The first words I've written since I got here. A month in Paris. The adventure of a lifetime…and I'm ready to go home on day nine.
Everyone hates an asshole-- the guy who has to speak just a little louder-- be just a little more crass. Well, in Paris, that's us. Even I despise I big-mouthed cowboy when he's sitting next to a straight-lipped Parisian. There is a boy in the dorm room next to mine who showers fairly regularly. He is creamy-skinned and has a close cut reddish fuzz for hair. I completely adore his Euro man-boy charm. Edna and I are staying on the third floor of one of the Deutcsh buildings, across the hall from one another. It is very old, circa 1920, and the hardwood floors aren't in the best repair. Some boards creak more than others, and you can hear people in their rooms; guess where they're at by the creaking. We both have nice views, and although my window is a little bigger, you can sit in Edna's, and look out over the courtyard. We call it "playing cat". When the group flight got here, two days after us, we hung out her window "like Parisian whores" and watched Melissa speak to a group. She looked up and recognized us. "Hi, girls!" she called. All of the Santa Barbara school looked at us. "Hi, Melissa!" A blonde girl sat on her suitcase. Just as we were hatefully leering at her, the suitcase tipped over and she landed right on her ass. Edna and I were laughing uncontrollably, so we moved away from the window. When we poked our heads out again, the girl was looking directly at us, which of course sent us right back into the convulsions of hilarity. There is one communal shower room. It is all pink tiles, with a marble bench. Edna and I balance precariously on one leg when shaving, trying not to touch anything. I thought that I would have to wait for the shower. Not so. We quickly clogged the drain, and must now shower within fifteen minutes, or the water fills the little shower burrow and spills over the step into the hall. The students must hate us. There is also one communal toilet room. You bring your own paper. The janitor periodically supplies us with a stack of little individual tissue squares. He also visits our rooms two or three times a week, very early in the morning, and asks whether we would like him to vacuum. We sleepily decline, every time. We are sure to fail our classes. All we ever eat is pizza, or hobo food. The first time we ordered, my Frenglish only confused the girl at pizza hut, and we ended up paying 86 francs for a personal pizza and some Orangina. We got the hang of it eventually, and our regular order was Menu Friends (enough junk to feed an army). We think the girl in the corner is a les. She plays weird world music all the time. The Boxer Boy next door to Edna is going to be a doctor. The couple who live across from the facilities always seem to be in their doorway when we get out of the shower. We're pretty sure they're interested in some kinky menage-a-trois crap. Then there's Five Minute Shower Girl. The boy next door coughs when he can't sleep. I hear him creak to the sink and back. That China bitch hasn't bathed since we got here. She wears heels, and stomps a lot late at night. I spend most of my time indoors writing directions on how to get to places using the Metro, or tidying up.
The Metro usually smells like sweat, but sometimes it smells like shit. Not as in "bad", but as in "something actually defecated in here". I like riding it because Parisian people are so intriguing. In the morning, the cold working class piles in. They never look at one another or talk, only ride solemn faced to their ultimate destination. I am not hard enough to feign that kind of boredom, so I stand out. I even look American, and that's not a good thing here, so it's uncomfortable. Evenings are worse. The well-mannered Frenchmen and women become charging herds of mad Darwinian metaphors, and a crushing battle to decipher who really is the fittest ensues. But the best time to ride the subway is at night, when the entertainers are around. Men and women of various ages perform mind-boggling feats in just the time it takes to get from one stop to the other. They hop in your car, put on their little show, and are gone with the horrible buzzing signal for departure. I have seen so far: a puppet show of Pavarotti, a jazz trio, a single oboe, a violin, an accordion, and what I thought was a poet. The last scared me, because I don't speak French, and I thought it was some lunatic come to take over RER line B (which is my most used subway). The greatest part is the other people on the Metro. They don't even acknowledge the poet, or the oboe, or the puppet. I mean, here comes this three piece outfit, with amplifiers and all, and they play their hearts out for a carful of men and women who don't so much as look up from a newspaper to watch the Saints March In. It turned out the poet was only an eloquent beggar, as I discovered with learning some of the language, and after noticing that many other poorly groomed people made the same speech on the subway. Apparently, they were all in cahoots, and if you got off at a stop and watched, you would see them switching cars, high-fiving each other. There was one woman in the group who had very bad teeth, and a large Parisian nose, giving her the likeness of a witch. Her brittle hair stuck out at all angles, an embodiment of progressive jazz. Channon laughed at her once, laughed at the way she recited her part, and at her jagged mouth. The woman hissed at her, "Do you have some problem? Fuck you!", and Channon just laughed harder. But I was afraid of that woman; of her dirty jean jacket and funky smell. I would have given her all the money in my pocket if she would just disappear. That was unnecessary; the train stopped, and she was on to the next car.
There was a wino on the Metro. A hard core, no holds barred wino. He got on at Vincennes, shoved two bags through the open door, went back out for a third, and made it in again just before the buzzer. He sat on one of the bags, and pulled out a bottle of wine from another. I had lost my friends leaving Disneyland, and was traveling home on my own. I held bright pink and orange souvenir bags, which contrasted sharply against the muted, earthy colors around me now. The man wore short pants and no socks. I could see his ankles. They were scaly and black-green. I wondered if it was a fungus or just dirty, dead skin. I wondered if my mother could treat it. A young Euro trash couple offered him their seats, which was strange because there were many seats available. He shifted over to one anyway. Then, bottle in hand, he pulled out a steak knife and drove the tip between the cork and bottle to pry the thing out. How I wished I had a corkscrew, Swiss Army Knife, something. We all watched him wiggle the knife back and forth, but the pressure must have been too great (or the bottle too cheap), and the glass cracked-- up high, just the lip. Undeterred, the wino peeled the broken shards away from the neck, and eased the cork out now. His lips reached out to meet the bottle eagerly, and as he raised it I feverishly thought, "He'll cut his mouth. Please don't drink out of that, you'll cut your mouth". But he did, taking a good, hard pull on the broken bottle. The doors opened at my station and I stepped off, struggling to hold on to all my Disney crap for the family at home. I was glad to be outside, away from the Euro trash couple, the stink of the subway, and people I couldn't help. The Metro buzzed and pushed ahead on the track. As it whirred past me, I caught one last glimpse of the man and his bottle. His head was resting against the window and his eyes were closed. I watched the train as the two red rear lights got smaller, and eventually disappeared in the darkness of the tunnel.
Last night, we went to a spectacular old jazz club in the Latin Quarter. The place, our professor told us, had been used for underground meetings of the people during the French revolution. It was now a historical monument, and so it can not be destroyed or even significantly altered.
We arrived around 10:00PM and found a very gregarious doorman (who would later let us in and out at our own discretion, enthusiastically greeting us at each re-entry) who showed us in. I wore a straight and form-fitting (but modest) knee-length black skirt, and a black poly-blend shirt with three-quarter length sleeves. The 1950's throwback ensemble was a perfect compliment to the smooth jazz music pumping through the speakers in the upstairs bar.
Balancing precariously on three inch heels, which I am not accustomed to wearing, I made my way down the tiny and steep winding staircase (Paris is just full of spiral staircases) which led to the underground room. The walls were made from heavy-duty stone blocks, maybe two feet by two feet each. They were painted a bland tree trunk brown, but had obviously seen scores of paint jobs. I imagined the place lime green, or yellow.
We took a seat in a small booth near the dance floor and watched one lone couple cut a rug to the now up-tempo music, supplied (to my delight) by a live six piece band. The white man, in his mid to late forties, wore a sweat soaked button up shirt. His curly, graying hair stuck wetly down to his nape and forehead. The woman, maybe six or seven years younger, was petite and sported a bold red blouse over nicely pressed black slacks. Her copper hair swung with each step. The two spun and ducked, moved forward and backward, and glided in perfect synchronization. It was especially impressive when, at the end of the tune, they went to two different tables, and we realized they were not together.
I had a beer, then two screwdrivers with Edna at the bar (the screwdrivers were swallowed at once, not sipped), and then another beer, Pilforth Dark. The night wore on, and everyone danced with everyone else-- you know, just to dance. I had my eye on Joe the whole time. Ever since I saw him in a suit the night of Swan Lake, I hadn't been able to put him out of my mind. His striking, dark eyes and short, wavy hair to match both complement the olive color of his skin. He wore a long-sleeved black buttoned shirt, with billowy sleeves, and black suit pant with a perfect crease down each leg. I really notice a good ironing job. His shiny leather belt and shoes had an impeccable, fresh shine to them.
We made the mistake of leaving Channon upstairs with francs in her pocket, and drinks at the bar. When she got too messed up to stand, Joe brought her downstairs to us. Her arm was slung over his shoulders, and her head hung or bobbed as they moved. We sat her down on a bench, where she intermittently bellowed, "I don't want to be a lush", while crying hysterically, or shouted "Bon Jour!" while laughing hysterically. Joe sat between Channon and myself, comforting and reassuring her with a gentle manner I had not yet seen him exude. Until then, Joe had seemed to me a reclusive and moody enigma, somewhat unbothered or unconcerned by the state of affairs around him. He had been drunk at the orientation. I made a bad and prudish impression on him that day. Now, the soothing and strong sound of his voice squeezed my chest in excitement, as I sat next to him there.
Eventually, the hysteria died down…meaning: Channon passed out. We let her lie on the bench in a booth for a while and sleep it off. Back upstairs, we had drinks and were boisterous, as Americans are apt to do when away from home. A large part of the group had already left to catch the 2:30 "J" bus, since the Metro closes at 1:00AM. The bartender indicated that they would be closing soon. Edna grabbed Daniel, Professor Bellugue's older nephew, to go dance. Joe looked at me, and with a "why not" shrug of our shoulders, we agreed to go as well. The song was upbeat, and Joe said "I can't dance"…but I told him not to worry, the place was practically empty and we've got rhythm. We did pretty well, keeping tempo, and even throwing in a turn or two. Over the music, he told me his major was law, and that he was Italian. Then the music slowed. There was a brief moment when we hesitatingly looked at one another, but he didn't let my hand go, so…we danced. He pulled me closer, my right hip and his right hip together. I had never experienced the seduction of the slow dance. I could feel his knee pull my skirt taut, and his hand in the small of my back. I hoped I wasn't sweating, and that he couldn't feel the pounding of my chest placed so close to his own. He smelled good; a clean spicy musk was subtle on him. We moved closer, left to right, left to right. I closed my eyes, was acutely aware of the moisture between our hands. He put his cheek on mine, and I sensed an unbearable heat rush into my face, the spot where we touched pure electricity. I heard and felt his quick, heavy breath in my ear. It was spectacular. We danced this way until the music stopped, then stood in silence until someone broke the spell, punctuating the air: "Let's go".
I can't begin to explain how moved I was tonight. The Church, St. Chapel, is off the Seine River near the Latin Quarter. Joe has gotten a stupid haircut, and bleached it, too. This makes me feel better for having been discarded. We all filed towards the chapel, and outside were sculpted wall tiles depicting the fable of Noah's Arc. Once I stepped in, my jaw dropped open in wonder: at least thirty feet of stained glass sprang from eye level all the way up to the domed ceiling. Their vibrant colors comprised half of the place, and they were worked with such incredible detail that you couldn't even make out most of the scenes from the ground. Out came Orchestra Les Archets, fourteen outstanding musicians, and I had never seen a live orchestra. Now, when they played-- not any particular piece, just any time they played -- my chest would squeeze. The music fills me, and suddenly leaves me empty again. Painful solitary notes pierce through my heart, and I feel them there. A breeze comes in through the open chapel door, and moves my hair, brushes my neck, as the players come to a thrilling crescendo. The unearthliness of it all; the sun moving outside of the glass, the beauty of their playing, the way I was convinced one violinist kept winking at me, it was too much. I became excited; blood coursing through all my body, and I can feel this burn in a way no man has warmed me. Tears come to my eyes. I grip my knees to keep them from shaking, and wonder if this was how my father felt when he listened to Vivaldi. I realized how similar he and I really are, and became afraid. Will I be unhappy that way? Always stuck in some lethargic stupor because of lack of inspiration? Am I capable of sitting still long enough to make my life? The fear is replaced by hopelessness, which was reflected by the music at that moment. I don't know if I was meant for a world so hard and dreamless.
Today we visited the Arc de Triomphe. Built to honor the ever-humble Napoleon, it is (of course) a testament to the human ego. 280 steps lead to the top, from which (I am told) there is a view like none other in Paris. We made the obligatory stop at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The eternal flame was not burning that day. We stood in line to climb the steps-- the 280 steps --and when I got in, I nearly fainted. A very, very compact spiral staircase led up to the top. But when you looked up the middle, there was no top…only a dizzying funnel that seemed to become more and more narrow until it just tapered off. 280. There was no room to pass, so you had to keep on moving, or you'd hold up the line-- all the way down to Champs Elysees. So we trudged, like a herd of elephants, in the dim yellow light of the stairwell, with its wrought iron handrail. There is a museum before you get to the top. More shit about Napoleon. This guy would put the Beatles to shame if he were still around. I can just imagine all the hysterical Frenchies trailing him for miles. We took the last fifteen steps like nothing, and came out onto the top. The day had been overcast, but Professor Bellugue promised repeatedly on the Metro and in the dark tunnel beneath the monument that it would not rain. Now, if I've said it once, I've said it 100 times: That frog doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. The moment I poked my head out of the stairwell, a single drop of water splashed across the bridge of my nose. Pushed from behind, I walked out onto the top of the Arc. Additional drops fell, each seemingly larger and wetter than the last. Fucker. It was raining hard and my umbrella was on a bench somewhere in the Louvre. As all the tourists ran for shelter, I found myself alone and exposed (sounds familiar). I had lost my friends, and thought of running back into the museum. Then I saw the Eiffel Tower in the gloomy distance, Champs Elysees undulating below…Paris. The rain was less important, and I snapped one soggy photo after another. I don't know if they're going to come out. I hope so. I don't know how long I was out there for…long enough to soak my shirt and hair. The trip back down the stairs was another story entirely. Because you're staring at your feet, one step after the other, step step step step. It becomes involuntary and mechanical, the rhythmic, circling, descent. One false move, and that's it…if you start to think about it, you stumble. Think too long, you're bound to fall.
Today is Bastille Day. Edna, Channon, and I had heard about a party on the Seine-- the biggest in Paris, said Bellugue (who is, at this moment, pondering some hole in the ground. Needless to say that when we got off the Metro at St. Michel, in front of Notre Dame, there was no party at all. We decided to make our way to the Eiffel Tower, where there were fireworks, which we could already see from our position. Now, you know how when you're far from something big, the fact that you can see it somehow makes you believe it isn't really that far? And that no matter how long you walk, it's still really, really far away, but nonetheless looks somehow closer? Well, we didn't. We walked down that great river, alongside traffic that appeared to be jammed all the way to the tower. In Paris, Bastille Day is like our Fourth of July; fireworks everywhere. The difference is this: the fireworks in Paris abide by some nonexistent frog code, and people throw them at each other, on purpose. As we waited to cross one particular street, a boy of ten or eleven tossed one of his firecrackers at us. He and his family delighted thoroughly at the squeals and fright of the American girls. At this point I should mention that we had been enduring this sort of shit for more than 24 hours, that we had suffered a number of calf-burns and ass-grabbings at the hands of the detestable Frenchies. This was enough. Channon discreetly slipped one of our own firecrackers (a flower) out of her pocket, and as the light changed for us to cross, skillfully lit and launched the thing at the little French ruffian and his friends. It buzzed and rolled in a frenzied glow at their hysterical feet, and we laughed hard for at least a block. Further down the river, three idiots in a small white hatchback stuck in traffic amused themselves by hooting and hollering what I'm fairly sure were French obscenities. The timing was perfect. We walked ten feet, traffic matched us. It was uncanny. Suddenly, a red cylinder came flying out of their window towards us. We scattered, avoiding the oncoming explosion…but none came. It was a dud. Now we were really pissed. They had caught us just as we were ready to retaliate against their whole country, the poor unfortunate fools. The lane they were in was heading into a tunnel, so we hatched a plan to avenge ourselves before they'd be gone. Channon stood on the bridge over the small tunnel and smiled coyly while she batted her eyelashes and waved at the guys. Then she turned her back to them and they whooped like hillbillies at the sight of her impressively (if not miraculously) large and rotund Foxy Brown booty. While they were enraptured by her ass, Channon lit another flower firecracker, then spun around and threw the explosive-- which landed squarely in the middle of their hood. We took a moment to watch their panicked and futile attempts to remove the blazing humiliation-- arms flailing out windows --then we ran like mad down the Seine, stopping only when we were laughing too hard to go on, and holding our bellies in glee. We hadn't made it to the Eiffel Tower (which, by the way, still looked just as close as when we started), but we could still see the fireworks from where we were. It was good, standing there, the exhileration filling my lungs in a foreign land.
Later on the night of Bastille, after we took the Metro back to Cite Universitaire, we realized 1) it was really early and 2) we had a whole bag of fireworks left. We walked down to the corner in front of the bistro where Channon had unwittingly ordered raw salmon filet and cut loose. Bottle rockets that flew high into the air exploded with a shriek and burst of color…Flowers that spun madly fluorescent…Piccolo Petes that screamed long and loud…Tigers, the smallest of all, lit four at a time POP! POP! POP! POP! were the most fun. People walking by stopped to watch and smile. A young couple joined us briefly, heaving large packs off their shoulders to light a few. We saved the sparklers for last-- the short metal kind, which are illegal in our state. As we were cleaning up, two guys ran past. They crossed the street, and the bigger guy (who looked like Ralph Malph) tackled the littler one. They seemed to struggle a while, and then fell to the ground, Ralph pinning his opponent securely. He stayed that way a long time, with his elbow pressed against the small fellow's neck. Periodically, the one underneath tried (understandably) to free himself. Just when I was becoming concerned enough to intervene, Joe and Daniel came walking down the street. A small group gathered on our side of the intersection as we filled the boys in. We all crossed over, we thought, to break up the fight. "Be cool, man, be cool", said Joe…
"No man, it's not cool. This is my best friend," replied Ralph. Joe thought a moment and said, "Well, then, get off him". Ralph looked up, "No, man--" and here he paused dramatically "he's trying to kill himself". At this, the smaller one hit his head repeatedly against the ground and slapped himself in the face a few times. Somewhere in the distance an organ shrilly rang out. "Come on, Buddy" interjected the redneck darling, Daniel, "You're in Paris, you've got it all!"
"Fuck that!" spoke the suicidal. "Come on, fucking kill me, dude!" Ralph grunted while trying to restrain the other, "I'm not going to kill you, bro." More slapping; the thud of a head against pavement. Edna, Channon and I started away from them, and headed towards the security laughing uncontrollably. "Hey Edna," I chortled, "quit hittin' yourself, quit hittin' yourself!" We all hooted. Some girls, apparently friends of the two, stood on the other side of the street. As we passed them, one said, "I don't think it's very funny", to which Edna replied "That guy over there is trying to slap himself to death. I think it's fucking hilarious!" Channon, always provoking, called them "fucking looky-loos", which I found (and still find) utterly charming, and said at least we were doing something about it. Once we got to security, I tried to communicate to the woman the situation on the corner: "Um, deux ami…um…un et" I drew my fingers across my wrist and throat for "suicide", and then rotated them in a circle around my ear for "crazy". I was usually the designated speaker, even though I didn't know any more French than anyone else. I guess I'm just better at making an ass of myself unconcernedly. I got the message across, though, and we started back to the corner to wait for security. Upon our arrival, we found The Suicidal released, laying on the floor and gasping, the dirt around his head dark and wet. "Is that blood?!" I exclaimed. "No, it's water," explained Joe "He's hypoglycemic. He just needed some of this sugar medicine crap". We stood there, dreading the impending arrival of French security, who I would not even know how to tell: nevermind, we're just imbeciles… The hell with it. We started towards Deutsch, wondering if maybe we could get let in through the gate in front of the dorm, instead of having to walk down to the night gate (on account of our noble efforts)…and we had to laugh at it: the drama, the stupid girls, the hypoglycemic and his big drunk friend, Joe and Daniel playing heroes. It was too much. Edna was the first to speak, "You mean all he needed was a fucking cookie?" That night, we cackled all the way up to the third floor, all the way into bed, and until we fell asleep.
At Deutsch, the washing machine was in the basement of the main building. The coin operated washers were ruthless. We were told to reserve delicate pieces for hand washing. Edna's underpants were forever hanging in her window, visible from the ground; my black brazier displayed obscenely in my own, for those poor bastards across the courtyard to suffer. But jeans and towels, tough items, were all right for it. Also, the dryers never dried completely. They left your Levi's warm and damp, a heavy burden up three flights of stairs. Once when I went down to the laundry room, the guys were there. They sat at the bottom of the stairs, drinking and listening to The Police and Stone Temple Pilots. It was interesting, the medley of music you'd hear from these CD players, because everyone was contributing albums and suggestions to the one guy who actually brought speakers with him. You didn't get to hear much most of the time. Music was special, to be savored. I understood what it was like at the advent of the phonograph. I stood at the top of the marble stairs, listened to them goofing. Almost the whole building was marble; the stairs, the floor. The walls were of limestone, I think. Everything was cool to the touch, and hard. It echoed. It was ancient, too…the kind of place that you feel frightened in when you're alone. They'd never admit it, but I'm pretty sure that's why the guys went there together. I started down the steps and clenched up when I heard Joe's voice. We had danced the night before. I had a Thank You note in my pocket for him being so careful of us the night before. I meant to give it to him the next time I saw him-- but not now, with flat hair and shower shoes and my cotton underwear in a fishnet laundry sack! They had already seen me. Kurtis, still stung by the humiliation of a previous night's discussion, was falsely enthusiastic in his greeting. Joe smiled. Blushing past them, I made my way to the steaming closet of a laundry room, the door of which was propped open with a broom you had to hop over. I loaded my wash in with the bargain powdered blue detergent from Champion market, or maybe it was Monoprix, and then sat a few feet away from them on the freezing marble. I pretended to be very interested in my book, or in the geometric pattern on the floor, trying to ignore the stupid drunken hooting games of those boys. They charged towards the walls and rebounded off of them, like little pinballs. Edna joined me at one point, and we tried to see who could slide the farthest; marble floors and shower shoes together being too good an opportunity to pass up. I thought I'd seen a ping pong table through the basement window once, and now I tried my keys in every door, looking for the room that held it. One was open. It was musty and dark. Dust hung in the air between stacked chairs and tables. There was a bar, some electrical equipment, and a mirror ball. It was a ghost of a room. The guys filtered in, excited. They saw much more possibility for the room than I did. Kurtis was behind the bar in a second. Two more seconds later, music was filling the room. The lights went on, and the room became colored confusion with David running after the colorful squares of light reflected by the disco ball. It had a ragged festive feel with everyone in it. Joe said he would ask Professor Bellugue if we could use the room for a party. Kurtis suggested we should not ask anyone, and just hide in the back until the building was locked for the evening. It would be a lock-in. We'd stay all night. Bring drinks, and blankets to sleep on. I was already thinking of ways to improve the appearance of the rec room; a little rearranging, some cleaning. I imagined that dark, spooky, ancient building. I imagined us, reverting to the age of 16, drunk and scared, excited and rebellious, making out on itchy wool blankets. Professor Bellugue refused. We never got locked in. In fact, we never went back into the room again. A few weeks later, it would be gone forever. I wish we'd tried it, just once.
When we were at Vaux-le-Vicomte (where the legend of The Man in The Iron Mask was filmed), the most beautiful sight of all, it was a hike and a half to get to the far end of the property. The gardens, which were to be lit up, were geometric marvels. Fountains adorned by giant gold crowns, conical trees. There was to be a classical concert, which we assumed would be on the large lawn in the distance. We started towards the green expanse, with its great stone balcony and statue of Hercules. Walking down a side path, away from the main gardens, we found there were little nature trails around the rectangular reserves. Sunny drove by in her rented golf car, "Hi, guys!" The path became more secluded, bordered on one side by tall cypress trees, on the other by tangled, impenetrable woods. We made jokes about mass murderers. Key was becoming quite nervous, and was wearing white pants. Why didn't that bitch ever get dirty? Suddenly, Channon began shrieking, "I heard something, I heard something!" prompting us all to panic and abandon the trail, ducking out through the brush to the main path. We stood there, flustered, and listened. There was nothing. "I could have sworn I heard a frog", Channon defended herself. We teased her a while, and walked out onto the bank of a small lake that divided the gardens and the lawn. The sun was just starting to set, and we sat on a small dock over the still green waters. We examined the dock, floating twigs, other debris. Channon said, "Oh, look, a fish. He's coming this way. Look, you guys, I think he's friendly". Key looked over, "No, Channon, he's dead." An expression of pure and evil mischief crossed her face. "You guys dare me to touch him?" she asked. We dared, unbelieving. She reached her hand in the water and, sure, enough, came up with a little dead fish. "He's so cute!" she cooed. Then, in one sudden movement, she cried "Here!" and threw it at us. It arced in slow motion through the air, bending and turning, the sunlight playing in its metallic blue-green scales. We panicked and scrambled to get out of its path just before it landed on Key's jacket (which she had spread out to sit on, so she wouldn't get dirty) with a small, soggy thud. Then we stared at it, squealing "Get it away! Get it away!" until Key finally used the jacket to catapult the fish back into the water, while Channon laughed hysterically. We all sat in disbelief and mock anger with Channon. "How could you do that?!" we asked intermittently, between snickers. Edna told her she was sick. "Why?" Channon asked incredulously. "Because you threw a dead fish at your fucking friends, that's why!" exclaimed Edna. This renewed the laughter all over again. We eventually composed ourselves and made it around the lake. It was getting dark, and I wouldn't have minded turning back around. But Key was obsessed with getting to the statue; she wanted to see the statue. As we struggled up the massive steps, and then the huge hill, we lamented our feet and made suggestions at to what vulgar and humiliating thing we would have Key do to the statue in order to make up for dragging us this far. Edna and I considered rolling down the hill, but opted for cartwheels instead. At the balcony, when we turned around, what we saw was spiritual. Every path in the garden was lit with candles, it was glorious, blazing splendor. The windows of the estate were lit as well, 1,000 eyes looking back out at us. I have never beheld anything as awesome, as tenderly romantic and beautiful as that sight. I never expect to. By now, night had fallen. We hated to leave, but had to make it back to the bus by 10:00PM. Back around the lake, only the light of the moon and our Accent key chain flashlights to guide us. Through the rows in the garden, completely transformed. We played a game where we each took a turn naming boyfriends we'd had. If you couldn't name someone, you were out. Edna was out first (of course), and I was on a roll with Matts (I have at least five of those) when we heard the strains of the orchestra. They even had a singer. The power of her voice cut through me, the distant sounds of it making me suddenly somber. On the way home, Elsie the compulsive liar told ghost stories about Uncles in Mexico as I drifted in and out of sleep, those images and sounds fresh, as they still are now.
