Free Write -- The Glutton

  

Rick's and my Tuesday free write session was once again at Mille et Une. We were really early at the café and there were not many people, but the Glutton went by.

Rick's Free Write

A light, piano jazz lilted through the tea shop. In the kitchen area, the whirring, mechanical noise of the chocolate chaud being whipped like cappuccino. Outside the window a raucous, sucking sound -- Glutton Guy was passing by.

One of the banes of France, and for that matter most of Europe, is that there's little or no grass for dogs to do their duty and many dog owners -- far too many -- can't be bothered to carry a (free) plastic sack for scooping the shit and placing it in a communal trash can.

Enter the "Glutton" essentially a Hoover on steroids (vacuum for you Yankees). About the size to a motorcycle, the Glutton machine is pulled around the street by an orange work-suited clad village employee as he reaches out the four-foot hose to suck up the paper debris, leaves and the ubiquitous merde de chien.

We're friend with the Glutton Guys unlike most people who act as if they and their cacophonous contagion are invisible. We appreciate the job they do, truly.

I tried to offer one of them -- short, bearded, smiley, perhaps Algerian by his appearance -- a 20-euro bill as a holiday gift for his service. He politely declined.

The streets are not clean to the point where I'd be comfortable walking them on a darken night, but thanks to the GG's they are a lot better than they might be.

The music just stopped. 

Pause. 

Ah, there it is again. And the coffee machine and the street sweeper are silent.

D-L's Free Write

Thibault wanted to shake off his anger as he pulled the Glutton sucking up the village debris.

He was having trouble pushing his father's words from his head.

Another doggie sack disappeared. 

"I'm not a loser." No one heard him. It was too early.

Several papers disappeared up the Glutton's hose.

Thibault had been happy to get this job. His father wanted him to be an apprentice first to a plumber then to an electrician.

He didn't want to spend his life with his head in toilets.

The Glutton sucked up broken glass.

And make a mistake as an electrician? Poof! You're fried.

He passed the house with the yappy dog that he made friends with. The dog wagged his tail.

An old MacDo box was next to a garbage can. Lazy people, he thought as it disappeared.

"Bonjour, Thibault." Three little girls, book bags on their shoulders, greeted him as they headed to school. Their mother waved.

Madame LaCroix was limping by, a baguette in her hand. Sometimes she needed help and he would carry her shopping, wait while she unlocked her door and put the bags in her kitchen.

Finished, he returned the Glutton to its place in the village garage.

Nine and he was done for the day. He walked to the café where he would have his croissant and coffee before going home. The wood, which he would turn into a squirrel with an acorn in its paws, awaited his knife.

The street was immaculate: he felt proud.

He loved his life. He wasn't a loser, he thought.