{"id":6854,"date":"2014-04-15T00:00:01","date_gmt":"2014-04-15T04:00:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/home\/?p=6854"},"modified":"2014-04-15T14:50:10","modified_gmt":"2014-04-15T18:50:10","slug":"beaujolais-day","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/beaujolais-day\/","title":{"rendered":"Beaujolais Day"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Beaujolais<\/a><\/p>\n

The guidebook promised \u201ca revered afternoon,\u201d the city would stop, people would spill out of the caf\u00e9s and brasseries, and, sure, there were plenty of signs in the windows: Le Beaujolais Noveau Est Arriv\u00e9<\/i>!, but most places were empty, apparently no real rush to uncork the first bottles. So, until things picked up, if they ever would, I thought I’d do something quite ordinary, my laundry, and when I got it spinning, a full load at the Lav-Club on the rue Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric-Sauton, I walked the few blocks to Le Vermeer Caf\u00e9.<\/p>\n

It was quiet inside. Three Sorbonne students were playing cards by the toiletries<\/i>; a collie was asleep by the coat rack.<\/p>\n

Since they charged more at the tables, I stood at the bar and ordered a glass of the Duboeuf. I figured that by the time I finished, my clothes would be done and I\u2019d walk back and move them into the dryer.<\/p>\n

The wine was good, fruity, not too acidic, and, through the window, I could see a tour boat sailing passed the Notre Dame. I\u2019d been in town for almost a week, an extravagant jaunt with Tyler and Ray, also unemployed, but had yet to go inside the church.<\/p>\n

With no one to talk to\u2014the bartender, glassy-eyed and grumpy, was scribbling in an appointment book\u2014I started thinking about Julia. I should have made a move when I had the chance. But there had always been a reason not to. She had kind, blue eyes, dark, fragrant hair, and a terrific smile, and, according to Tyler, she\u2019d hooked up with a certified financial planner from Park Slope.<\/p>\n

It should have come as no surprise. Despite minor flaws, a sometimes short temper, a mildly suspicious nature, she was a good catch but I\u2019d kept myself in the friend zone for too long. She\u2019ll probably end up marrying him, her biological clock ticking, and an image of the clock at the Musee d\u2019Orsay, which we\u2019d seen the other day, flashed in my head.<\/p>\n

But I want kids too, but not now, someday though, and Crazy Ray said she liked me. And I remembered walking with her in the park, near the lake, through red and orange leaves and a tunnel of fog. She was upset, her voice trembling. Her car had been broken into, her puppy stolen. At that moment, she needed more than friendship. What was I thinking? I should have held her in my arms.<\/p>\n

An American voice began filling the room. I hadn’t heard one since the night before, when in a club on the St. Germain, I\u2019d struck up a conversation with a nurse from Tallahassee. But this one was different: masculine, loud, and self-assured, and it belonged to a white-haired, squinty-eyed man on the other side of the bar. He was wearing a crumpled sport coat, his cheeks pockmarked, and the bartender was pouring him Jack Daniels. He was with another man, much younger, bald-headed with large-frame glasses, a bit mousy-looking, I thought, and they were talking about the recent U.S. presidential election, the older man saying how he\u2019d watched the returns at Harry\u2019s and that a straw poll had been taken there and that it had correctly picked the winner since Kennedy-Nixon. \u201cAnd they were right again,\u201d he added, his laugh like a gasp.<\/p>\n

“Too bad,” the younger man replied, turning a page of his newspaper.<\/p>\n

A few moments passed, the wine was going down quickly, and I remembered my restaurant idea, a Latin fusion place with salsa dancing at night. I\u2019d been carrying it around for a while and, being laid off, the timing was beginning to feel right. When I get back, the first thing I\u2019m going to do is call Pablo. We\u2019ll start drafting the business plan. Having worked most my career in the restaurant industry with one of the nation\u2019s largest barbeque chains, I knew the business-side, and Pablo, a chef trained in Central American and Caribbean cuisine, certainly knew the menu. I still want to do it on the Lower Eastside but the last time we spoke he said we were priced out. He wanted to open it in Washington Heights but I don\u2019t want to go up there.<\/p>\n

Just then, a woman walked in, her eyes searching the room, her mouth hanging slightly open. After a while, she headed toward the bar. Though her nose was a bit too big for her face, her friendly, brown eyes and full lips made her attractive. Sighing, she placed her leather bag on the bar and dropped her cell phone into it. She then draped her coat over the seat beside me and sat. She was wearing a denim, button-down shirt, the NBC peacock logo on the breast pocket, and, with a little girl\u2019s voice, she called to the bartender, \u201cBonjour<\/i>, Fareed! Je suis fatigu\u00e9<\/i>! I had some day!\u201d<\/p>\n

He shuffled over and poured her some Beaujolais and I started talking to her. She was from Philadelphia, the Main Line, born and bred, and working as a production assistant for a French television station. She had just come from the Champs-\u00c9lys\u00e9es where the American TV show Access Hollywood<\/i> had done a live broadcast from Planet Hollywood. \u201cHow long you here for?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnother couple of days. We\u2019re taking a break from one another.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBefore you kill each other?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Something like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

She started telling me about her boss and how he\u2019d blamed her for misspellings on cue cards and how she had nothing to do with them and, halfway through her story, the bartender came over and asked me if I wanted another. I\u2019m supposed to be leaving, I thought, as I stared at my near empty glass. But with her beside me\u2014her eyes seemed to invite companionship\u2014I figured the laundry could wait, so I gave him the go-ahead and he refilled my glass.<\/p>\n

She finished her story\u2014the next time she would just have to do the damn cue cards herself\u2014and then she segued into telling me about how she\u2019d once spent a summer working a cash register in a sporting goods store in Santa Monica.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was there once,\u201d and I tried remembering the pub I was at. \u201cThe King\u2019s Head?\u201d<\/p>\n

She hit my arm with the back of her hand. \u201cWe used to go there all the time.\u201d<\/p>\n

I told her about Bruges, walking the wet cobblestones, climbing the bell tower, and how Tyler had lost one of his bags after leaving it on a train. She wanted to know where I was originally from.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaine.\u201d And I tried my best to describe Cumberland County\u2019s endless winters.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy father used to hose down our driveway so when it froze we could ice skate.\u201d She smiled; it appeared she held the memory dear. \u201cSo tell me, where\u2019d you go to college?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTulane,\u201d and she explained how she\u2019d wanted to go to McGill but wound up at the University of Maryland, where she\u2019d smoked a lot of dope.<\/p>\n

I learned some other things: she\u2019d once owed the IRS two thousand dollars, loved the sound of Patsy Cline\u2019s voice, wore a lot of sleeveless dresses, and had a brother who, a few years back, had been killed in a car accident.<\/p>\n

The last remark seemed to drain her of all enthusiasm.<\/p>\n

\u201cI never got to tell him how I felt.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat must have been difficult.\u201d<\/p>\n

She shifted in her seat and there was a long silence, peculiar in that I didn\u2019t know if I should interrupt it or not, and as I was trying to find words that might make up for my complete understatement, she said, \u201cWhat do you want out of life?\u201d<\/p>\n

No one had ever asked me that in such a pointed way. \u201cEverything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBe careful with that. You\u2019ll wind up with nothing.\u201d And then she wanted to know where I was staying.<\/p>\n

\u201cHotel Studia.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her back straightened and her eyes widened. \u201cOh! Right on the St. Germain.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI couldn\u2019t sleep the other night. I\u2019ve been a little under the weather . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh?\u201d She looked genuinely concerned.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, no, it\u2019s nothing. It\u2019s just a cold. And I thought I\u2019d go out for a walk, get some fresh air, but I couldn\u2019t get out. At two in the morning, they lock you in.\u201d<\/p>\n

She laughed. \u201cDid you forget and think you were at the Ritz?\u201d<\/p>\n

The place was picking up, a family of five was being seated in the dining room, the collie had awoken and was licking the hand of one of the students, and then a large group walked in; they were noisy, and someone mentioned that they were from the Netherlands and to accommodate them\u2014there must have been a dozen of them\u2014one of the waiters pushed three tables together.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy all the fuss over the Beaujolais?\u201d<\/p>\n

She put a cigarette in her mouth and shrugged. \u201cTradition. Their unofficial drinking day. They fly it all over the world. The Concorde takes it to New York.” There was a man with sleepy eyes on the other side of her and she borrowed his cigarette to light hers.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you going to stay in Paris?\u201d<\/p>\n

Handing the cigarette back to the man, she said, \u201cNo. I want to go home. It can be lonely and my mother\u2019s sick. But not now. I\u2019m getting such amazing experience.\u201d<\/p>\n

My glass was near empty again. I\u2019m drinking too fast, I thought. It\u2019s not beer. Slow down. There\u2019s more alcohol. On an empty stomach too. You don\u2019t want to get into trouble. \u201cWhat’s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSara.\u201d<\/p>\n

I took another sip. I didn\u2019t want to go. I wanted to keep talking. She had a charming frankness that I found refreshing.<\/p>\n

But my clothes, heavy and wet, would either be taking up space in the washer or sitting somewhere else, atop a dryer or window ledge, someone having removed them. \u201cYou gonna be here a while?\u201d I asked as I finished off the wine.<\/p>\n

“I should be.”<\/p>\n

And I told her about my laundry. \u201cI\u2019ll be back in a few minutes.\u201d<\/p>\n

It\u2019d been overcast earlier but outside the sun was coming through. At one end of the street, a man in a hard hat was breaking up the sidewalk with a jackhammer, the sound of the blows loud enough to make me wish I had earplugs. My throat felt scratchy so I took a lozenge. On the Quai Montebello, moist air was blowing, and I began to make my way.<\/p>\n

When I got to the Lav-Club, I smelled something sharp. Was it sulfur?<\/p>\n

Inside, it was dark and the machines weren\u2019t running and no one was around. I went to open my washer but the door was locked. I checked the others. They were locked too. Strange.<\/p>\n

I stepped outside. The wine had given me a good buzz and as I looked up and down the street\u2014it was more crowded than before\u2014I felt groggy. Across the street was a bakery, doll shop, and Libyan restaurant. I should go in one of those. Maybe they know what\u2019s going on. But then I thought of Sara. I should just head back.<\/p>\n

From inside the Lav-Club, I heard a thud, like someone moving a heavy piece of furniture had dropped it. I walked back in. No one was there but I heard the sound of feet hurrying down steps; it was coming from inside the wall. Through a hidden door, an old, dark-haired woman in a lime-green dress appeared. She was tiny and tired-looking, in her hand a glass of red wine. Beaujolais, I assumed. In French, she wondered aloud why the power had failed. She put down her glass on one of the dryers and began checking the washers but none would open.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s coming,\u201d she finally said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLe propri\u00e9taire<\/i>,\u201d and she pointed to a plastic chair and I sat. There was a machine mounted on the wall; it looked a little like an air-conditioner. She removed its cover and began fiddling with the parts. I assumed it was related to the washers.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen\u2019s he coming?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cUn moment, je vous prie<\/i>,\u201d and she continued fiddling.<\/p>\n

This may take a while, and I stood.<\/p>\n

But then the lights flashed; it was only for a moment but she nodded as if she were making progress. I figured I\u2019d give her a few more minutes but then a greasy-haired, stocky man walked in. Grunting, he waved her off and putting on his glasses he began inspecting it. \u201cIs everything all right?\u201d I asked. He turned and gave me a look that said, Do not disturb me. I folded my arms and he went back to work. Soon, a self-satisfied smirk appeared on his face. He knows how to fix it, I thought, and, from his back pocket, he pulled out a wrench and began turning a bolt. A couple of minutes passed and he started looking for the cover. \u201cOver there,\u201d I said. \u201cThere!\u201d Eyeing me with disdain, he picked it up off the washer and began putting it on. When he\u2019d secured it, he started pushing buttons on the panel but nothing happened. Maybe he doesn\u2019tknow what he\u2019s doing. He sighed and lowered his head. It seemed to signal defeat. Looking at my watch, I headed for the door, but then the lights came on and the washers and dryers started humming.<\/p>\n

I checked my washer; the cycle was only a little more than halfway through; it would be another ten minutes. Should I wait or go? I wasn\u2019t sure. Sara didn\u2019t look as if she\u2019d be going anywhere anytime soon so I started waiting but after a long minute I thought, Fuck it!<\/p>\n

The brasseries were filling up and, though it wasn\u2019t the way I\u2019d come, hoping it might be a shortcut, I made a right onto the rue de l’H\u00f4tel Colbert. As I approached the Quai Montebello, I began picking up my pace but when I turned the corner I came upon a crowd of tourists, their sunglasses, guidebooks, cameras, backpacks, like armor. Where the hard hat had been jackhammering, two vans had pulled up and men were unloading bags of cement, creating a pedestrian bottleneck. I walked into the street, unfortunately without looking, and had to dart out the way of an approaching truck. I continued along, a little shaken, and moments later, a bit out of breath, I stepped inside the caf\u00e9. Where she\u2019d been, a brown-haired man in a bow tie stood. He was talking to a pear-shaped man whose shirttails were hanging out. I looked around; the place was crowded; the day\u2019s festivities were in full swing, but there was no sign of her. Maybe she\u2019s in the bathroom. But she wouldn’t have taken her coat. I pushed my way to the bar and found a place next to the white-haired, squinty-eyed man. A short while later the bartender came over. \u201cShe just left.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow long?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwo, maybe three minutes.\u201d And he pointed to the window. “Her phone rang. I think she thought you\u2019d forgotten her.”<\/p>\n

I felt the urge to run out. I even got halfway to the door. But thinking more about it, I stopped. It seemed ridiculous. We\u2019d only been talking a few minutes. She\u2019d probably think I was nuts. Besides, I\u2019d be leaving in two days.<\/p>\n

The bartender poured me a glass. \u201cShe’ll be back next week,\u201d and the white-haired, squinty-eyed man turned to face me. \u201cI was just telling Gustave over here that the best food isn\u2019t in Paris. You have to go to the countryside.\u201d His breath was bad, his teeth dentures, and he began going on and on about how for the past thirty years he\u2019d been working in the oil industry, first with DuPont and now with Chevron and that, every time he wanted to retire, his boss just threw more money at him. “My wife will be joining me in a few days,” he continued, as I hurried to finish my wine. \u201cI haven\u2019t seen her in three months.\u201d And I thought I saw a speck of regret in his eyes. \u201cWomen love to shop in Paris. My credit card\u2019s going to get some workout.\u201d<\/p>\n

Outside, dusk was gathering. Maybe I should\u2019ve just run out. If I were desperate, I would have. The Notre Dame was lit up. Another tour boat was passing. Further along, I spotted a woman walking a dog, and, as she approached, I thought that maybe it was her, but when she got closer I saw it wasn\u2019t. Maybe she’d have been happy. We\u2019d be in Le Petit Tianon now eating scallops and she\u2019d be telling me why it\u2019s lonely here and I\u2019d be telling her why she needs to move back to the States. On the rue Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric-Sauton, three men were coming out of the bakery. As I neared, a woman holding a baguette stepped out and nearly lost her footing. She had a nicer smile, and I turned into the Lav-Club. Two dirty-faced kids were watching a washer spin. I opened mine and started pulling out my clothes. I\u2019d throw them in the dryer and get a bite to eat at the Libyan restaurant.<\/p>\n

THE END<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

P. J. Gannon is a writer in New York City. His work has appeared in The Alembic, Slow Trains, Amarillo Bay Literary Magazine and other literary journals. John Cheever, T. C. Boyle, and Ha Jin are among his favorite writers.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The guidebook promised \u201ca revered afternoon,\u201d the city would stop, people would spill out of the caf\u00e9s and brasseries, and, sure, there were plenty of signs in the windows: Le Beaujolais Noveau Est Arriv\u00e9!, but most places were empty, apparently no real rush to uncork the first bottles. So, until things picked up, if they ever would, I thought I’d do something quite ordinary, my laundry, and when I got it spinning, a full load at the Lav-Club on the rue Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric-Sauton, I walked the few blocks to Le Vermeer Caf\u00e9.<\/p>\n

It was quiet inside. Three Sorbonne students were playing cards by the toiletries; a collie was asleep by the coat rack.<\/p>\n

READ MORE.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":191,"featured_media":7027,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,218,200,219],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6854"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/191"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6854"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6854\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7028,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6854\/revisions\/7028"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/7027"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6854"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6854"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6854"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}