K has just gotten a present from her friend for her birthday. It's a teeny little chick, just big enough for the palm of your hand, and it's soft and cute just like little baby chicks should be. K's been keeping it in her jean jacket's breast pocket all night, and we've been trying to find the right name for it. Her. It's a she.
We've gone through all kinds of possibilities. We've forgotten about it a few times and have started going on and on about something else, only to look down at the little birdie in her pocket and say, "Argh. This is so annoying. What is her name?"
After a nice meal and better conversation, K and I decide to walk down the block to get an after dinner drink. Although in our case, this usually means three. We check out a place that is too loud and trendy, but around the corner and spot a small bar with a two-person round table beckoning us from the small, sidewalk terrace in front. The sounds of a bad piano-player and an even worse singer are drifting out of the old, smoky bar's open door.
"How 'bout here?" she asks.
"What, you mean the sketchy whore bar?"
It's decided. Without a word, we beeline to the two open spots.
There we meet the bar "bouncer" of sorts. Maybe he's the owner. Or maybe he's just the master of the pimp ring so obviously running out of the joint. The place is crawling with 20- or 30-something women in superbly small, tight black skirts and any sort of shirt that allows for as much exposed midriff as possible. Current Parisian fashion calls for an Incredible-Hulk-like ripped look, so many of these skanky girlies have clothes that make it seem as if they have just come out victorious after a bar brawl. Their smiling, empty faces are accompanied by the scraps of clothing left hanging on their bodies. But really, just tiny little scraps.
K and I have been giggling about the general atmosphere for the last fifteen minutes, when the short, slightly round older Asian man with big, thick glasses asks us in perfect English with a slight accent, "Where are you from?"
K doesn't miss a minute. "Australia."
"Oh really? Where about?"
"Sydney."
From our little interaction we learn that this silly little man's name is Tony, that he stopped in Paris for a vacation of two weeks and has lived here ever since (35 years). He also knows everybody in the bar, and regularly gets up to kiss the girls on their cheeks or to shake the boys' hands.
K and I go back to our giggling and useless chatter. It's a pleasant night, and the harmless hos make for excellent conversation pieces. One just walked away with that funny-looking tall guy. And why is that man that is wearing a hat that says "Le Photographe" sweeping the sidewalk so obsessively? He has a camera dangling from his neck. A man with ugly silver pants walks in with one of the whores. K suggests he just got a quickie from her. I suggest he just hasn't accepted his true sexual orientation yet and he uses whores as a means of compensation.
K pulls out the little baby chick from the front pocket with her quirky little smile.
"She really needs a name," she says, getting back to business. She props the birdie down on the back of the chair in front of us, on the opposite side of our table. The yellow, soft thing is staring unabashedly and its two orange legs are defiantly sticking out towards us.
Tony comes back over and sits down in the chair next to the chick. He doesn't seem bothered by the fact that two grown women have just pulled out a tiny stuffed animal and sat it on the back of a bar chair.
I lean to K and say, "Do you dare me to ask Tony what we should name her?"
"Do it."
"So, Tony. Can you help us? We have this chick here, you see. But we can't figure out what to call her. And we know it's a her because we just know that she's a girl. So, would you happen to have any idea what her name might be?"
Tony turns his head to his right and stares down at the little chick. A thought or two might run through his head: why is this thing on the back of this chair? Who are these weird Australian girls that are asking me such a ridiculous question? And why are they bothering me about this at three am when I am so obviously just trying to run my business?
He looks up at both of us.
"Jessica?" he offers, and gets up to say hello to someone else.
No questions asked. K and I look at one another wide-eyed. How did Tony know? That was the perfect name.
This was a gorgeous entry.
Thanks Angel. That's sweet of you.