3658. A BRIEF HISTORY OF LAMENTATION

A BRIEF HISTORY

OF LAMENTATION

She had just landed, from Paris. I met her at the curb on

Barclay. Stretched out, hands a'kimbo, I tried reaching

the yellow cab for us both. Coming forth from the hut

of a descended waiting lounge, like an anteroom of

Hell itself, we found normal reason to sneer. And now,

an hour later, here  -  we were once again side by side.

-

Can travel be magic, have tactics of stealth and guile?

I did not know, and neither did she. My French was as

passable as anything else, and I realized what she'd just

said was, basically, 'you Americans have all so little

and leathery faces.' I think anyway. She then asked

if I knew of a comedy club for the evening. I shrugged,

'No, I do not, but isn't this one and won't it do?'

-

I had just then barely made her laugh : that famed French

snicker, the hustle of the shoulders, those pursed, happy

lips. What I wanted to say was 'Did your mother perhaps

ever meet Sartre, or Camus? Have you yourself met

Roncard or DeBouillard?' I didn't, because I knew 

I'd be stupid to try.

-

Turned out, her boyfriend's name was 'Fred Henry' and

he 'sat for dogs at NYU.' No, I wasn't sure what that meant-

yet, to remain comfortable I assumed it to mean he was

studying veterinary science at New York University.

What the heck, it worked for my frazzled heart.