God's Decadent Hand Strikes Again

To recap to the quick my sorry decadent tale, I must first make a long and circuitous detour through the tale of last Thursday. I was supposed to meet my aunt Daphne at her hotel at 9:30, but because I had a discussion section in Montmart, and I took an absolutely idiotic route back, I was running late. Also, for some reason I didn't realize I was running late, and decided to have a leisurely dinner at the cafeteria. So it's 9:30 when I check the time, but since it's Paris, and the subway system seems to provide miracles to those in need more frequently than the big G-dubs, I had hope that I might only be ten minutes late.

Sadly I was wrong, and despite running like a crazed panther through the metro stations, it takes me thirty-five minutes to get there. Also, I was running in a coat so I'm sweaty and disgusting, which is exactly how one wants to be when going out for a nice appertif. I run up to the hotel, burst through the door, and expect to find my aunt tapping her watch, tisk tisk. But she's not there. I frantically tell the attendant working there "Je suis retard," and then wince at the bilingual pun I've delivered at my own expense. Thankfully the attendant didn't speak English, so saw no problem with my statement that I was retard, and asked me who I was trying to meet. When I gave him the name, he looked puzzled, at first because the last name was clearly Chinese, and I looked to him like an Italian, but later because he had no record of this person coming to the hotel. I asked him if I could check my email, so he says of course, but the only email is on his machine, which he says I am welcome to do. So I come behind the attendants desk and check my email, and show him the email that says I'm supposed to meet here. But then I realize it's only NEXT WEEK that I'm supposed to be here. I explain my mistake to him, and he starts laughing. I tell him thanks so much for letting me use the computer, and that I'd see him same place same time next week.

And so next week came, that was today, and I arrive on time as a good nephew should. The guy behind the desk sees my face, "Ah, Monsieur Retard!" he says, perhaps knowing now the double-entendre. I laugh, and we chat a little bit about whether I know which room she's staying in or whether he should ring her to come down. Anyways, my aunt comes down, and we go out to eat dinner.

At dinner we sit at a lovely square on Rue Mouffetard. After five minutes of eating, what looks and sounds like the rotary club of Boor County, USA shows up to eat dinner. The leader of the pack, who bore an uncanny physical resemblance to Gary Herrigel, for those who know him, immediately identifies himself to the waiter as a boor, by saying "Nous are six, c'est bon?" He then attempts to speak French with me, as his wife and the other members of the married swingers society of Boormouth, Connecticut, look on adoringly. After two minutes of confused conversation, which mostly consisted of me suggesting to him that we should speak English, he determines that I am neither a French person refusing to speak French with him, nor an Italian who doesn't know French, but am a real flesh and blood American. He asks where I go to school, and then I say U of C. He says, "Oh yes, a marvelous school. Saul Bellow went there, have you read Ravelstein by Saul Bellow?" "No," I tell him, parenthetically thinking that Bellow's writing career should have died before he got old. "Oh, well you should, it's a really marvelous book. What do you study in school?" Math, I tell him. "Oh Math, that's wonderful. You know my nephew just got an 800 on the Math SAT." Thankfully a street-performer dressed like Indiana Jones began accosting the boor and I went back to my meal.

The meal proceeded for the next twenty minutes without major events, although from a mix up of dishes I managed to infer that my French enunciation is not sufficiently clear as to differentiate the words "Jambon" and "Saumon."

And then suddenly, the ultimate restaurant event, which comedians and writers often fantasize about, actually happens. An ambulance pulls up to the restaurant, paramedics go into the restaurant, and emerge three minutes later with the prostrate form of a man laid out on a stretcher, covered by some kind of cloth. And then the paramedics leave the body out on the restaurant patio for five minutes, while they take care of some things. That's right folks, tonight's entertainment on the deck tonight will be a corpse. Five tables immediately clear, the customers throwing money down on the table in excess of whatever there bill was, just so that they could flee the presence of the recently deceased. But then as I look around at the rest of the people, it sort of becomes clear, that if we've stayed this long, we're not going to leave, and if we're not going to leave, then we might as well finish our dinner. Another five minutes pass and the eating, smoking, drinking, and joyous merry-making, continues as it was before, all within ten feet of a dead body. Pretty, pretty decadent.

It goes without saying that the Boorish Mafia decided to keep stuffing their faces, and I mention in closing the final discussion I had with the head boor. He leans over to our table and asks me, "So we were all wondering, what's the relationship of you two." Meaning me and my aunt Daphne. "Are you two married?" Now the only sense I can make of the boors thinking here, was that Daphne is Asian, and that it would be clearly impossible for an Italian, Jew, or Lebanese-whatever to have an asian person in their family. Daphne starts cracking up, and I say, "No she's my aunt." The boor seemed unconvinced, Daphne says, "His mother is my husbands cousin. He and my sons have the same Great-Grandparents." The boor says, "Ah some sort of God-child arrangement," and then seems satisfied.