by Corey Deitz
“You only live once,” he thought to himself as he placed the payment in the driver’s hand.
“Merci,” smiled the cabbie.
The bellman began to push the luggage cart toward the front doorway of the Hotel Regina. Ford followed alongside and soon they were both standing in front of the check-in desk.
“May I help you, sir?” asked the clerk.
“Reservation for Kit Fallon,” said Ford.
“Just a moment,” said the clerk in English though painted with a heavy French accent. His fingers quickly typed on his keyboard.
“The Eiffel Tower Suite. An excellent choice. May I see some I.D.?”
“Sure,” responded Ford.
With that, he pulled out his wallet and presented his fake I.D.
“And a credit card for incidentals?” requested the clerk.
“Of course,” said Ford. “Here.”
He handed the clerk his “Kit Fallon” Visa and with a quick signature was checked in to the best accommodations you can rent at the Hotel Regina. Do you know what the difference is between a 4 and 5 star hotel? At a 5 star hotel, the fifth star is awarded for sheer decadence. Hotel Regina is immaculately staged with art and architecture. Classic chandeliers and window dressings buffet each hallway. The floors are buffed so well, if you walk slow enough and look down you can see the heels of your shoes reflected in the shine.
Every piece of furniture is properly aged, positioned, and maintained. You don’t have to be wealthy to stay there, but you will feel rich if you do. Besides being in the heart of Paris, Ford’s room had a perfect selfie view of the Eiffel Tower, was literally across the street from the Louvre, and a few easy steps from the famed Tuileries Garden.
The bellman unlocked the door to The Eiffel Tower Suite and motioned to Ford to enter. It was splendidly unlike any place he had ever been before. Through his window he eyed the Eiffel Tower for the first time.
“You have been here before?” asked the bellman.
“No, no I haven’t,” said Ford while still gazing at the massive structure.
“My first trip,” he added.
“I hope you have a good time. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you,” said the worker.
Ford reached for his pocket and quickly turned toward the man. Then, he pulled out a twenty.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t exchanged the currency for Francs, yet,” he said apologetically.
“It is not a problem, thank you very much!”
The bellman smiled and left, pulling the door behind him. Ford turned back to the window and watched as a flock of birds circled over the Louvre and disappeared into the sky far in the distance.
He was quite pleased with himself.
Quite.
Chapter 8
After surveying the boundaries of his suite, Ford did something he always heard the majority of people could never afford to do: eat something from the mini-bar. He was actually quite hungry and began to pull out anything in the refrigerator that looked good. Chocolate, cold beer, little bottles of booze, Kit Kat bars, cheese and crackers – he practically emptied it. He didn’t think twice about the charges. He lined up all the food and drink on top of the wet bar then crossed his arms and eyed each item, wondering what to eat first.
“Fuck this. I want room service!” he thought to himself.
Why settle for the mini-bar when he could have a meal delivered? Ford picked up the room service menu from a coffee table near the suite’s couch and scanned the choices while he dialed the courtesy phone.
“Good afternoon, Monsieur, what can I get for you?” asked the voice on the other end.
“Uh, yes. Let’s see. Mmmm…uh, the Regina’s cheeseburger with…uh…grenaille potatoes. Uh, wait: what are grenaille potatoes?” asked Ford.
“Monsieur, they are the house potato, baked and seasoned,” offered the order taker.
“How ‘bout just some French Fries?” said Ford.
“Sorry, Monsieur. That is not available.”
“Who doesn’t serve French Fries in France? Didn’t you guys invent those things?
“No, actually Belgium did,” stated the voice.
“They did? I thought Belgium made those big waffles,” said Ford, somewhat surprised.
“Well, technically, they do but not the ones you are thinking of with the whipped cream and the strawberries.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ford thought to himself. “The whole food chain is a fucking lie.”
“Well, who makes those waffles?” asked Ford.
“I believe you can find them at any grimy food kiosk at a state fair of your choosing,” snipped the voice in a somewhat condescending tone.
Ford was a little taken aback at the comment and didn’t know quite what to make of it. He had heard stories about the French and their occasional bad attitude toward Americans. But, he didn’t expect to run into that kind of sass at a classy place like this, especially at the rates he was paying.
There was a pause on the phone and then the man at room service began speaking again.
“Monsieur, I was making a small joke,” he said.
“Oh! Right. I get it,” said Ford.
He was not convinced. But, just the same made a note to never again ask for French Fries at a 5-Star hotel.
“Monsieur, how would you like your hamburger cooked?” asked the man.
“Well done. And I want a bottle of champagne. Something that goes with a hamburger. You choose,” said Ford.
He waited to see if the voice on the other end of the phone was going to judge him for suggesting any kind of expensive alcohol was actually appropriate with a menial hamburger. But, no snide remark followed.
“Yes, sir. Right away,” answered the voice. “Merci.”
Room service hung up.
Ford placed the phone back into its cradle then made a gang sign aimed directly at the phone.
“That’s right, bitch. I drink champagne with my burgers.”
Quite pleased with how he handled that he walked over to the picture window. He tugged on the curtain string to make sure it was completely open so he wouldn’t miss a thing. As he watched pedestrians and tourists move about below, his thoughts turned to meeting Dark Desires later that afternoon. He wondered privately if the Popeye Rose would be much better in person or possibly a disappointment. Maybe it had faded or been defaced since the Australian photographed it. Maybe it had been painted over by whoever owned the building it was displayed on. What if it wasn’t there at all? Would Dark Desires still know where to meet him?
He wondered if he had simply fallen in love with an idea – and maybe, it was a bad one. He had put everything at risk and raised the personal stakes as high as possible just to be here. He sat down on the corner of the bed and entertained his doubts.
“I’m tired,” he thought to himself. “I’m tired and that’s why I’m thinking this way. I need to stop this. I need to stop being such a baby. Sure, it’s risky behavior but what was the alternative? Kunkle? Fuck that! I need to eat something. I’ll feel better.”
Within a few minutes there was a brisk knock from room service. Ford opened the door and smiled as the waiter greeted him and deftly rolled the food cart into the room. He stopped it near a small table and proceeded to remove the domed plate covers.
On one dish was the Regina hamburger.
On another, the potatoes.
On a third some rolls and butter.
Of course, there was a sparkling glass of water with a paper cover, utensils, and a bottle of champagne snugly positioned in a wine bucket encased in ice.
“May I pour you some?” asked the waiter, referring to the champagne.
“Actually, would you just open it for me?” said Ford.
“Certainly,” agreed the waiter.
He popped the cork and placed the bottle back in the bucket.
“Will there be anything else?” asked the man.
“No, thank you,” said Ford.
He handed the
man a twenty-dollar bill.
“Merci,” smiled the waiter.
He turned, walked out and closed the door behind him. Ford didn’t realize his tendency to tip with American twenty-dollar bills would quickly earn him a new nickname among the staff. The employees would soon privately begin to refer to him as “Jackson” when they would intimately talk among themselves. Generally, a tourist would better to switch to French currency but, the power of a U.S. twenty-dollar bill is still strong enough in Europe to earn a pass for the indiscretion.
* * *
Ford was definitely living large.
He was masquerading as a person of means and was thoroughly enjoying the ruse.
Often, as part of the human condition, we live behind masks. Some we put on ourselves. Some we allow others to place on us. Sometimes our persona is by deliberate choice, sometimes by chance or circumstance.
His passport said “Ford” but, to the desk clerk he was “Kit.”
To the hotel staff, he was a generous American tourist, not the hapless clerk who spent his nights selling Beefy Bunce at a rundown convenience store.
To Dark Desires he was a nice guy from Ohio, far from the conniving white-collar criminal he had secretly become.
We project who we want to be and people perceive who they think we are. In life, people treat you the way you teach them to treat you. If you wear fear on your face, you’ll probably get bullied. If you project confidence, you’ll often earn respect. Your face - and to an equal degree - your body language, instructs the world who you are and how it should react.
But, if you lose control of your mask – an important aspect of your natural costume – or cede control of it to others, then you’re in trouble.
Do you see what I’m suggesting?
We are all subject to a type of human identity theft. Sometimes, we are the thief. Other times, we are what is stolen.
People profit from pretending to be someone else until they are finally found out. Yet, many of us casually steal identities throughout our lives to better fit who we would like to be. Think of the famous people who fall from grace after a scandal. For years, maybe decades, you think they are one kind of person and then they are finally exposed and it turns out they are someone – something – all together different. They simply wore a mask to hide what they did not want anyone to know.
We all wear masks.
Part of who you are has been lifted from others.
How often have you changed your clothing, behavior, manner of talking, hobbies, employment, or dozens of things about yourself because you wanted to emulate someone you looked up to or admired?
A celebrity?
A sports hero?
A rock star?
It doesn’t matter.
We are constantly stealing a hair style, makeup tip, fashion look, and any number of things because we liked the way someone else wore it or showed it and we simply wanted it to be part of us.
Or maybe we wanted to be part of them.
In the end we are all identity thieves to a point. The difference is most of us are not breaking the law. The petite thefts we pursue to enhance our personality or personas are an acceptable part of the social exchange the world has become comfortable with.
Few people are so secure as to be able to singularly create an identity that is totally original. We all consciously or unconsciously absorb bits and pieces of those we admire or adulate the most. That is the acceptable side of the spectrum of human identity theft. On the opposite side are the worst practitioners of it.
These are the scoundrels who most need to be exposed.
They are the liars who masquerade under false principles, false love, and false pretenses. They disguise themselves as your best friend, your lover, your guardian, your protector. Yet, in the end, it is almost assuredly proven they have simply played you because they covet sex, power, or some other gain and will say anything to have it.
They are duplicitous and their betrayal is the worst identity theft of all.
* * *
Ford tore into his food, seeing he was much hungrier than he initially realized. At the end of his meal, he picked up the bottle of champagne and walked over to the bar sink. He began to slowly pour it down the drain. Then, when there was just enough left in the bottle for one glass, he tipped the bottle upright, put his glass underneath it, and tipped the mouth of the bottle back down to pour the remaining liquid into it.
He set the bottle down on the bar and raised the glass to his lips, close enough to feel some of the bubbles bursting on his skin. He took a moment to smell the drink. Then, he drank it all in one full motion.
He may have been a sinner, but gluttony wasn’t one of them.
Besides, sometimes life is better savored in small bites.
Ford walked back to the generously padded bed and laid his head onto one of the pillows.
As he drifted off to sleep, he listened as the slightly muffled sounds of Paris rose up from the street below and serenaded him through the window pane.
Chapter 9
The alarm on Ford’s iPhone forced his eyes open and for a moment, he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. It took him a moment to remember he was in a hotel room in Paris. His brain was slightly jarred by the jet lag and time change. The alarm display said it was 5:30 p.m. He sat up, swung his legs to the side, and stood up from the bed.
It was time to meet Dark Desires under the Popeye Rose.
Ford zipped open one of his travel bags and ruffled through the contents until he found a light green shirt he wanted to wear. He quickly changed and then stepped into the bathroom to attend to everything from the shoulders up. There was no time to shave, so he grabbed the courtesy size tube of toothpaste, squeezed some onto his pointer finger, and brushed vigorously – for about 8 seconds. Then, he primped his hair using one hand as a brush and declared himself ready.
He grabbed his room card, phone, and wallet and closed the door behind him. As he walked through the lobby, he smiled at the concierge and desk clerk. When he left the building through the hotel’s entrance he gave the doorman a twenty and asked him to hail a cab. The employee was happy to oblige and with a wave of his hand dispatched the next driver waiting at the cab stand. The driver put the taxi in park, ran around to the other side, and opened the rear passenger door for Ford.
“Bonjour,” said the driver.
“Merci,” replied Ford as he slid into the vehicle.
Once the cabbie had reseated himself, Ford gave his instructions.
“Montorgueil and Rue Marie Stuart,” said Ford.
“Oui, Monsieur,” answered the cabbie.
Even though evening was approaching, the warmth of the afternoon clung in the air as the cab made its way through the mostly narrow streets. Ford gazed out his open window and said little for the first few minutes of his ride. Then, his eyes opened wider and he broke the silence.
“Please stop here,” he requested. “Can you wait for me while I run into that shop?
The driver was only too happy to oblige. Especially for a rider who wanted to go into Cartiers. The taxi double-parked in front of the famed jewelry store and left the “Taxi Parisien” light turned on. It was a good sign for the driver that the rider could spend money at a store like this. It meant better chance for a generous gratuity. Plus, what cabbie doesn’t want to rack up charges by just waiting in the street for a customer?
While it waited. Ford jumped out of the backseat and walked into the jewelry store. The cab driver could see him talking with a clerk. They moved between glass cases. One at-a-time, the clerk began to pull bracelets out of the display. Ford and the clerk continued to speak until there was a simultaneous nodding of heads. Payment was rendered, courtesy of some inefficient bank’s credit department, and Ford left the store. As he began to walk back to the cab, he raised his pointer finger in the air to ask the driver for another moment, and then ducked into a florist two doors down from Cartier. Five minutes later he emerged, holding a sealed box of flo
wers. He slid back into the taxi and thanked the driver for his patience. The double-parked cab endured one more angry horn blast from one last annoyed driver as it pulled forward to rejoin traffic.
It’s not unusual to double-park in Paris.
What is unusual would be not honking at someone who did.
Yet, nobody – not even the police – will fault a man too much for breaking a tiny rule in pursuit of making a living. But, that’s the difference between Europeans and Americans. In New York City, a cop would write you a fine of $115 dollars just for illegally idling one or two minutes in the roadway. In Paris, an officer would scold you and shoo you off, rather than ruin his day by complicating it with needless paperwork.
In quick time, the cab pulled up to the east side of St. Eustache church which sits at the base of Rue Montorgueil. The driver told Ford that Montorgueil was closed-off to vehicles and was a pedestrian street only. Not to worry, though, it would be easy to walk to his final destination. Ford thanked him again for his patience and paid the driver, including that generous tip.
As the cab pulled away, Ford stood for a moment to take it all in. The roundabout of traffic and pedestrians was feeding out into various connected streets. As Ford surveyed the activity he noticed a monk with only one ear standing nervously near the entrance to St. Eustache. Soon, two more men walked over to him, a chubby priest, and a taller, unkempt man. They began to embrace and talk. The priest looked tired and the other man was consumed with using his smartphone to take photos.
The scene looked familiar, as if it was Déjà vu or he had read it in a book. He quickly dismissed the weird feeling as remnants of his jet lag.
As he walked up Montorgueil, the cavalcade of humanity did not slow down as the daylight began to soften the sky and the remaining light elongated their shadows. Some were sipping espresso at outdoor cafes. Others were casually walking to reach a dinner reservation, while still more proudly showed off their pocket dogs. Pedestrians conversed with shop owners. It was not hard to become absorbed into the deliberate and slow tide of life. No one seemed to have a particular agenda, and no one chose to interfere.