Tips: 0.00 INK
by TĂŠfarĂłs on Thu Jun 10, 2010 10:29 pm
This is the story of a note, a Frenchman, and sweat.
When Sebastien read the letter, Joe Dassin had been crooning in the background of his apartment, making him feel awfully dainty and awfully French. He blinked slowly; realization and impulse had never been kind to poor Seb, even after the rudders shook and the training ended and he kissed the air goodbye. Knowing his extreme ability to fail, he would surely be among the last to arriveâthat is, well, if he could even find a way to get there. Crumbs of toast fell in his lap as he nibbled absentmindedly on the edges, his mind drawn at a derp and a half.
At the mechanicâs shop, which had smelled very acridly of grease and Chicago hot dogs, the head man shook his head. Sheâd need another weekâs time, he said. She was sturdy, yet rather unfortunate⊠like you, he added, with that smugly smug chewing style only an Illinoisian could perfect. Sebastien nodded, shrugged. Driving the old Caddy there would be implausible now, but would that stop him? Would that barricade his army of dreams from breaching the big, boisterous ballgame of awesomeness that Brokenboch had Brokenbochâd? Quite possibly. His skepticism reigned supreme, and with the mechanic snickering at him as he left the premises (at least, his mind made it seem that way), Seb decided that he could rather be plucking banjo strings, or snuffing around for nighttime gigs, or doing a combination of the two while sipping a juice box.
He was on the road within the week. Greyhound buses were kind to hopeless saps. Sometime in the middle of nowhere, in what must have been a zombified Pennsylvania, the clunker rolled up for a quick pit stop. The full moon hung overhead. A meager crowd filed out of the vehicle, a crowd consisting mostly of young oddballs and Life Alerters, the majority of with which Seb fit in rather nicely. Heâd clung to the back, oversized case strapped to his shoulder, his dark hair disheveled, his expression blanker than a dry-erase board after recess. He was a master of that, the blankness. Even those preschool students of his noted how listless he seemed, especially during the afterhours (admittedly, the same could be said for everyone of the substitute teaching variety), and when the fleeting instance of his pearly whites were displayed during the music corner, it was almost frightening in a way. Sebastien Prideaux was a nice man certainly; he had the pleasant nature of a baguette and the soft voice of an angel. It was all just hidden somewhere, lost to the winds of Les Champs-ĂlysĂ©es, perhaps.
Instead of picking up a few artificial cheese puffs, however, he spent his time at the gas station getting his loser on. In the corner of the parking lot, a pride of biking lions idled with a few packs of Copenhagens. Sebastien wondered why such a tough-looking lot got their smokes from Wal-Mart, but it was the least of his worries as he approached them. The proceeding conversation went a bit like thisâan English language tutorial gone awry:
âHello. Do you mind if I join you for the next five hundred miles?â
A laugh or two. A hard stare. Who was this flowery creature, they must have been thinking, and why is he intruding on our territory?
âWe got no spares. Wouldnât want a guy like you to get hurt anyway.â
âPlease, you must understand,â he said. âI cannot bear to ride that thing anymore. There is a woman onboard, very old. She never shuts up.â
âThen punch her in the face.â
âOkay. If I punch her in the face, will you let me ride?â
âSure.â
âAll right.â
So it didnât exactly play out like this. Either way, Sebastien, his pockets about fifty bills lighter, got lucky for once. One of the lesser members had collapsed before them, stricken by a hernia apparently, guaranteeing Seb a seat on a rickety Harley, a couple of beers, and more joints than he cared to handle.
Two days, six dispersed gang members, and three thousand scarf flicks later, the cobblestone driveway turned the large bike into scrap metal. First went the engine, its roar dulled at the sight of David and his mighty nutsack. Then came the front wheel, spluttering him out of control just as he became awestruck by that gorgeous aircraftâwas it real? No, had to be a replicaâso the actual spill itself wasnât too grueling. As the motorcycle went out from beneath him, he leapt awkwardly to his feet just in time, a hint of surprise ridden on his face as he finally cared to notice the grandeur of the estate. It was easier to appreciate a place at a light jog than a motorized zip, after all.
And there was the professor. There was also a pair of students he failed to recognize, and it was this failure that colored his cheeks a shade a red. Shifting his gaze to the psychotic man rushed forth memories, many good, some bad, most involving Seb being jostled awake from his dopey stupor. Here he questioned just how the man cajoled him, and these unfortunate others, into arriving. Maybe the guy was a wizard. Maybe his secret was laced in the dark arts. Maybe he had a strange relationship with his flux capacitor. Maybe Sebastien had simply been an ugly duckling.
âBonjour,â was his modest greeting to all of them, his steps hesitant as his forced himself closer. He cleared his throat. âSorry for the, em, the mess. I had to⊠do some things to get here. So how about that fighter jet?â
Tip jar: the author of this post has received
0.00 INK
in return for their work.
