Go to Paris

Go to Paris

“You gotta go to Paris lads.”

“Eh?”

“Honestly, the women there, the women, the city it’s beautiful, you gotta go to Paris.”

It was any old night in London. We’d had a number of drinks at wherever it was we’d gone to. To be honest, I don’t even really remember the night out itself. Once you go out enough times they all start to blend together, until one day you realise it’s not worth the gutrot of the next day, the unplaceable sense of regret.

Anyway. We were on our way back home, thankfully the train wasn’t too busy, wasn’t packed with too many unsavoury characters. Two lads stood near us looking quite capable, and well equipped with heavy looking back-packs and plenty of the energy afforded by youth and optimism. Energy that we used to have, back in the day. This was before Brexit, before Chester died, before life had ground us down.

Who had been ground down already? The man in the corner, roughly in his forties, professing his love for the city of Paris. In contrast with the young travellers, his face was a landscape traversed with deep lines of age, fatigue. An aura of depression, desperation and generic supermarket whiskey surrounded him.

His eyes were glassy, his hair red and ragged like an old dolls. As he professed his love for Frances capital, the two young travellers politely acknowledged him but did their best to disengage. I wasn’t really in the mood to engage either, but his talk reminded me that I had been to Paris before on a number of occasions. They had been charming visits, although I found it hard to believe that anyone who’d been there would profess love for it so passionately. Especially someone for whom life had clearly afforded so little opportunity and success. So, I felt myself compelled to ask:

“Have you ever been to Paris?”

“No.”

Well that settled that matter. For much more of the train journey, he chose to share anecdotes of his presumably solitary night out. As I could have imagined, he had embarrassed himself in the manner of a man who steadfastly refused to release his youth, and move gracefully through the ages of his life.

“I was out tonight lads, yeah, and you know I was dancing with some young lady right and this fella he comes and he slaps me out of nowhere. And I always say lads, turn the other cheek, I don’t believe in violence me I say just turn the other cheek...”

Nobody responded to this. What was there to say?

“As it turns out she was the lads girlfriend and I mean I shouldn’t have tried getting fresh with her or anything but still...”

I’m sure the two travellers were glad when they finally reached their destination, leaving the old drunkard to his business.

“Well boys if you ever need any whiskey...” he held up his half empty bottle to where they were standing a second earlier: “You know where to find me.”

As they disembarked and the man was left standing on his own, I contemplated his character, if only to pass the time. Clearly he too had been young once, and for whatever reason had been unable to pursue his dreams, find meaning in his life. Desperate for the good times to continue, for someone to share it all with, to have something to offer, to not be gently pushed aside for the next generation because, damnit, he’d just run out of time.

In one way or another, it happens to all of us without our realising it. I’ve met other characters since who insist on holding on to their youth, onto its power to heal us from our folly, shield us from consequence, continually give us more chances and options than we’ll ever fully realise.

You could see it in his eyes, he wore it on his face. That melancholic confusion, in every lonely moment, that the world had stopped caring about him if ever it had.

I wonder where he is now? If he has any life left in him, he’ll be in Paris.

 

Reviews

[alanwgraham]

Great Alex. You've written a very well observed account of the meeting between these young friends and this slightly lost and melancholy older guy realising that life is passing him by. The youngsters have learned from the encounter that they too might be in the same position in the future.
Regards,
Alan