Part III
'The Violence'�

We're off to the side again, passing a joint back and forth, it's later, few minutes, and some older guy, about 40-something walks up to me as I'm sitting down on the retaining wall, he's wearing a coat, shirt, no tie, khaki pants, and as I light my joint he fast-walks straight up to me, reaches out, and actually grasps the tip of the spliff and starts to yank.

'Hey, what the fuck!'� I shout and knock his hand away. 'What the fuck's wrong with you?!'� He staggers back, he's aghast that I would have said something.

Joey hollers, 'What the fuck's your problem?'�

The old man mumbles something, he's drunk, he a local, French, but not from the black sector of recent and very uncool-immigrants who were actually picking fights with those of us from the hostel down by St. Martin's Canal, that's why we were hanging out up here, up top, away those who were grabbing cameras, grabbing hats, kicking people in the back smoking by the water, trying to get rises out of us, high, fucked up, dangerous, and in roving packs of 10, and, more than likely the lads that probably had a high time of setting the city of light on fire last autumn.

This old man though was not one of them. He looked like a businessman, lost, clueless, and looking for trouble. Either find it with us or wait, just wait, until he rolls down the hill to the canal.

'Get the fuck outta here!'� I bark and my bark can get pretty loud when I get startled like that; the fucking balls on him!

And he stumbles off, back down the sidewalk. 'Fucker!'� I'm rattled; did not expect that. Did-not-expect-that-shit.

'Asshole!'� Joey shouts for good measure. 'He's going'�so, what's up? Where we headed?'�

'I say we had to that bar, get a taxi. Still a couple hours left of drinking time.'�

'Yeah, they're ok,'� Joey shrugs

'Let me go upstairs, get another shirt, throw on some cologne.'�

'Jesus, you're such a woman!'� Joey laughs, slurs, shuffles in place, he's got the red eye already, eyes half closed. Wicked grin. Reminds me of the old days where we were younger and not so stupid hitting the bars every Friday night, getting drunk off pitchers of Miller instead of the fifths of whiskey and bricks of hash. 16 years gone by. Same wonderful shit, but now we're doing it in Paris. All things considered'�

'Dude, I wanna feel sexy for the ladies.'�

'Just hurry the fuck up.'� He lights a smoke.

'Yeah, yeah.'�

We get up, move back to the door, most of the other drunks have cleared the area, headed off to all-night clubs or passed out upstairs or are fucking god knows who or what, lucky bastards, Dorian is gone of course, which still sucks, and the door-woman shouts at me, 'Your friend's not crashing here! Get him a taxi and send him the fuck home!'�

'Hey, be cool, he's not staying, he's got his own place. I'm just grabbing another shirt. Fucking-humid out here you know. I'll be back in five minutes. We're headed to a bar!'�

'Big surprise there!'�

I don't say anything more but shake my head because now she's finally pissing me off and I turn to face Joey, and, leaning on the wall, about three feet behind us, is the asshole-drunk again.

He starts cursing and spitting, takes a step toward us and closes the gap fast in one giant leap and Joey without hesitation grabs the asshole by the collar and jacket and screams, 'I said get the fuck outta here!'� and heaves him down the sidewalk, literally giving him the bum's rush like in an old movie.

Amazingly the fucker stays upright, tripping over his feet, regaining balance, doing an awkward pirouette, almost collapsing but righting himself up in time and continues on his way. Joey tossed him with tremendous force that it scared me but did not surprise me.

He's been in the shit before, had tweakers in Costa Rica gang up on him one New Years' Eve, fought his way out.

'STAY THE FUCK AWAY!'� Joey shouts, and the drunk grumbles something foolish, vomit spraying onto his shirt.

'What the fuck, man?'� I say, losing my patience. 'Enough's enough, what the fuck does he want?'�

'Don't worry about him, he's all fucked up. Go get your shit, let's get going, we need more booze.'�

'Yeah, yeah.'�

I run inside, the door is bolted behind me. I'm sweating, my shirt is pasted onto me, my head is twisted, I lost Dorian, I'm drunk, I'm high, and it's gonna get a whole lot worse before the sun comes up, and goddammit I got a plane to catch the next afternoon so fuck this, I shouldn't be doing this but'�naw, fuck it, it's my last night in Paris! Enjoy it! Enjoy it! Enjoy it!

I've never missed a plane yet.

So I crash into my room, making as much noise as possible on purpose. The dead beats I had been sharing the dorm with pull their sheets high over their heads. 15 days in this hostel, and every goddamn night a new jerk off.

Unfriendly, standoffish, dudes half my age and still climbing into bed by midnight. What pussies! And that pissed me off too because I specifically asked the female day manager who loved white American boys to put single women in my room but she never did and I know she did that on purpose to fuck with me.

Every other asshole I talked to over the past couple weeks bragged up and down about the 19 year old Swede they got in their room who slept in the nude, or the Kiwi chick who showered in front of the other dudes, or the American chick who slept with a different guy each night but do I get any of that action this time out?

Fuckers!

Last time here I did, had me a wonderful 20 year old from down under in bed all night, came inside of her twice; (and oddly enough is the one woman out of many that I've come inside of who I think might actually have had my child by now), and then the other roommate I had I escorted her to the top of the Eiffel Tower and kissed her gently on the cheek and held her hand as we gazed out over a cold and wet and grey Paris afternoon.

This trip?

Those fuckers.

I mean so fucking what if I came into the room the morning before about 8:30, shuffling like a zombie then collapsing onto my mattress on the floor-the floor goddammit!-chortling, moaning, and then woke up screaming. I heard one of the boys mutter 'Oh God'� before I passed out.

Then was kicked in the back by the Pakistani chambermaid two hours later to 'Need mattress! Need mattress!' and he pushed out one sandaled foot and rolled me off the crap bed and onto the floor, and instinctively I wrapped the sheet around my waist to hide my erection and then passed out again face down on the wet and talc-strewn floor in front of the bathroom and under a window for the only source of relief from the deadly heat.

I was stepped over quietly as they took turns scampering in and out of the shower and then they packed their day packs in a rush and bolted from the room, slamming the door behind them.

Fuckers.

I crawled into the lower bunk, flopped onto rumbled and sweaty sheets and jacked off thinking about God know what woman I was missing at that point and came on myself and used the sheets to wipe off then rolled over and slept in the rest of my filth.

Fuckers.

I do a quick dry-shave, slap on some deodorant, spray on some TOMMY, run some hair gel, change from one salt-stained and rancid t-shirt to another only less on, then grab a shirt to drape over that; roll up the sleeves, must've been 7 minutes tops when I hear 'GET HEEM! GET HEEM!'� from four stories below.

I look out the window and on the street I see Joey and the asshole-drunk stumbling onto Rue La Fayette and men's voices are bellowing and cursing as Joey and the asshole take swings at each other, dodging around one of those crossing stands they have in the middle of the street where you wait for cars to pass and both are striking then jumping back from punches and there is blood spilling down the front of Joey's shirt, the asshole's shirt, and I'm frozen for a second because this is the first time I've seen Joey engaged in a full scale brawl. A push, yes; a shove, a threat, a stand-off, but never the real deal. Fuckin' Joey! I better get down there.

I bolt from the room, take the stairs three at a time, trip, slam against the wall, smash into the door of the stairwell bathroom, then let gravity take my legs the rest of the way as I make the ground floor and burst back into a darkened bar.

I see men, locals (not good) gathering on the street through the glass doors. The door-woman has disappeared and it is some other dude, an Austrian, taking night watch and I remember he's a decent man and he comes up to me, his eyes wild, breathing hard, he's sweating in the suffocating room and he bellows, drunkenly, 'Your friend, he is in a bad way! You must help! You must take care of him!'�

'I know, I know!'� I shout back.

'No good. No good. Get him away from the front of the hostel!'�

'Yeah, yeah,'�

I push past the dude, he unlocks the door for me, and mercifully the cool air washes over my face and I suck in air fast, fast, fast, and begin to sober up. Fuck, where's Joey? He's not here. He was just right here. I hear voices to my right, a block down. I see a figure lurching toward me. I see another figure on his knees, blood flowing from his face, breathing hard; he's bent over, vomiting.

'HEY!'� It's a local, 45, French-Arab in jeans, black t-shirt, hair ruffled, looks like he just got up, and he's screaming at me, 'Hey, man, what's your problem with your friend?!'�

'Fuck you, pal! That asshole started fucking with us! And who the fuck are you anyway?'�

'Hey, no, you no talk that shit to me, man! I call police! They come, they take you fucking Americans, always for starting fights, always make trouble! This is not fucking Iraq! Get the fuck out!'�

'Fuck you, man; my friend is finishing what that asshole started is all!'�

'Fuck you tourist and your tourist friend!'�

'No, fuck you! My friend's a professor here, he has papers!'�

I see that startles the man, he blinks.

Then I see Joey come into the light, and his face is ripped, there's a gash over his lip, the front of his Ireland football Jersey is drenched in blood and blood flows freely from his face, his teeth are pink, he's wavering, eyes closed, jeans oil-stained, shoe laces undone, his hair skewed, and he's giggling.

'You Ok, man?'� I ask.

'What the fuck do you think...and where the fuck were you'� you'�disappeared for a fucking hour...'� He still has his fists up, knuckles purple already, his arms raised, they're stirring the air in front of him, he's still ready to go. 'Come on, let's go finish that fucker off'�'� and again he giggles, like a school who found a new toy to play with, then, spits blood, his teeth crimson, and he takes a step back and I grab his arm and I pull him toward me.

'That's it, enough, he's down, he's down, let it go. We gotta go, man. We got to get the fuck outta here.'�

'Naw, man, come on'�'� he tries to pull away and that's when the local grabs my arm and screams, 'YOU NOT GOING ANYWHERE! I CALL POLICE! THEY ARREST YOU! I HOLD YOU FOR POLICE!'�

'Fuck you!'� I say, bat his hand away. 'Come on, Joey, we gotta get outta here!'�

'Naw, man, let's go finish him, we can'�'� he sways, leans back, his eyes roll. I see there are other locals, French, forming a circle, some are attending to the man Joey has stomped. There are men hanging from the balcony across the street hooting and cursing, I look behind me and the hostel is shut tight, lights off. I feel eyes all round us. Fuck, we gotta go.

I pull away, take Joey with me, by his arm, say calmly, 'It's OK, man, you did good, it's time to go. It's cool, man.'�

'What? Oh yeah'�Ok, ok, ok'�you alright?'� Joey asks, looking around.

'HEY! HEY YOU COME HERE FOR POLICE!'�

'Gotta go, sorry, goodnight,'� I say, and locals in the shadows scurry and I manage to turn Joey around and we head down the middle of the street toward the metro station, and I think: get around that, go down another street, grab a taxi there, get the fuck outta here! I don't know what else to do. Joey's hurt bad. We have to leave. I have to get Joey out.

'Where we going?'� Joey says, seems almost coherent.

'It's ok, time to go, just keep walking.'�

'Naw, naw, what are they doing back there, let's go see,'� he starts to turn.

'Nothing, man, don't look. Keep walking, when we get to McDonald's we'll turn right, go above the canal, get a taxi.'�

'Ok, ok, I'm cool, it's cool, no problem.'�

I still have Joey's elbow, leading him like a blind man and it's really fucking quiet; I can hear our feet and hear the voices fading and then I hear the sirens too. Oh Jesus! That fuck wasn't bluffing! He really did call the cops! I check my front jeans pocket for my passport. 'Dude, you have your passport?'�

'What? What for? I don't carry that shit!'�

'Lovely.'�

'I have my teacher ID, that's all'�'�

'Ok, good enough, maybe they'll be nicer to you knowing you work for the government.'�

'What? Aww, fuck them too! Those motherfuckers! They don't know! They don't know shit!'�

'Dude, shhhhhh, just keep walking. Keep walking.'�

We make the station, still on the street, turn, pass the McDonald's there to our left, 'I'm hungry'� Joey mumbles and burps, 'Me too, lad'� I whisper, then hop onto a dirt sidewalk and we're skirting along St. Martin's Canal down below us. The sirens get closer.

Fuck.

'Maybe we should duck into some bushes,'� I say.

'Naw'�naw,'� Joey says, coming out of it. 'Just get me a taxi; I'll clean up at home.'�

We shuffle along and the sirens suddenly cut off, good, maybe they were called back. Then, BAM! A fuckin' ambulance jumps the curb in front of us and blocks our way. Shit!

There are many paramedics piled into the box-type van. The passenger yells out to me and Joey, 'They say there was fight. You been in fight?'� OH GODDAMN YOU NOT NOW!

Joey then says in his best salesman-pitch-voice, 'Fight? What fight? I'm fine,'� and he spits blood onto the ground. The paramedic watches the wad hit the dirt. Somebody fumbles in the back of the van and disembodied hands toss out bandages and medicinal wipes at Joey.

The passenger says, 'You take care of yourself. Or we call police, ok?'� And they pull off the curb with a bounce and a screech and dart off down the road, the back of their van fishtailing as it disappears toward the gentility of the Republique area, where we should have been all night instead hanging out at a sidewalk café like a couple gentlemen, striking up witty conversation with young Parisian girls and laughing loud and acting silly and then drinking just enough to make all of us woozy and then suggest to them that we should take a walk back to Joey's apartment just a few streets over. Then, once there, dig into Joey's bag of Hash, smoke, get comfortable, drink some more wine, and make love to them; me in the bathroom with mine, Joey in his own bed with his.

Dammit!

I watch Joey as he slowly wipes his blood off his face, the gauze shredding on his stubble as he does so; tiny specks of white cotton cling to his cheeks. 'You ok, man? I can't believe you did that.'�

'Me neither,'� he says, wipes more, but the cut on his lip is deep, he wads up a piece and holds it in place with his lips. 'It'll be all right'�I need a taxi.'�

'What time's your class in the morning?'�

He looks at his watch. 'Four hours.'�

'Nice.'�

'Fuck it; I'll call in sick, say I got into a moped accident, that'll explain the scars the following day.'�

'Always thinking.'�

'Yeah, yeah.'�

I want to bear-hug the bastard goodbye but the man is covered in blood. Some his, some not. 'I still need that extra booze, more so now than before,'� I say, shifting from one foot to the other.

'Yeah, go to O' Sullivan's on Grange. That place we hit last week. They stay open to at least 5:30, maybe 6.'�

'Sounds good. Let me grab you a taxi. You need me to go back with you?'�

'Naw, man, it's cool. Get the fuck outta here before the cops do show up.'�

Amazingly within seconds a taxi comes screaming down the road. We raise or hands, he slams on his brakes, backs up. The windows are down. Arab rap music is blasting.

'All right, man," Joey says.

'All right.'�

'Good times.'� He smiles a red smile and steps into the taxi, the driver barely notices the gore on his shirt; no doubt used to such sights at such an hour in such a city as Paris.

'Yeah, good times." I say. "Get home safe.'�

'I'm five minutes from here, you gotta plane to catch.'�

'I hate travel days.'�

'Who doesn't?'�

'Later.'�

'Later.'�

Joey motions, the taxi takes off. Fuckin' Joey.

And there's another taxi waiting for me down a ways. He speeds up, stops, I grab the door, fall into the back seat. Reggae is softly playing from his speakers

'Where you go my friend?'� the African driver asks.

'Grange Boulevard, s'il vous plait.'�

'Ahh! O' Sullivan's! C'est bon?'�

'Oui. C'est bon!'�

We drive past the Gare de l'Est, the air conditioning is already on in here and I look out the window, head against the glass, I'm so fucking tired now, and I see some of the freaks from my hostel with their gear trudging toward the station, trying to get an early start. I light a cigarette, then raise it so the driver can see it in his rearview mirror and I say, 'Ca va?'�

He raises his hand, already has one of his own going. 'Oui, monsieur. Ca va!'� He smiles and turns up Jimmy Cliff just a little bit louder.

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