I Am the Passenger

When the dog bites, when the bee stings

When I’m feeling sad, I simply remember my favorite things,

And then I don’t feel so bad

Julie Andrews, The Sound of Music

After a full day of writing today, I had a late dinner in a brasserie and then jumped a cab in St. Germain. I asked the cab driver to take the long way back to my motel in the 16^th Arrondissement and the cab driver told me, in broken English, that there was really only one way to get to the 16^th from St. Germain—along the River Seine and across the Pont de Grenelle. That’s how I wanted to go anyway, so it was all good.

A few of my favorite things. Every single morning in Paris I walk to my favorite cafe, Le Recepteur, and I sit down and start writing. Within a minute or two a server, usually either Hugo or Amir, drops the exact same thing. Every morning. I don't even speak—all I want is a café créme and a jus du tomate (tomato juice), along with all the virgin Bloody Mary fixings. I used to also have a croissant or a pain au chocolat with my café créme, but I have just gotten to dang fat so I'm trying to quit bread—and all things gluten.

One of the zillion things that I love about Paris is how late the sun sets in August, and tonight was especially wonderful—with hews of pink, orange and yellow still hanging over the Grand Palais at 22:00.

Anyway, out of the blue, or maybe it was divine providence having a tease with me, but low and behold, as we passed the Louvre on the other side of the river Iggy Pop came on the cab radio. Iggy does perform in Paris every once in awhile and he has a following, but him on a local channel is something one never hears.

“I am the passenger,” Iggy warbled, “and I ride and I ride….”

Excited, I pointed anxiously at the cab radio and announced to the cabby, “I met that guy! He’s my hero!”

“I don’t know who he is,” the cabby answered, punching a hole in my bubble.

“He has a good voice,” he added hopefully.

Iggy having a “good voice, “I knew, was the cabby’s attempt at patronizing the grande-sized American and his choice of heroes, so I sat back in the cab and sang along, and watched the sights go by.

As we passed one of my favorite cafes, La Frigate— where I sometimes sit outside on Sunday afternoons and watch the $200,000 supercars roll by off Rue de Buci—I thought of my friends Andy and Gerald, and their love for anything four-wheeled— and fast!

Me and Andy have run a lot of red lights together! Bottom photo by Sue Rynski

Iggy moved into the first chorus, and he made me home sick for my friends. So I allowed myself to daydream even further, and I imagined me and Gerald and Andy and Rick and Robert Steele rolling down the Quai d’Orsay, picking up Sister Irene, and meeting Sue Rynsky at some poor man’s original music rock club—where the drinks are strong and the music’s loud.

Sue lives in Paris, now, with her ultra handsome husband, Franck, so meeting her this week is a definite possibility but the rest of it was a pipedream, although between Iggy and imagining us all together in Paris—it was a pleasant one.

Sister Irene rocking my 1971 SUPER GLIDE back in the day. Andy's SPORTSTER is parked in front of my bike. It must have been around 1979—we rode up North, ostensibly to go fishing, but Andy was the only one who caught anything. If Irene would have actually tried to kick my bike over, it would have flung her in the air—probably over that cabin....

—

I am in Paris for a month, or when I finish my second book—whichever comes first. I only have two more stories left out of 16 total to write, but I’m having too much fun to rush through it.

[Bet on the month. Or more.]

The book, titled Burning Leaves and other Morbid Thoughts, is comprised of a bunch of short stories broken into three categories: Three or four “Paris Experience” stories; some “nice” stories including a couple of slightly twisted but still schmalzy “Hallmark” type things, and; some really not nice things….

Today I finished a short story called, “The Tin Can Tourists.” It’s kind of weird but I’m pretty proud of it.

Here’s a short excerpt:

As we finally pulled into what seemed like the biggest parking lot ever, I got so excited that I almost wet my cutoffs. I could see the castle of my dreams, and I swear, I could hear the Mouseketeers singing in the distance. I was squirming with anticipation, literally on the edge of the Rambler backseat, gawking at the majestic sight in front of us—and I could already feel the Mickey Mouse hat that was surely going to be perched proudly atop my brush-cut-d head.

Maybe they would invite me to join the Mickey Mouse Club, I thought, hopefully.

“Who’s the leader of the club that’s made for you and me, M-I-C…K-E-Y…,” I sang out gleefully, and then rapid fire quick I sing-song hollered/spelled out the rest: “M-O-U-S-E!”

I hung on the “EEEEEE” ending for as long as my little six-year-old lungs could hold it.

—

Billie Jean found a place at the farthest point of the parking lot from the ticket office, near the front entrance gate. Because the lot was already mostly full, it was the only spot where he could park the Rambler/ Va-Ka-Shun-ette combo. After he set the hamsters to rest, we paused, all of us silent for a few minutes. Even the hamsters were mostly quiet, even though a slight hint of steam hissed from around the edges of the front hood. I thought at first we were in a painful delay because Myrna and Billie Jean were playing a prank on me before we walked to the front gate, bought our tickets, and entered heaven—but then it happened.

“I’m not so sure about this,” Billie Jean announced finally.

By “this,’ I thought he meant how far we’d parked from the entrance to Disneyland, and so I added my two cents:

I agree Dad! It seems awful far from where we get the tickets!”

But Billie Jean ignored me and said the most unmagical words that I have ever heard before or since.

“I think we should skip Disneyland.”

My jaw dropped like I was a Toontown dog.