Backstage Writers - Think Hope Do

I had to go back to see the money people at the French unemployment office. It was a balmy spring day, and I found myself waiting outside in a long line of blank-faced chomeurs. The yellow man next to me decided to grace me with his conversation. “What are you here for?” he asked.

Wasn’t everyone here to see about money? A surge of ego made me think this man was surprised to see me here. “I’m unemployed,” I said. He smiled. His dark, decaying teeth spoke of a lifetime of musty sheets, dank walls, and long awaited pay days. I felt like a jerk. The man just wanted to hear what went wrong with my file. It was his way of saying: Let me hear your voice. Why should he be surprised to learn that I’m unemployed? I’m no better than the next guy. I am the next guy. I stand in lines for a living. I spend my time talking with people that are paid to help me. I’m assisted.

The yellow man caught my accent immediately. He broke into English. “I am manutentionnaire.”

I knew that manutention had something to do with package handling. I imagined my yellow friend as a forklift operator, whirling around a warehouse stacked floor to ceiling with washing machines.

“I used to make a lot of money,” he said. He explained how he’d gotten laid off one job then another. Each time something improbable had happened. “I only work 2 or 3 days a month now,” he said.

I nodded and tried to look surprised. I would have been happy to work only three days.

“I used to have 4 to 8 months a year,” he added.

“Oh?”

“I am 47 years old.”

“Hmm.”

“You are very beautiful.”

I said nothing.

“I’ll leave you alone.”

“No, honestly, you’re not bothering me.” Something was holding me there, forcing me to walk a few paces with this unfortunate person. Take a good look at him. Listen.

He continued, “If you like, we can go get a beer, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

A few paces, yes. Happy hour, no. I said nothing.

“Are you married?”

“Yes!”  I said with enthusiasm.

“I’ve got a woman,” he said, “that I see sometimes. She works nights.” He marked a pause to make sure I understood. “Like that she lets me sleep at her house.” He gave me a loaded smile. I nodded. The man had a woman, but it was just a sleeping arrangement. Sleep as in sleep, that action-packed voyage we all take alone, the sensual thing we do every day that no one can do in our place.

“I’m going to kidnap you and ask your husband for ransom.” He looked playful. The guard at the door looked concerned. I stood there wondering about the machinations of Fate. Talk about a wake-up call. No one turned back sheets or put chocolates on pillows in this man’s world.

We were just one away from the lady handing out numbers. I didn’t have time to come up with a witty retort. The number-lady was so versatile that she could enter my work permit expiration date right there at the door.

I slipped past the yellow man. He called out to me. He wouldn’t have to wait either. I waved goodbye. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw my yellow friend wandering outside. There was something desperate about the way he looked around.