Thursday

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my buddy, the carrier pigeon

 

Walking through the vineyards on my way to the train station, my carrier pigeon buddy arrives to escort me to the station.  He coo-coos alongside me until we reach the threshold between nature and civilization.  There, his red beady eyes wink me a “Good luck.”  Thanks, pal.

 

Arriving in town, it’s one of those days where I want to say “Fuck my job.”  What am I, some kind of language workhorse?  I resent the fact that the corporate masters own my time, even if it’s just 5 hours today.  That’s 5 hours off my dreaming time.

All the same, I’m in town, and at least for now, I am indebted to my corporate masters.  Unseasonably cold winds tug at my coattails, and my head is pounding for an unknown reason.

I tiptoe erratically around the sidewalk, studded with trampled bits of dog shit.  No way am I getting my red leather boots dirty.  The cold air invades my nostrils and freezes my brain, aggravating my headache.  The fragrance of the first spring cherry blossoms irritates me even more.

The area around the train station is a lot better-kept than in other cities; no seedy sex shops or vaguely-disguised titty bars to be seen, no cannabis fumes in the air; just nondescript bistros that are a bit too antiseptic for my liking.  I peek into one, and a middle-aged cook eerily stares back at me, while he scrubs an already-spotless zinc countertop with a clean white towel.  Even their ashtrays are immaculate.  Freaky.

I approach the monolithic structure, the medieval castle, squatting in the middle of town.  Just across the street from its fat, monstrous towers sits another bakery, more modern with dark hardwood floors, and an alluring glow to its sandwiches and pastries that sit on deep blue-gray ardoise slate slabs.  I pick up a kouign amann, a Breton specialty:  it’s a crispy, flaky, buttery sticky bun.  The hammering in my head starts to subside when I take a bite of the luscious pastry.

As I chew and walk on, I’m peeking into chic restaurants, neighborhood barbershops, deserted bookshops and quiet upscale boutiques.  A stylish woman walks past, and the sickly sweet cloud of her perfume chokes me as she walks past, her heels confidently stabbing the ground with each step.  I catch myself feeling inadequate in her presence, and I think back to a former student of mine, who was a picture of perfection:  successful, affluent, immaculately dressed and coiffed.  Yet her eyes had glistened with desperation when she confided how deeply she regretted the direction in which her life had gone.  I wonder what happened to her.

I drop into another favorite spot, a red-bannered bakery run by a genial bald-headed baker, who always seemed to be dusting flour off his hands and apron in a cloud of magic.  His breads and pastries are some of the best in town, and I order a sandwich for lunch.  He grabs one off the top of the stack with his large hands, knobby and solid from a lifetime of kneading dough.

Finally, I slide into my favorite café, a neighborhood dig that’s clean, with a good atmosphere, and proprietors that leave you alone to think.  I’d like to think I’m becoming a regular, alongside the old salty Italian man who critiques the French and their politics between sips of red wine, rolling his Rs and calling everyone cons (dumbasses)…

I ease into the seat next to the door and order an espresso with water.  I catch a cool draft every time the door opens, along with a few wisps of cigarette smoke that sneak in.  I don’t mind.  I’m surrounded by rough caw-caw guffaws.  The server who’s about my age, the older couple that runs the joint, and the old-dog regulars; they laugh and gibe between bites of food, sips of wine, drags of cigarettes.  Like a goddamn family sitcom.  They’ve got nowhere else to be, except there, giggling and shooting the shit.  Hell, neither do I.

I realize my headache has ceased.

I’m satisfied with life in this moment, and smile into my hot cup of black coffee.

Just another Thursday.

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