Katerina by James Frey

Author:James Frey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery/Scout Press

Paris, 1992

* * *

Because the old French hate me, I have taken to going to the boulangerie every morning, or every afternoon, depending on when I wake up, in my boxer shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of Louis’s slippers, which are bright pink and covered in some kind of bright pink fur. When I order, I speak in an idiotic and very exaggerated French accent Je voudrais une baguette, s’il vous plait. And because the French, or at least these French, believe in their Liberté, Equalité, Fraternité bullshit, they continue to serve me, but aside from passing me my goods and taking my money, they do not acknowledge me in any other way. I have decided that these particular French can go fuck themselves, even though I like, and will continue to eat, their bread and other yeasty, wheaty, floury delights.

* * *

I try to instill some discipline into my life, make some rules.

No drinking before 3 p.m., unless the shakes are so bad I can’t hold my pen, which is often.

Write for at least four hours a day.

Read for two hours a day.

Eat something more substantial than bread, or Maison de Gyros sandwiches, maybe even some vegetables, just make sure whatever it is doesn’t cost too much.

Come home before blackout starts, sleep in my own bed, unless someone I like invites me to sleep in their bed, but try to be aware of falling asleep.

No cocaine.

Try to stay in at least two nights a week.

Speak French all the time, even when I feel like a fool and am not completely sure what I’m saying or I don’t know proper words, tense, or grammar. Only use English if I’m with people who don’t speak French.

Get a beret.

Wear the beret.

Don’t be afraid of the beret.

Do some laundry, dirty clothes that smell bad aren’t cool.

Smoke fewer cigarettes.

Push-ups and sit-ups three days a week.

Write some letters to friends back home.

Call Mom and Dad.

* * *

Paris is Paris again still some tourists but not many. Americans are mostly gone, back home planning new wars, shooting each other, and working on their trucks. I start to wander again. It’s still warm in September the French sky an endless blue, the Seine heavy and serene and eternal, the nights long and bright with a high moon, the streets full, cafés crowded, museums empty, I wander.

*

Sèvres–Babylone 10 to Odéon 4 to Réaumur–Sébastopol 3 to Père Lachaise the Métro is old and cute and quaint and slow and loud and crowded. The French always claim it’s the best public transportation system in the world, it might be the oldest and the original but it’s like your grandpa’s old car that he loves and will never give up that old shitty broken-down noisy smelly car that desperately needs to be either fixed or taken to the motherfucking junkyard. Seeing sculptures in underground alcoves is cool and fancy mosaics are cool and weird witchy old-school entrance signs are cool, but I really just want to get from one place to the next without motherfuckers going on strike.

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