Les Chroniques de Bruce

Fate had it that I should meet Bruce F—— at a party in Montparnasse on my seventh night in Paris.

I was invited to said party by the drop-dead gorgeous Lebanese girl I’d been working on feverishly my first night in town. I’d been hanging out at a sweaty, throbbing little joint called the Rosso Bar with the very friend from the States who’d convinced me to move here and his host, who happens to live just around the corner on rue Oberkampf. The two of them, noting that despite a fair number of demis I seemed to be having some success with the almond-eyed goddess to my left, gracefully took their exit after slipping a Plan de Paris in my coat to help me find my way back to my temporary residence on rue Tolbiac after the closure of the métro.

To make a long story short, I walked the nana all the way up the Canal St-Martin and over to her place in the far northeast corner of the 10e arrondissement only to have her give me, not the baise I wanted nor even the bed or couch I direly needed, but merely the bises, those friendly kisses on either cheek that are the hallmark of French salutations and farewells. Mildly heartbroken, slightly annoyed, and more than a little drunk, I studied the wobbling lines on my pocket map and stumbled homeward to the small studio I would be renting for a few weeks, which was miles away in the 13e.

Despite not having been invited in that night, I had at least been asked to come with her the following Saturday to a friend’s house. From the first, I didn’t have a great feeling about the evening. But I figured I might as well get started on trying to meet the locals and learn more of the language. (I speak French, albeit somewhat poorly. My friend B.E. keeps trying to convince me to sign up for the same language courses he’s taking at the Sorbonne, but I prefer to master la langue française my own way. More on this in another post…)

So I arrive, armed with a moderately priced bottle of wine (2003 Madiran, 8 euros at the Nicholas on the next block). I search the sea of faces. The girl is there… Note that I keep saying “the girl.” This is because I have a terrible memory for names, especially Arabic-sounding ones, and hers was a name I have never heard before and which I have, weeks later, entirely forgotten. At the time, though, I think I merely mispronounced it.

Anyhow, I move in to chat her up and find that not only does she barely remember me, she is also surrounded by a number of mecs she has apparently invited after having let them walk her home. After a bit of awkward angling for her attention, I retire to a canapé next to the wine table and drain the remainder of my Madiran into a large plastic cup.

It was then that I was joined by an extremely tall, extremely large fellow with a hangdog expression on his puffy mug. He is the antithesis of the stereotypical Frenchman, bulging with muscles, hands like shovels, legs like tree trunks. The only thing about him that screamed French was the striped woolen sweater he was wearing, the collar up, and his rather Gallic nose. He was drinking a glass of water, and he waved his hand in the air in front of his face to chase off a stream of smoke.

— It’s a good party, no? he asks me in French.

— Yeah, yeah, I lie, it’s great.

It is abundantly evident that neither of us is having a good time. He coughs and gently pushes a girl’s cigarette away from his face. I know immediately that my accent has betrayed me.

— You are American? he asks, in English now, his accent is so thick it rivals his Lou Ferrigno thighs. I go there once, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Salt Lake City… I have a great time in USA.

— In fact, I reply (insisting on French since this is my first night out alone amongst the natives), I just moved here from San Francisco.

— Welcome to France, he says, likewise insisting on English. You are a friend of Delphine?

— Who’s Delphine?

— The hostess. You do not know her?

— Ah, no. I was invited by this girl… Lebanese girl. Nag- Nadira? Nagdila? Something like that…

I am pleased then when he suddenly yields to my French.

— Brusse, enchanté.

He gives my hand a vigorous shake.

— Comment? I say.

— Brusse. Brusse.

— Brusse brusse? What does it mean? I ask.

— C’est mon nom… Brusse. Comme en anglais.

— Oh! I say, finally understanding. Bruce! Got it. Bruce, great. Casey, enchanté.

— Casey, Bruce. Bruce, Casey, says Bruce, recapping.

We have a big laugh.

— Nice to meet you, Bruce, I say. That’s an unusual name for a Frenchman, no?

I’m at that point in the conversation where I’m ready to move onto something else. I scan the room for attractive girls and note that all of them are already surrounded by dudes.

— Well, I am an unusually French man, he says.

He laughs, and I smile in response, wondering whether the joke is intentional. Then we sip our drinks and look out across the room some more. I notice that on the makeshift dance floor the Lebanese girl is grinding against a tall twatty-looking mec with a bad haircut and about two hundred zippers on his jeans, and I have the urge to throw up on them.

Then, apropos of nothing at all, Bruce says:

— So you just arrive. I have an empty room at my flat, you know. Maybe you are interested?