Frankie in Paris

by Shauna McGuiness

  “Me, too.”

  “Us bleeding hearts, we have to steek togezer, non?” He snipped away at the back of my head.

  “Where did you learn English?”

  “I originally learned from movies and TV, but—” snip, snip, “but zen, I moved to zee U.S. I lived in Georgia for one year. Zat was enough America for zis Frenchman.”

  I dared not ask what Georgia thought of my skinny new, Parisian, gay hairstylist friend. The only time that I had ever seen Georgia was from an airport layover. There had been a confederate flag on top of a building, visible on our way down.

  “Why Georgia?”

  Pausing for a dramatic moment, his head tilted to the right. “I really love peaches.” He laughed softly at his own private, inside joke. “Zut alors! Who eez zees now? A famous American movie star?" He twisted me toward my own reflection.

  “Voilà!”

  Most of my hair was still there, but what he had done was amazing! I had to agree with him about the bangs, too. They were short—almost too short—and straight across my forehead, but positively superb! The loss of length in the back made my hair bump up. In the front, it landed in little points at my chin, very artfully done. It was fabulous: I looked like a china doll, or a silent film era starlet.

  “Pierre, you are just too wonderful!”

  “Oui, I know zat.” The dimple made another appearance when he grinned.

  I felt worlds better. Good enough to deal with my grandmother, even! “Merci beaucoup! How much do I owe you?”

  “You know, Cherie, let’s call it even. I sink we bose needed zees.”

  Catching the faint scent of incense, or maybe patchouli oil, I jumped up and gave him a hug.

  “Let me at least buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “I weesh I could, but it looks like I might have a visitor.” A young man stood outside of the window, looking at my hairstylist with soulful eyes.

  “Got it.” I nodded.

  “Now zat one—he can buy me a cup of coffee.”

  The congested woman wheezed her way back into the room, just as Pierre deposited his belt on the coat rack and went out to greet his boyfriend.

  “Pierre!” she yelled toward him, but he had already exchanged a kiss with his lover and swaggered away with a bounce in his step.

  ***

  Heading back to the hotel, I felt better than I had for days. My hair looked très chic and I had made a sohnsiteeve, interesting new friend.

  Henri was at his station when I entered the building.

  “Everysing okay?” His warm eyes looked concerned.

  “Yes, Henri. Thanks so much. Everything is perfect!”

  Taking in my new hairdo, he chuckled, “Très magnifique! You look très belle!”

  “Thank you, er, merci!” I smiled and really meant it.

  I was hardly even agitated when I nearly collided with Pierced Eyebrow as he exited the elevator. I wasn’t even all that exasperated when the elevator door took forever to close while he stood and stared at me—looking as though he had something to say.

  Whistling a bar from one of my favorite punk songs, I giggled as I realized that I was literally creating elevator music. I was positively giddy.

  Until I opened the door to our room.

  ***

  You know how sometimes you can wonder what someone is thinking when they do something outrageous? Well, I’m pretty sure I know what Lulu was thinking. I just wonder why she was missing that little piece of... of what, I am not sure—that mechanism in your brain which tells you that an idea should remain just as a thought. I mean, I think it would be super fun to jump from my rooftop to my neighbor’s rooftop. However, I know that it is an unwise, unsafe choice. I also think it would be hilarious to answer the front door wearing nothing but bubble wrap. But I know that it wouldn’t turn out so well if a conservative friend was the one doing the knocking. It's just plain old impulse control.

  And Lulu had very little of it.

  ***

  The oppressive heat and lack of air conditioning in our room were undeniably the largest factors in making my grandmother dream up her plan of packing herself in ice.

  “Helooo Honey,” she called, looking up at me from her bed with a huge smile on her face.

  A French soap opera blinked across the TV. The bedspread was lined with towels, and she had removed her clothing: except for a pointy tan bra, a pair of panty hose and about eighty pounds of ice cubes.

  Standing in the doorway, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “How did you get all of that ice in here?” was what finally came out.

  “I used our plastic bags from the Champs. I was so hot after our trip out. I just couldn’t get cooled down: it took three trips to the ice machine. That nice boy with the piercings helped me!” Well, of course he did.

  It was a bizarre and unsettling vision, and I had had enough of seeing her like that. Torn between wanting to take a photo and wanting to run out of the room as fast as my feet would carry me, I remained in the door, unmoving, like one of Medusa’s victims. A few of the chunks of ice rose up around her, spinning rapidly, then falling back onto the bed.

  I wasn’t even aware that I had done it. Being so incredibly drained, I was surprised that I was even capable.

  Mumbling something about going to get a soda, I backed out into the hall. She was calling after me, telling me that I had forgotten to close the door. Keeping my eyes averted, I went back and closed it—although, I am pretty sure that the image of that little body packed in ice was already burned into my brain. Freezer-burned.

  I didn't realize that I had been running until I found myself gasping for breath and standing in the elevator, smacking one of the walls with my open palm. The sound echoed through the small space like a hardback book slamming shut.

  So much for feeling good. My hair didn’t even look coiffed anymore. Thick, short fringe was sticking straight out from my forehead, shellacked in stress-sweat. I slicked my bangs down the best that I could. Now what? Where was I headed?

  “Where are you going, Mademoiselle?” Henri called out to me as I strode furiously through the lobby.

  “Je ne sais pas.” I had no idea.

  As if angry with it, I pushed through the door—exploding into the bright, humid dusk. I looked both ways and chose right. For no reason whatsoever.

  ***

  People stepped out of my way. I must have looked unbalanced. I felt the part.

  Notre Dame was visible in the distance. Would anyone really care if I entered its esteemed halls and called for “sanctuary”? Maybe staying there for the remainder of the trip would be a good idea? It wouldn’t work: probably no diet soda there.

  My pace slowed to a normal speed, and I leaned against a rough wall to reevaluate my current situation.

  ***

  POSITIVE

  I am in Paris

  I found Boots

  NEGATIVE

  I am in Paris

  I have not purchased any boots

  Lulu is packed in ice

  Lulu tried to sell me to a trafficker

  I miss Rich

  Lulu stole dirt from a corpse

  The Redhead

  ***

  I stopped because I didn’t really think that Dan was still a negative. I wouldn’t want to be stuck in an elevator with her for nine hours, but I was feeling quite a bit more charitable toward her after sharing her personal breakdown. Still, the negatives mightily outweighed the positives.

  ***

  Long shadows of impending evening blossomed around me.

  “Hello? Erm, bonjour?” A pleasant male voice invaded my thoughts. At first I thought I was hallucinating.

  “Oui?” I turned to see two men around my age. They sat at a small round café table, smoking cigarettes. One had a goatee and thick, black hair. Both of his ears were pierced with gigantic imitation diamonds. The other young man was blonde and had red, ruddy cheeks. I made a mental bet that they had both played high school fo
otball.

  “YOU,” shouted the goateed smoker, “ARE A BEAUTIFUL FRENCH GIRL,” speaking "French" like my grandmother. He tapped his cigarette into an ashtray.

  “YES,” said the other one. Although he looked young, his hairline had begun to recede. “YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL. TRESS BELLY.” They both spoke LuluFrench, it seemed. No actual translation of language required: just really loud, really annunciated speech.

  I couldn’t decide whether or not to play along or cut them some slack. I split it. 50-50.

  “Merci beaucoup, Messieurs!”

  “I think she understood us, dude,” the blonde one said.

  “Oui oui!” I leaned on their table, “Because I’m from California. Dude.”

  They looked horribly embarrassed, and I felt the tiniest pang of guilt. “Where are you from?” Future Male Pattern Baldness had his mouth hanging open.

  “We’re, uh, from Wyoming,” said Goatee.

  “I’ve never met anyone from Wyoming. I live in San Jose. It’s about an hour from Santa Cruz and an hour from San Francisco. In either direction.”

  “Cool.” An awkward silence swirled amongst us, shortly followed by acrid blue smoke.

  “Are you boys traveling alone?”

  “Yeah, we’re backpacking across Europe.”

  “Wow, backpacking? Like, with actual backpacks?”

  Goatee lifted up his pack, which had a sleeping mat rolled up on the top of it.

  “Actually, it’s not as cool as it looks.” Baldy sighed.

  “Trust me: you are having more fun here than I am.” I sounded so convincing that I was sure they believed me.

  “Do you want to come with us? We’re heading to Germany for a week or so.”

  I considered their offer for longer than I should have.

  “I’m here with my grandmother. She’s back at the hotel.”

  Goatee smiled, wistfully, “Ah, a hotel. What I would give for a soft bed and a long, hot shower.”

  The other one punched him on the arm. “We can go home whenever you want to.” He looked at me and said, “I’m Mike. That’s Tim. Tim’s dad bet him a hundred bucks that we couldn’t last a month out on our own.”

  Tim sighed, “We have another two weeks to go. We’ve been staying in hostels.”

  “Yeah,” groaned Mike, “but there was that one night that we had to sleep outside. That really sucked.”

  “You guys are doing this for a hundred dollars? Why are you so far from home?”

  Tim shrugged, “It was part of the bet. Dad even paid for the plane tickets.”

  “It’s been alright, but I miss my room. And my dog.” Mike scratched his eyebrow, seemingly on the edge of a crying jag.

  “A hundred bucks? Seriously? Why didn’t you just stay home and get a job at a gas station, or something?”

  “My dad and I have a weird relationship. He really thinks I’m going to crawl back home. I have to prove that I can do this. We figured it was at least a free trip to Europe.” Yeah, I know how those free trips to Europe can turn out!

  Mike punched him again. “Good thing you’ve got such an awesome, super-cool best friend, huh? Otherwise, you’d be out here by yourself.”

  “What have you seen since you’ve been here?”

  “We haven’t been anywhere 'cause we don’t have any money for tickets! Sucks.” Mike kicked at the ground with his toe. Just plain ol' white sneaks.

  “Wait, Bro! You forgot about Morrison’s grave.”

  “Yeah, that was pretty awesome. There were all kinds of people there, just sort of ... standing around, staring at the grave. They must have really loved Van Morrison.”

  “Jim Morrison,” I corrected him.

  “Oh, right. Jim Morrison. I heard he died in a bathtub. Anyhoo, that was a free thing to do. It was kinda creepy, in a cool way.” Mike must not have been a huge fan of The Doors.

  I decided that I wanted to visit Jim Morrison’s grave, too. My brother was a huge fan and would really dig it if I brought back a picture. Maybe I’d steal some dust for him, or something. Lulu probably had another eyeglass kit container.

  It was getting pretty dark.

  “I’d better get back to the hotel,” I said, as I stood.

  “Yeah, well, enjoy your hotel. We’ll be thinking of you when we’re sleeping God knows where.” Mike shook his head.

  “See you around. Have fun in Germany.”

  They waved, half-heartedly. I felt for my passport: it was still there.

  ***

  Familiar night music was starting to fill the warm air. Would Lulu notice if I just decided to join the party? Plenty of people were on their way to wherever they were going. It would be easy to make new friends and see what people my own age did when traveling through Paris.

  I was too terrified: I knew that nasty mime was just waiting somewhere to whisk me off to those traffickers.

  My heavy feet made a rhythm on the cobblestones, which got faster when I thought for a moment that I might be lost. I was relieved when I ended up making eye contact with Henri through the front window of Le Hôtel de Lutèce. Beckoning to me, he smiled.

  “Well, she returns!” I nodded and leaned on his counter. “So, what was Lu Day doing wiz all zat ice?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know. I wish I didn’t know.” Putting a hand on each cheek, I rested my elbows on the surface of the counter. “Can you tell me how to get to Jim Morrison’s grave?”

  “Oui. I was wondering if you might ask me zat sometime.” Snickering, he brought a map up from his desk. “You are looking for Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. You know, zere are quite a few famous people buried there. Not just “Light My Fire.” How about Proust?”

  The name sounded sort of familiar.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Yves Montand?”

  I shook my head.

  “Gertrude Stein? Isadora Duncan? They were American.”

  I shrugged.

  Laughing, he handed me the map. I saluted him, snapping my feet together and spinning around toward the elevator—finding myself nose to nose with Monsieur Eyebrow Piercing.

  “Uh. Hi.”

  What I really wanted to say was: “Hey there. Sorry my Grandmother is such a freak. I don’t know another person on the planet who would cover themselves in ice from the hotel machine. I realize that this is unbalanced behavior. Oh, and another thing: she may or may not have given you the impression that I was single and looking for a date—or, rather, looking to hire a companion for the evening. The truth is I have a really cute boyfriend at home who wouldn’t appreciate that. Not one bit. Basically, take whatever she says or asks you to do and ignore it. Thankyouverymuch.”

  We both leaned to the left, then the right, trying to step away. After a bit of awkward dancing, we managed to separate and walk in our intended directions: he toward the front desk and I to the elevator. Turning to look back at him, I saw with horror that he had turned to look back at me, too.

  I pushed the elevator button about eight times, very quickly. Everyone knows it comes down faster if you do that.

  11

  The Tower of the Last Straw

  Before opening the door to our room, I hesitated for a moment. What kind of surprise might be waiting for me there? It was becoming steadily more obvious that my grandmother did not think like everyone else. As if I hadn’t known that, like, since birth.

  She was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully clothed, wearing her munchkin outfit—wicker shoes waiting beneath her feet—drinking from her water bottle and watching the television. Nary an ice cube in sight.

  “There you are!” She held out her water bottle, in offering to me. I shook my head and closed the door behind me. “It starting to get dark. I’m glad you came back.”

  “I just needed to get out for a minute. I met some American boys.” I told her the story about how they thought I was “tress belly,” and she laughed. It all felt so, well, normal.

  This worried me.

  I needed to let go of the visi
on in my head. It stuck there as if it were frozen in place. Which indeed, it was. In the literal sense of the word.

  “We must visit the Eiffel Tower.” She nodded to emphasize her suggestion.

  “Must we go tonight? I’ve had a…rough day.”

  “Well, I’m just worried that our time is running out. If we don’t go tonight and something happens in the next day or so, we might not be able to see France’s most famous tourist destination.”

  What does she think is going to happen? Does she plan on doing something weirder than getting detained by a security guard or sending me out with an escort?

  “Can we eat first?”

  “I have some mints in my purse.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. I was talking about, like, dinner.”

  “All you do is talk about eating.”

  “That’s because all you do is avoid taking me out to eat.”

  “Fine. We’ll eat.” She was acting like I was making an outlandish request.

  ***

  Dragging her to a café which I had been eyeing since we arrived in the country, I ordered the onion soup: it lived up to its alluring scent. Lulu just sat and glowered at me—she had toted her water with her. Two giant croutons floated on top of the soup, and I willed them down to the bottom, letting them soak up the fragrant juices.

  Once again I was struck with the air of romance up and down the simple street. A woman leaned out of her apartment window at the waist and draped a wet plaid skirt over her window box to dry. I could only see her shadowy form since the sun was going down behind her building, blinding me with rich oranges and yellows. I realized that I hadn’t really been breathing since I walked in on Lulu and her sordid, indiscreet affair with the ice machine.

  “Did you get your hair done?” Is she finally noticing?

  “Yes.” Scooping up a soggy crouton with my spoon, my stomach thanked me as I took a bite of the wonderful soup.

  “When did you do that?”

  “When you were… uh… cooling down, this afternoon.”

  “It looks very French. You look like you should be doing silent movies.”

  That was most likely as close to a compliment as I was going to get. As I finished eating, she began impatiently drumming her fingers on the tabletop. I hadn’t even wiped my mouth when she stood up and grabbed her purse from the back of the wrought iron chair.