The Frenchman talked like an Italian businessman. He told me he didn’t like his red wine. Instead of sounding like an angry Pepe Le Pew, he sounded like an absurd Vespa. He spat it in my face. I regretted being a waiter. The Charles was my home. The French would call it The Sharl. My customer said The Charolsa. I was a long way from home. I was in Portland. Don’t ask me why. I saw hippies on the horizon and some cowboys were in my face. I told them to back off, but they kept telling me I was some New Yorker because of my moustache. I told them I was a Chicagoan by trade, and a Boisian at heart. They didn’t believe me. They called my moustache French. “Heya now!” said my patron. He got up and show them what the French were good at: losing. He was pummeled hard. But, I got away. And that’s the important thing.
“I saw hippies on the horizon and some cowboys were in my face.” -absolutely beautiful.
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