In 1982 I fled New York for Paris. Bernard Zekri hired me as the physionomiste of the Rex Club, which was under the vast Rex Theatre on the Gran Boulevard. The magazine ACTUEL wanted A Manhattan feel for the door. I knew Parisians and even less French. One night a diminutive female was a bird-nest coif spoke to me at the door. She I knew.

Lizzie Mercier Descloux. A singer.

After a few minutes she said, “I met you in New York.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I came to the Jefferson Theater.”

“Ah.” I had a feeling where she was going. The club was after-hours and her eyes betrayed iwhatever I had done wasn’t good.

“Yes, one night I was the bar and my friend started arguing with the bartender. You asked him to leave him out and I yelled at you. You asked me to leave and I wouldn’t. You got me to the stairs and I grabbed hold of the railing. Somehow I ended up falling down the stairs. You remember that?”

“No.”

Really?”

“No.”

“Connard.”

“Does that mean ‘asshole’ in French?”

“Quais.”,

“”Can I buy you a drink?”

You think you can make that night night by a drink?”

“Or two or three?” Weak drinks in Paris cost $20.

“Okay, connard.”

I signaled the bouncers, two off-duty Legionaires that I was taking a break. Marcel winked, thinking I was taking on Lizzie to someplace discreet. My lips pursed in a ‘moue’. Lizzie didn’t see my pout, but the bouncers gave me a thumbs up.

I signaled the bartender to take care of Lizzie.

“Merci, connard,” Lizzie said, as I returned to the door.

“De Rien,” I replied and thought it wasn’t so bad to be good sometimes. Just not all the time.

Happy Birthday Lizzie.

Three days late, but even a day late is nothiing in eternity from an old connard.