Under the Eiffel

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
When you find your self trapped in a city as expansive as Paris, is there really any way out?

Submitted: August 08, 2016

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Submitted: August 08, 2016

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Under the Eiffel

A sight to see is what everyone told me as I told them I was going to Paris. Their words reminisce as I look up at the monolith. I think after the fourth time of telling someone about my trip, I actually booked the flight. One week in Paris was enough to do everything. I could drink from the purest cafés. I’ll be able to see the unwavering smile of the Mona Lisa. I’ll be able to live a stereotype as I adorn a beret with a black and white blouse. I chuckle as I lay down on the frighteningly thin bench. Paris is not a fat people city. It is one of class and style. This city will eat out the non-socialite’s, excreting them into the Seine along with the other feces and unmentionables. The elegance associated with the urban development implores me to be something more. Fitzgerald would be ashamed of me now as I pull my coat over shoulder. The river sighing as it laps against the sides of the bank. It lulls me enough to ignore the crisp air.

I dream under the Eiffel. Millions of people walking in tandem with another. Are they mocking, or just unaware of me? I think I begin to see what they are telling me. I have become one with the crowd. I am the majority and just another lonely face in a sea of lonely faces. The accordion man plays an uplifting tune as I join the pacers. Where am I going? I don’t care. They could all be walking into a giant pit of fire and damnation. I wouldn’t care. I would meet my demise with glee. I hear the language behind me. I wouldn’t have recognized the words if not for the tone in which it was being presented with. A baton strikes me on the forehead and the world turns red for a second then black.

Under the Eiffel, not even the birds sing. I listen to the silence around me, but the Seine is yelling at me.

“Shut up!” I scream at the water. “You’re just shit. You know that? Nothing but a filth ridden, ordure infested, shit hole.”

The water argues with me as the wind joins the fight. The trees help as they all shout at me. Nails on a chalk board. I think of the man with all the time in the world. He could read and read until his untimely death, yet he was unable to read. With his lack of visions, I wonder if nature was louder then. Would he kill himself? Could he kill himself?

I gather my bags and make my way down the cobble roads. Up and down. Unending rock layered in such a way that gives no imagination to the mind. I laugh at the mannequins of everyday life. Always staring, always judging. They know they are better than you, yet they can’t tell you. I’m not talking to them. I’m not talking to them. It’s pointless and gives no aid to my paranoia. What if I was schizophrenic? Would it make Paris fun? Would me and my sub mind have interesting conversations about Dalí? Would they just yell at me for being in Paris? Why am I in Paris? The city is nothing but a rat infested paradigm of ego. I should’ve brought a friend. Someone like me who could encourage my questioning as we search for answers to the puzzles of social statuses. Paris is the most obvious choice. It holds the artists, the businessmen, even the old style of typical home life. I drop my bag to better imagine my pet bunny with the mind of Freud. They’ve both been dead for far too long. I imagine their lifeless, maggoty bodies embraced in each other. My stomach growls.

The Parisian café is one of beauty and magnificence. Do you mind if take this muffin? Free? Please I must pay you, but I have no money so I will take this muffin for free. I exit and am hopeful that I’ll be tackled any second. No baton to the forehead or an angry owner with a rolling pin. I am but a lonely tramp, taking in the cityscape. This I who I am meant to be. I must wander these streets in pursuit of individualism. I pair of slack shorts and a bowler hat. No that look is taken. How about thigh high shorts and a casino visor? Quit distinguished from the lonely faces.

“Who are you fooling?” A voice bounces off of each stone building before resting in my lap.

“I am not fooling anyone God. I am me and this is who I am.” I retaliate.

“So God is a child?” The voice becomes sweeter in the air.

“If you come out, you can prove your youth.” No one comes out and the voice ceases. I am the tramp of Paris. I will swindle and hustle the business men, the artists, and the mothers of Paris. A few card tricks will be my ticket into a social class. A class separated from greed and gain of economical values.

“No one will believe you.” Ringing and painful are the words that come from the abyss.

“Show yourself then! You’re not real. You never were!” I am in control of my emotions. Paris is not a place I want to go crazy in. One day is not long enough to be crazy here. Maybe L.A. Maybe N.Y.

I will not be a swindler. I am not the scum of the Seine. I am me, an honest individual. I apply some white make-up to my face along with red lipstick and eye liner. I don’t have a mirror, but the river is reflective enough. I am ready to be among society.

“No you’re not.” I turn around and trip backwards into the dank river. It smells of piss and rot. I choke on the bacteria. My lungs feel heavy with lead. They drag me to the bottom. Millions of bodies swim up to surface and urge me to go with them, but lead sinks faster than ambition. A baton pokes me in the head.

“You alright, fella?” A police man eyes me quizzically. “You know where you are?”

The cockney in his voice alludes my thoughts as I analyze my surroundings. I small pod with hundreds of people staring at me. I shake my head.

“Well you fell asleep on the Eye. Nobody could wake you up. Though you was dead.” He picks me up and helps me out the pod. I look and realize I’m under a large Ferris wheel.

“Come along we’ll get you checked out with a doc. What’s your name friend?” He asks me, but I have no recollection of this place. The river definitely looks like one of importance, but his questions is lost. I shake my head.

“Everything is alright fella’.” He tells me as he leads me away from the wheel. Socialistic abnormalities are something to be fearful of. But when you travel from one country to the next with your mind, you can be the fear is present all around me.


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