What Are You?

JAMES

I ran/walked two blocks in the rain, my luggage banging painfully against my legs, before a constable pulled alongside me on his moped, water dripping from his nose, his body hidden by the ridiculous poncho tent he wore. He yammered in French so fast that I didn’t catch a single word, but I had no trouble discerning his meaning. The way he laughed and shook his head while he watched me try to pull on soaking wet jeans over soaking wet legs implied, I wasn’t the first guy he’d seen ousted onto the street with nothing but his skivvies. Still, maybe my dress wasn’t appropriate for the bistro crowd.

At St. Paul’s I found some sort of mass going on. People of all shapes and sizes filled the pews while Father Morel stood at the sanctuary, a white robe over his shoulders. He saw me enter and didn’t break his sermon at all while he nodded in the direction of his office. I ignored the curious inspection of the parishioners as my sneakers squeaked on the tile floor.