Friends Like the French

The Con

 

A quick scene from the early part of the oncoming depression:

 

Today, I had an awakening to how bad our situation truly is.  It was a moment of epiphany, not exactly a Road to Damascus moment but definitely earth moving.

 

I found a few shifts in the city.  Yes, I am blessed but that is not what I am blogging about.  No, it was far stranger and Marshall Plan based than that.

 

Jerome, a gentleman from France, with horrible British dental work, sat at the corner of the bar drinking his Pinot Grigio, swaying lightly on his captain’s chair.  I thought he may have been a bit too tipsy but he was able to look me in the eye and carry on a conversation heavy in accent.  Half the time I found myself sounding like a dirty American, my voice rising in an attempt to communicate with him.  Jerome just kept smiling and nodding at me.  For a few minutes there, I thought I might have some sort Bellevue oddball just released from the Enchanted Kingdom.

 

“How is New York,” he asked me in a fractured accent.  I had to ask him to repeat the question several times before I understood what he was getting at.

 

“Oh the economic crisis,” I said, finally understanding what he was getting at.  He nodded and looked at me seriously.  “Everyone is nervous and expecting the worst.  I haven’t seen this much anxiety in the City since the weeks following 9/11,” I replied.

 

He stood up shakily, his Gallic pride evident as he pulled himself up ramrod straight.  Jerome held his wine glass aloft.  “The people of France stand with our American friends as we did after 9/11 and during your revolution.”

 

At least I think those were the exact words he said.  I toasted him with my coffee cup and he sat down, wiping the tears from his eyes.  Jerome hit on the woman next to him for an hour and then left in a huff as she spurred his advances and left no tip.

 

The moral to this tableau: I seriously hope the French aren’t financing the bailout.