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Foucault Chasing Squirrels
(view
notes about this story)
Even in the South of France,
dogs must do their business. But depending on their size,
some dogs do more business than others. In a roundabout way,
this is how Michelle (pronounced: me-shell) made a living;
doing business.
In France, as in most other foreign countries, Americans are
generally looked upon as lazy slobs, especially if they don’t
speak the native tongue. For this reason, working as a dog-walker
for some of the more “stylish” residents of the
small, but extremely trendy town of B------- was one of the
only ways Michelle could gain any sort of employment at all.
Sure, he had tried the usual small jobs like dishwashing and
shoe-shining, but they never worked out. For one reason or
another, opposition always met him where he least expected
it. For example, while working on the street shining shoes
one afternoon, he met an old, feeble, well-dressed lady who
requested a shine and wax for her new Alligator skin pumps.
But before he could even get to the waxing, the lady had given
Michelle a harsh hand-bagging about his head, and turned around
in a huff.
“Stupeed Amereecan,” she yelled bitterly.
As she hobbled away, Michelle noticed that he had mistaken
her scaly, old lady skin for a boot, and polished halfway
up her leg.
And besides, Michelle didn’t mind walking the dogs. In
fact, Michelle loved walking the dogs. While strolling down
the boulevard, in tow behind dogs of a variety of shapes and
sizes, he imagined himself a general on parade after returning
home from conquests and crusades abroad. He would wave triumphantly
and smile a confident little smile, and just suck in all of
the adoration from his loyal fans. Just suck it all right
in.
Also, one must not underestimate the sheer female-attracting
power of being tied to a pack of impeccably bred dogs. In
fact, Michelle had made most of his small number of friends
in this manner. But of these few, the first question that
most of them would ask was about his name.
“With a name like Michelle, why don’t you speak
French?” they would ask him in their mangled, throaty
English.
But Michelle would just smile, throw his head back, and sigh.
“It’s a long, long story,” he would tell them.
But actually it isn’t. Actually, it is a rather short
story, which is simply that Michelle’s parents were born
and raised in Paris, moved to America where he was raised
and learned to speak English, and then moved back to Paris
when he turned eighteen. He had never learned French because
he had never learned French. Michelle moved to the South of
France when he turned eighteen to seek his fortune among the
fortunate, but so far had only found it in dog business.
“I like to think if it as an in between job.” said
Michelle. “but in between is a long time.”
Michelle’s big break almost came one day while parading
down Rue de C----- with two Terriers named Bouclées
and Max, a Shar Pei named Count Écorces, and a huge
English Sheepdog named Focault. Lost in some wild dog-fantasy,
Focault tore off down a hillside after s squirrel, dragging
poor Michelle and the rest of the significantly smaller dogs
down the hillside with him. (Any owner of an English Sheepdog
knows that this rare but tragic tendency is the reason why
the breed has never been popular for domestication.)
Finally, after much tumbling and yelping, Michelle reached
the bottom of the hill and Focault stood at the base of some
massive oak tree howling like a tank without a muffler. When
Michelle had gotten up and brushed himself off a bit, he noticed
that a small, beret clad, clichéd looking man had been
standing on a small path that traversed the hill and had watched
the whole affair. The man stood with his arms crossed and
clicked at Michelle, shaking his head for quite a while before
a word was said.
“Um, hello.” offered Michelle hesitantly.
“Vous êtes tombés une grande distance,”
the Frenchman observed.
“I’m American.” Michelle looked back up the
hill to see if anyone else had witnessed the event and was
worried about his well being. No one had.
“Ahh,” said the Frenchman, as if disappointed.
The two stared at each other for some time while the smaller
dogs yanked at their leashes, trying to get closer to the
stranger.
“My nama, ees Maurice,” attempted the man, struggling
for even the simplest introduction.
“Bonjour, Maurice.” Michelle tugged back at the
leashes while the dogs, having lost interest with Maurice,
now joined Faucault to bark up the tree.
“Eye would like if for you to came with me.” said
Maurice.
“Je marche les chiens,” Michelle explained with
the few words that he learned to get by in the business, pointing
to the row of dogs to hit home the point.
“Ahh,” Maurice seemed disappointed once again.
And with that, the stranger gave a tiny wave and walked back
across the meadow at the bottom of the hill to a trailer that
had been set up there. Across the side of the trailer read
the words “Mirimax, Nous Faisons Les Films”.
In the distance, Michelle could now see huge cranes had been
placed all around one small clearing, supporting massive lights,
and expensive looking cameras on tracks hade been installed
throughout the area. Off to one side of the set, an ambulance
silently flashed its lights, and two men loaded a man that
looked surprisingly like Michelle into the back, while a beautiful
woman sat and pouted on a nearby stone bench, illuminated
to near transparency.
Seeing this, Michelle bowed his head and glared spitefully
at the dogs, who, by this point, had lost interest even in
the squirrel, and were lounging peacefully on the grass in
the shade of the oak.
“Oh well.” thought Maurice. “J'aime marcher
les chiens”
Maurice walked over to the tree and sat down, watching the
production crew scurry around. He would not be a star today.
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