I take Line 9
Quite a lot
I know all kinds of beggars
On Line 9 I know them all
Some of them I saw
Their kids grow up
I’ve never seen
A Jew beggar
Neither a Chinese
Whatever that means
I’m now seeing Pakies
Tag Archives: Writing
So many fucking stories
Line 9, late
Going home, drunk, tired
As I board the train
There’s a guy laying on the floor
He’s not all there
He’s sucking his thumb
Looks like no pain though
Good for him
Balling not in Sofia, Bulgaria
What really startled me is that I didn’t hear them coming. And neither did the dog. Before I knew it, I had a Kalashnikov muzzle on my temple. I felt it, hard, before I heard. It was Bulgarian, I guess, but I knew what it meant: “Don’t move!” So I sat still.
It was a nice evening in the Balkans. Cold war wasn’t far but there was spring in the air. I was sitting in a city park and, until then, I was pretty happy with myself in Sofia.
Mickey and Daisy, a lose-lose situation
I was in a sorry bar in Orlando, Florida, drinking beers, minding my business. I was pounding on the drinks because I knew there’s no tomorrow. Then this guy next to me felt he needed to talk. I didn’t care.
He soon told me he was working for Mickey or the NBA or whatever.
One day in the life of Michael Jordan
That one night, I was with Tall Christophe. Tall Christophe was just as tall as Michael Jordan only he was white. Tall Christophe was a former French pro basketball player and was now working for some news organization covering the NBA. While Jordan was playing and winning titles, Tall Christophe had to come a lot in Chicago.
I am French also but, if I was living in Chicago, I was working construction and trying to pay the rent. I was then – thanks to a Callahan dick! – living in a small first floor apartment on 17th place, sorry part of town coined in between Mexican Pilsen and the Interstate.
Stories 