Off the Tracks

PSCHITT!  A WEEKEND IN PARIS
 After a year of wearing their Beatnik berets, Ellie and Louis had finally made it to Paris for a taste of the real thing – la vie Boheme, the Bohemian life.   Mon Dieu!  My little brother Jack went wild.  The first thing he saw at the train station was a cart of soft drinks, with a brand of lemonade called Pschitt!   The French name is intended to mimic the sound of taking the cap off a refreshing carbonated beverage.   A new word was added to the lexicon – and we were allowed to say Pschitt! for the entire weekend.  
Mom and Louis were putting a lot of thought into our education, a “liberal education” whatever that was.  Some subjects were totally ignored.  It was assumed that Jack would be able to learn multiplication in short order when he returned to the United States.  Instead and in the meantime, our merry little band took off for the day’s lesson in engineering, the Eiffel Tower.   The little models and photos don’t really prepare a child for the immense steel structure, which gets bigger and bigger as you walk toward it.   It’s not like approaching a building; the experience is more like entering the largest sculpture in the world.   At the observation deck Louis offered some science tidbits. “OK Jack, listen very carefully.  If you throw a penny, it would gather the momentum of a speeding bullet, and become a lethal weapon.   You are not allowed to throw a penny and see if this is true.”  That afternoon we tumbled on the grass and learned about structural forms.   If two kids stand straight up with a stick across both their shoulders, the stick will fall if one of them wiggles, even a little bit.   The structure fails. But if two kids lean into each other back to back, in sort of an “A” formation, they exert pressure and support that keeps them from falling down.  The concept works unless, of course, one kid is a lot taller and heavier than the other.  Then the big kid gets to push the little kid down and make him eat grass.  So, Jack and I how the intersecting triangles in the ironwork all combined to make an extremely strong structure.  
Louis descended into a tunnel beneath the street, taking all of us with him.  A ride on the Paris Metro took the ended up near Montmartre, at Sacre Coeur, a gorgeous almost Byzantine white church.  On the terraces and steps of the churchyard lounged group after group of young adults.   Some were playing guitars and singing.  Others seemed to be drinking and listening.   Occasional speakers would be ranting their concerns in loud French. Louis would have easily disappeared into the crowd, with his leather jacket and dark clothing, except that he turned to Mom and me. “Let’s stay close together.  Not everybody here wants to make friends.”  “Hey, escargot, hurry up!”  Jack was gazing blankly into the crowds instead of listening. As we turned to grab each other’s hands, Jack was already missing in the crowd. 
Jack was standing in the middle of a group of young adults with his bota.  They were singing an endless drinking song about the life cycle of wine.  First you plant the vine, then the fruit grows, you pick the fruit, put in in the tub and crush it.  Pour the juice into a barrel, and let it ripen.  Drink it, and piss it into the ground, plant a new vine.  He was gulping wine with every verse.    Louis stepped into the group, and retrieved the nine-year old derelict.
 Mom and I had been left near the steps of the church.  Unfortunately, Ellie was carrying her large handbag, which in Paris can also signify that the woman is a prostitute.  At first we were talking about the scenes all around us.   As it went dark, some of the adults had built bonfires.  Others were rolling out sleeping bags.  Then two men approached us.   Ellie glanced at them, and continued her comments on the scene. She was living in a Toulouse Lautrec painting at the moment.  The men came closer.  With a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, the elder of the two asked, “Are you lost?”  He looked at Mom, and at her worn coat and dirty hair.  The circles under her eyes were a record of many uncomfortable nights.  “Non parle Francais.” “Do you have a place to stay?”  He took a swig of his beer and continued to speak to Ellie, who was saying that her friend would be back.  Suddenly he turned to me, pulled off my glasses, and ran his dirty hand down my cheek.
“La petite poulette, est belle, - a pretty young chick.” “ Combien? How much for this one?” 
Ellie stepped forward, glaring at the man, and growled,  “She does not smoke.” Ellie took the cigarette out of his mouth. “And she does not drink.” Ellie dropped his cigarette into his beer.  Pschitt! It sizzled as it hit the beverage.
 Louis and Jack returned to the steps, giggling as they pretended to stagger.   Jack was wearing a new beret of his very own, a gift from one of the singers.  In front of the church, they found Ellie furious and me confused and a little shaken. Mother announced that we would not be camping out in the park nor would we be staying at the residences of any of his “friends.”   She demanded that we get to an all night café immediately, one that would be safe for children. Then Ellie announced to Louis that the pair of them would be taking turns sitting up all night to watch over us.  Louis stopped laughing and walked ahead silently.  At a café he pulled together two chairs for Jack, and announced that it was time to go to sleep.  I decided to sit up with mother but we fell asleep on each other’s shoulders. 
 Louis stood the first watch, a bottle of Pschitt! in his hand.