A very small man came to the door this morning and used a verb I wasn’t familiar with. His face was smeared with something black, as were his hands. Coal? I wondered. Luckily Hugh was home and explained that the verb meant “to ream out.” The man said that by law our furnace vents and chimneys were to be reamed out once a year, and with that he scrambled up onto the kitchen counter, then climbed on top of the refrigerator. Once there, he reached into a vent and came away with a fistful of soot, saying we should have it cleaned for insurance purposes.
The man’s top teeth were rotted to stubs, but the bottom ones were white and even. He came up to my shoulder, that’s how small he was. Once we agreed that he should do it, the little guy left and was replaced by his assistant, who was young and handsome. He wore a one-piece work suit over his clothes—the kind that mechanics wear—and the rear end was torn open. Like his boss, his hands were black and his face was smeared. I was enchanted and asked if he could do the fireplaces as well. While he worked, I did my homework, pausing every now and then to ask or answer a question. Did I know, he asked, that the same verb, “to ream out,” was also used for sex acts?
“You’re kidding,” I said. “How interesting.”
We talked about his love of football and cats and his hatred of the English. It cost the equivalent of $130, but now I can build fires.
February 26, 1999
Paris
Today was the last day of class. Next month the teacher goes to Brazil, and then she has to work a few months in the office. She kissed several students good-bye, but I slipped out the door. I would have liked to thank her, but everything feels different since my article (“Me Talk Pretty One Day”) came out in Esquire. I wish I hadn’t published it. I meant it at the time, but since then things have changed. She’s still moody, but I think she’s a good teacher. I can see that now, whereas I couldn’t before.
March 13, 1999
Reston, Virginia
This evening for the first time in seven months I got to watch some episodes of Cops. They weren’t the best ones, but at least I’d never seen them before. Last night’s hotel in Alabama had thirty-eight stations, including the Animal Planet Network, which offered something called Wildlife Emergency, a sort of ER for wounded creatures. The first segment featured an eagle with possible lead poisoning. “Katie, I want you to draw some blood and get this guy into X-ray, ASAP.”
I thought, OK, it’s an eagle. It’s on stamps and coins so I guess it makes sense to go all out. Next came a possum with a broken jaw, and again the doctors leaped into action. I was wondering why they didn’t just put it down, but that would be another show—Mercy Killing, maybe, or When Animals Die.
Later that night I watched a British import called Vets in Practice, which follows the goings-on of four attractive veterinarians. Pete was presented with a parrot suffering from an ingrown toenail, and then we cut to Brian, who had his arm embedded to the elbow in a cow’s asshole and talked briefly about his relationship with his girlfriend. We saw Ellen, who had recently amputated both wings of a goose and was now reintroducing her back into society. “I’m worried about Denise,” she said. “Worried that the others won’t accept her.”
The show cut to a commercial and the announcer said, “Coming up next, Allison treats a cat and her kittens for fleas.”
March 23, 1999
Chicago
I haven’t had a drink in forty-eight hours. This is not an accident but a concerted effort, and a very difficult one. I’d have to double-check, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been drunk every night for the past eighteen years. At the airport yesterday, I felt, if not good, then at least proud of myself. I’ve long assumed that everyone can tell I’m an alcoholic—strangers, even, the people you present your boarding pass to or buy a newspaper from. If it shows in my face that I drink, mustn’t it eventually show that I don’t anymore?
March 24, 1999
Chicago
Again last night I lay in bed unable to sleep. It was my third night without a drink and I was trying to remember what’s so good about being sober. One thing is that I’ll be able to walk through Paris at night. Hugh and I went out for coffee once, and I’ve wobbled to the Pont Neuf on New Year’s Eve, but otherwise I’ve always been too drunk. I can’t walk straight or go any real distance because after seven beers and two Scotches, I need a bathroom every three blocks or so. So on the plus side, I can start getting out more. My fear is that I’ll find it even duller than sitting at home.
April 4, 1999
Paris
Yesterday afternoon I went to the grocery store and bought a half a rabbit, never making the connection that this is Easter. It’s a little like eating reindeer for Christmas, or Founding Father on the Fourth of July. My half a rabbit was prepackaged—cut into pieces and arranged in a Styrofoam casket, much like a quartered fryer. I was out of the house while Hugh was cooking and didn’t realize until later that when they say half a rabbit, they really mean half a rabbit. I was serving myself seconds when I noticed half the rabbit’s head lying in profile at the bottom of the pot.
They must have sawed this thing right down the middle. I examined half the rabbit’s brain and wondered which variety of thoughts it included. Was this the half that instinctively warned it to run away from dogs or the half that held childhood memories or grudges against other rabbits? I prodded it with a fork, realized I could have eaten it by accident, and had half a mind to become a vegetarian.
April 6, 1999
Paris
The inevitable finally happened, just as I knew it would. My French teacher faxed Andy at Esquire to say my article has had the effect of a bomb at the Alliance Fran?aise.
“Maybe she means that in a good way,” Hugh said.
I tell myself I’m not going to think about it and find I’m able to distract myself for up to fifteen seconds at a time. In my story I failed to mention her wit, and her skill as a teacher. That is what I have to apologize for, my laziness.
April 8, 1999
La Bagotière
Due to the bombings of Serbian targets, there’s a lot more anti-American graffiti in Paris. Yesterday on the way to the train station I passed a wall reading USA = GROSS CONS (“big assholes”) and the other day in the Métro station I read FUCK OF US. I love it when it’s not grammatically correct. “That’s fuck off, thank you very much.”
April 17, 1999
Paris
Hugh and I spent the weekend in Normandy while his mother, Joan, stayed behind to take care of the cat. Before I left, she bought a bottle of wine and I warned her that she might want to pick up a decent corkscrew, because Hugh’s is worthless. Every time I use it, I wind up pushing in the cork with a screwdriver.