Sin and Zen, #1

by S. W. Stribling

  ‘Don’t you have a girlfriend?’ she asked me.

  ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘It’s been over a year now. And we used to fuck four times a day. Now it’s only once or twice.’

  She just steamed and walked back inside. The rest finished their cigarettes and coffee a little more awake than they had been before.

  10

  I passed my test and was officially certified to teach the Queen’s English, or at least the international version of it. I wasn’t the best in the class, that went to the more bubbly characters, but I was happy with myself as I was the only one without a college education in the group and did well.

  So, with a diploma in hand, half a smile from a good time, and a bit of confidence to do something new in my life, I went back home to Marseille.

  UNFORTUNATELY, WORK was not as available in Marseille as it was in Barcelona, and I didn’t find it right away as most of my former classmates did. So I still had some free time to kill with old friends while waiting for responses from my job applications.

  ‘So, how’s Malmousque these days?’ I asked.

  ‘Shit,’ said Easterhouse. ‘People keep fucking up and now we can barely go out. We have to wear uniforms all day and sign out every time we leave.’

  ‘Well, what are you going to do?’

  It wasn’t necessarily a rhetorical question, but it played out as one.

  Both Murphy and Easterhouse were soon to be getting out of the Legion. We sat around and drank beer in a bar down the street from Malmousque and enjoyed some biltong that Easterhouse’s father had just sent from South Africa.

  ‘Why don’t they sell this here?’ Murphy said.

  ‘French,’ we said. It was the answer to a lot of our woes now.

  ‘We could make it.’ I said. ‘It’s basically the same thing as jerky.’

  ‘We could probably even sell it.’ Easterhouse said. ‘Think about how many anglophone legionnaires would buy it.’

  ‘Yeah, probably.’ I said. I was tired of Easterhouse always trying to make money out of people, especially his friends, but I agreed, we probably could sell it.

  ‘Where would we make it though?’ Murphy asked.

  ‘I would say mine, but the humidity wouldn’t allow it to dry as much as mold.’ I said.

  ‘And how’s things with Claudia?’ Easterhouse asked.

  I could tell he was hoping for bad news or looking for me to blame her for us being unable to do the biltong business from my apartment.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘We’re good.’

  Murphy said nothing and showed little to no concern. We had to be drunk and in dismay to complain about the women in our lives. We could often sit and drink and say nothing for hours. He was a true friend.

  Claudia and I were now living together in our own apartment. It was a nice little place in Le Panier of Marseille. It used to be a nice neighborhood, one of the nicest neighborhoods in Marseille. And according to what history I had heard and read, it was the oldest neighborhood in the oldest city in Europe. It was on a hill right by the water, looking down on the famous Vieux Port.

  Unfortunately, being stuck between the old port and the new port, it was now hostile territory. The Corsicans, Russians, and Arabs were now constantly fighting over who the neighborhood truly belonged to. I felt at home in the militant tension.

  Easterhouse, Murphy, and I sipped our beers and thought for a while on this biltong business idea. Occasionally, there would be a blurting out of random thoughts about what could work and what wouldn’t.

  ‘We could call it Trois Frères Biltong,’ Easterhouse said.

  Murphy and I laughed, it was simple but clever in its simplicity.

  We shot more ideas around and just for fun imagined ourselves as business owners.

  Then we all started doodling on our beer napkins. I always carried a pen with me; the other guys got one from the bartender. Maybe it was the sun and alcohol, but it started to come together and seem like a good idea.

  I FINALLY GOT WORK teaching. No schools would hire me. Getting hired was something that doesn’t really happen without a formal education and a few years of work experience. Not to mention, every anglophone in France came here and taught as a living. It made sense since this seemed to be the only country in Europe that still couldn’t speak the language despite learning it throughout school. It also made sense that they just didn’t really care to learn it.

  That wasn’t the problem though in the big picture; it was more to do with the labor laws I came to learn. It was risky for an employer to take on somebody new, more than risky, it was expensive.

  Luckily, France had a way to lower their unemployment numbers and help the unemployable feel employed. You declare yourself an entrepreneur and you can contract your work like any business would, only you are your own business: manager and sole employee.

  I found this guy who had just started a language school that took a chance on me. Classy fellow. Arab descent, but French in every way. Perhaps he liked my look more than anything, but I was glad to have the work. It didn’t add up too much, 20 hours a week was my busiest time through him, but apparently that is the maximum for teachers here, fifteen being normal. Unfortunately, as a contractor of sorts, I got paid by the hour and not on salary as an employee which meant I was making just over half the minimum wage (legally).

  I wasn’t complaining too much though; I was still living my former life of long nights with the guys at the bar and was working on my insurance payout from my military insurance. That along with my pension and disabled veteran pay, I was somewhere near breathing level and lived a spartan life.

  EASTERHOUSE, MURPHY, and I also started importing biltong from Spain, bagging it in a nearby restaurant and slapping our sticker on it for resale. It was going well. We weren’t making any money, but it was a laugh and we didn’t expect much.

  Murphy and I didn’t expect much, Easterhouse was Mr. Man with the business, scheduling the meetings, declaring himself the manager, and already looking for investors of big money to create a company with the sole intention of selling it all once it got up and going. Given, he was near 40, while Sully and I were mid-20s, I suppose age played a role as much anything with our attitudes towards the fledgling biltong empire we were creating.

  Both Murphy and Easterhouse were out of the Legion by this point as well and relied solely on the business and their payouts to live off of.

  It wasn’t but a few months in when Murphy and I decided we had other intentions and visions for the company than Easterhouse. If it would be something real, we wanted it to be ours and ours to keep.

  Easterhouse left with a buyout of half made up business expenses and a promise to not start up something new within the next six months.

  It all happened quick and with mixed feelings, but not with any regret.

  Up to this point we had been doing things off the big brother radar, just informal contracts with two bars and then selling it to friends and friends of friends. By the third month, we were up to thirty kilos at our home bar. It was a well-established bar in Vieux Port, and they were selling it without profit as friends of ours to see if the French would buy into it. At an even two euros for fifty grams, they bought it well.

  Murphy and I took it easy as we always did, we got together and discussed things over a pint and concluded that since I’m already slaving away as a teacher, he’d take charge of getting the paperwork in order for the business. Once everything was in place, we’d both jump in full time, until then, we’d just keep the importation, stickers, and packing over the weekend.

  11

  It was in the spring, around the end of March, just after I finished my certification and started teaching that an old caporal chef at Malmousque gave me a ring.

  ‘Slaughter?’ he said.

  ‘Oui, caporal chef.’

  ‘It’s GP.’ he said, ‘Caporal chef de Malmousque.’

  ‘Oui, caporal chef,’ I said. ‘Ça va?’

  ‘Si, si,’ The French speak French
, but sometimes they take after their southern cousins. ‘Onyx just had puppies. I thought you might want one.’

  Onyx was this caporal chef’s dog. It was a mixed black lab, almost as wide as she was tall. During a three-month stint GP had in Guyane for his jungle training refresher course, I looked after her.

  She was an older dog, and it was surprising she could produce a litter considering she could barely walk. But she was a dirty old bird swimming every day and shaking that water off in front of all those other dogs regularly. I wasn’t that surprised.

  I grew up with dogs and I had always wanted a dog of my own but never allowed myself to have one. I always said it was because being in the military I was never sure to be in the same place for very long and always gone more than home, but I was sure it had more to do with committing to something that required responsibility.

  Given the circumstances with a steady lady, a job that didn’t move, an apartment, and the plans to establish a business, I figured I wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  I came over the next day and picked the dog I wanted. A chocolate lab, just like the dog that carried me around by my diapers, I would even name her Cocoa after my first furry caregiver.

  UNFORTUNATELY, THAT dog got bought, so I chose a black one with a white front. She was majestic. I wanted a female for the tamer, more protective qualities.

  Then an officer came and called priority.

  I went back to the base a third time. I sat on the ground and watched these now running and playful runts step on shoes and piss on each other. It was magical.

  I looked at the brown one, the one I wanted first. He was too fat anyway.

  The puppies kept running around in circles, playing chase while saying hello to every person around.

  Then I saw the second one, I had even put a collar on her to mark her as taken. She was pretty, and I already missed her. I tried talking to GP, but he couldn’t say no to an officer. I took off the collar.

  I must have sat there for another forty-five minutes. People and fellow legionnaires came and went and the puppies came making their circles.

  One puppy then broke off and came running towards me. He didn’t stop. He just kept running and then jumped at my chest. Then ran around me and continued jumping on my legs and trying to jump on my chest. I think he was trying to get to my face, but even sitting down and jumping from my legs, it was too high for him to reach.

  This little guy was a fighter. Smaller than the rest and standing out from the rest. It was a boy, not what I wanted, but he looked exactly like his sister who I had chosen with the black coat and white paws.

  I collared him and called him Maverick.

  I came back six weeks later to take him home. Claudia didn’t like the fact we hadn’t talked about it, but I didn’t really care.

  12

  During that same summer, the wine was flowing, and the sun was shining has it had been the year before. It felt different though. I felt tired. It didn’t feel so much as fun as it did an escape from life. I had the new job, the new puppy, the lady I wanted, and the friends who were always looking for a drinking buddy or a good time. I got into a little trouble, but never too much, and things were good, but I was in a state of doubt, misery, and reflection.

  The new job was not nearly as entertaining and easy as I thought it would be, mostly because it took as much work finding work as it did doing the work.

  The puppy was the joy, but was still a little creature that required more responsibility than I was used to and cleaning up shit with a hangover wasn’t glamorous even when it wasn’t your own shit.

  Claudia and I were never on the same page. We were still having sex every day, still doing some things, but most of the time we weren’t together, and when we were, it was at the house, both on the loveseat with screens lighting our faces rather than each other.

  My friends were consistent, nonjudgmental, and always up for a laugh. I felt lucky despite a good part of my friends leaving the area since they left the army, there were still a few of the guys in, and a few that stayed around after getting out. We kept our traditions even at the expense of ourselves.

  Claudia was never much of a fan of my friends, but she rarely said so. She was never one to judge, at least openly, and never one to control someone else. I could never tell though if she just didn’t notice, or just didn’t care.

  There was no doubt a few times I came home drunk and she would slap me for saying something stupid, but she never punished me or brought it up the next day.

  The only time she ever really criticized or commented on one of my friends was with my former business associate and first friend at Malmousque, Easterhouse.

  Despite kicking him out of the business, we all remained friendly afterwards. I had my personal issues with him. He seemed fake and seemed to take advantage of his friends. But he had a way about him that won people over. It was an art. He could do the unthinkable and quickly give the most sincere apology afterwards. Time and again, we would all experience some of his antics. Stolen shoes from a guy in the same barracks as a gift. Borrowing two hundred euros and then paying you back in unwanted computer accessories that are worth half the amount. Despite this, I remained friendly with him in a very commonsense way, avoid money and don’t trust him with anything that truly mattered.

  It was in that summer though, not long after he left the business and he came by the apartment when we arrived at a final chapter. People always came by the apartment without calling first. Claudia hated it. Especially when it was him. Those two never forgave each other from their spat over a year ago when arguing over what was good for me.

  He came in with another dramatic story.

  I said I didn’t care.

  He upped the drama and story.

  I said I didn’t give a shit.

  He made it my concern, but I wasn’t buying it.

  Claudia was in the room on the couch but keeping to herself. Eventually she turned around and pointed out that I didn’t give a shit. He responded by saying nobody asked her and told her to fuck off.

  I jump in and did the ‘Ho, ho, ho’ Santa Claus ‘take it easy’ routine.

  She set her computer to her side and really started going off on him. He followed suit and stepped towards her with the same venom. At this point my military police training kicked in and I was grabbing this corn-fed boy that outweighed me by two times by the back of his elbow and guiding him towards the door.

  He could have easily pushed me off or fought me off, but the door was close by and still open and I got him through without a fight. Or he let me push him through without a fight.

  He left in a huff.

  Claudia still hadn’t sat back down when he came back and hollered at me through the window. His usual apology routine. I said, ‘Yeah, sure, okay.’ I had enough.

  It would be the last time I really every spoke to Easterhouse. I was a bad guy for that for some time. A lesson I learned early in adulthood is that you are always the bad guy in somebody’s story.

  THIS INCIDENT AND FALLING out eventually led to a falling out with a few people, after a few months it would all fade away, but one friend, an Englishman and neighbor two floors above me would cancel our trip together to India. Something we had planned on a drunken night doing coke and listening to Queen live at Wembley ‘86.

  He took Easterhouse’s side on the mere fact that friends should come before women. Admitting Easterhouse was a piece of shit, but there are principals. It was a shame. I had been looking forward to the trip. It would have been my first real vacation as an adult.

  Despite Kay’s flaking out, I bought the ticket. Solo. Claudia and I were just waiting for the other to end things, so I didn’t ask her, and she didn’t try to come or try to stop me.

  I thought despite our differences, she would still be willing to take care of Maverick. I was wrong. So I called on friends. I had a handful of them doing rounds to feed and walk him and check up on things at the apartment. They agreed without hesitation a
nd Murphy said he’d be the responsable that made sure Maverick was always looked after.

  I felt bad leaving Maverick behind. He would have Claudia at home for a consistent presence. She wouldn’t be the most comforting and entertaining company, but he would have a new playmate visiting every day for those needs. I felt bad for leaving Maverick, but I think his 6-month-old puppy-mind somehow knew more than anybody what I needed.

  I would go to India alone. Travel. Meditate where Buddha reached enlightenment. And trek the Himalayas in Nepal. I would find the enlightenment I had been searching for since adolescence and get away from all this booze, drama, and bullshit of everyday life.

  Having it all felt like nothing.

  13

  I flew out of Marseille in to windy turbulence, only to land in rainy turbulence in Paris. Then had a four-hour layover which was okay. The first thing was finding out how to get to my correct terminal since the normal shuttle wasn’t running. I must have walked around two hours hitting roadblocks. They exhausted me. My leg was hurting, and I hadn’t slept the night before.

  I found it though and had a nice nap in the waiting area. Then I waited on the plane and watched other people board.

  There was a family with the mother trying to guide the kids and the father trying to carry all four handbags for each member of the family while giving half dirty, half apologetic looks at everybody he passed and tried not to smack in the face with his daughter’s bookbag. The mother got the kids strapped in and reached for the children’s bags to grab them some crayons and a Gameboy, while daddy put the suitcases away, and afterwards their kids’ school bags into the overhead compartment. He sat down on the other side of the aisle of his wife and kids with a heavy sigh. The people that were stuck behind him gave a lighter sigh and continued marching down the narrow walkway to their own chairs, some thinking they will do their best to not be the person to hold up the rest like that, some thinking they were going to fucking take their time for some spiteful revenge on the rest still waiting to be seated.