. Was I fourteen again? Do I still look homeless? Is that something that marks you forever like a scar on your face? Okay, so I hadn’t shaved and my hair is on the long side, and maybe I didn’t manage a shower today, but do I deserve to be treated like a dog?

For a moment, I was actually about to slink away, ashamed. Then I thought, NO! I’m not that homeless kid anymore; I'm captain in an elite division of the national police. And yes, in fact, I can pay. I pulled out my wallet, stuffed with bills, and tossed it on the table in front of the manager. “Enough?” I asked. He studied me but said nothing. So I pulled out my police ID and held it up so he could read my name. “How about now?” His eyes popped. “Oh, it’s you,” he stammered. “I’m sorry, capitaine. I didn’t realize.” He rushed inside and sped a whisky to my table. I took a victory sip and settled myself into the seat I deserved, even if I didn’t really want to be there. It was the principle.

Then I lit up a cigarette and had me a nice long smoke. Yeah, that’s right, asshole. It’s me. Luc of the Street. 

I Drank Too Much Yesterday

I was still drunk when I woke up. I guess Henri was right. But he was the one pouring the whisky.

In Henri’s defense, he says it’s impossible to tell when I’m drunk, so it’s often too late by the time he realizes. I don’t get sloppy; I just get melancholy, or “dark” as he says. “You need to go home now,” he said last night. “You’re getting dark.” He looked worried. Thing is, he looked worried for himself. It's strange, but sometimes I feel Henri is a little afraid of me. I don’t know why he should be. Doesn’t he know how much I love him, my best friend since 25 years? I would never hurt him. No matter how “dark” I get.

I’m not sure why people fear me, but I see it from time to time in their eyes. I don’t know what it is in me that inspires fear—I’m a quiet guy, I don’t rant or wave my fists around. I don’t strut through the streets like I own them. Still, I do sense their fear. I can smell it like a dog. Sometimes it’s a good thing; it gets me respect from the scum I have to deal with every day in my job. It was especially useful when I was in vice. And of course, when I lived on the street. Fear keeps people at a distance.

But what about Henri? My colleagues? My lovers? Jean-Paul? Does it keep them at a distance? Maybe that's why JP keeps running off. Why I sleep alone. Still, I can't control the darkness inside. I suppose that’s why I drink too much.

Henri Says I Smoke Too Much

My friend Henri says I smoke too much. His dad just died from lung cancer, so now Henri is on my case. It's a little hypocritical when you figure he owns a bar tabac. He keeps me in Gitanes and whisky, my two vices. I love him for that.

I miss Henri's dad, too. Papa Girard. Especially now, because I could use his advice. He was a great guy. When I was a kid on the street, he used to feed me for free at the bar tabac. Imagine? A filthy gutter rat like I was? Let me sit as long as I liked and treated me like a human being. Asked me questions like he cared. Called me, "son." He was a great, great man. His son is the same and he's my best friend for nearly 25 years. He loves me in spite of my many flaws. That's real unconditional love, believe me.

I probably spend way too much time at Henri's bar, but it's like my other home. Henri is as good as my brother. When you're an orphan you learn to borrow family. Like Jean-Paul. He's not my real son, sure, but I love him just the same and we need each other. Since he's been gone I suppose I have been drinking and smoking too much. Between Jean-Paul's latest disappearance and the political games playing out at work, all I got is my hangout and my little vices. And so what? Henri says it's dangerous for me to be idle with whisky in my belly, but somehow he keeps pouring, and stocking up on my brand of cigarettes.