Strange Rumblings in Paris 2

Rivaling the immense cacophony of flavor in the air, is the incredible anonymity. What a joy it is to spike your hair with big gobs of gel and wear your most ridiculous outfit. Rambling through the streets like a madman, dripping with sweat and four shots of espresso.

We sit on a five-set of cobblestone steps. Having just hit the corner carrefour. Mason and Schuyler acquired great bottles of rosé. I pursued my ambition for spikes, getting a tremendous bottle of gel, “Wet Look”. Sylvie sits behind me, masterfully conjuring up a set of spikes from the pre-hominid fur on my scalp. Mason proposes a race, which Schuyler accepts before hearing the terms. A goddamn champion.

Mason then lays out the rules, “Ok here is the race, whoever knocks their bottle out first, gets to do the loser's hair.”

Sylvie and I watch them clink their respective bottles. Real sportsman. Then raise the rosé to twelve o clock. Going head-to-head, glug for glug. Like rams rearing up and slamming heads. Light pink wine bubbles and grumbles in the endless evening summer sun. Sylvie and I snap our necks back and forth. Watching the race unfold.

Schuyler has a razor-thin lead, but Mason has an impending look in his eye. I hurl words of encouragement, in awe of their chugging abilities. The race wears on. Beads of sweat begin to well on their foreheads. When Schuyler suddenly lowers his bottle! Firing a massive belch into the streets. Booming with the roar of cannon fire. Sieging the nearby cafes. Mason keeps going, like Orpheus from the underworld.

I can’t help but chant, “Go.Go.Go.Go.” begging him not to look back. The rosé keeps draining. Out of nowhere, Schuyler raises his bottle back up! Chasing Mason down with ravenous speed. Onlookers gasp in disbelief, seeing Schuyler’s incredible spirit in action.

Sylvie chants, “You got this buddy, don’t give up. Go get him. Look he’s losing steam.” Coaching Schuyler on his incredible comeback.

But it is too late. Schuyler’s fate is sealed. He fights on nonetheless, until the very last bubble… Mason knocks his bottle out. Setting the empty down on the cobblestone steps with a victorious roaring burp.

“Gimme the gel... Schuyler get over here.” Mason Bellows triumphantly in between burps. Schuyler lowers his rosé with only a few sips left. Clinking bottles with Mason again. Signifying a close of competition. Then takes his place on the steps, ready for styling. A real class act. Sylvie and I nod in respect.

Mason gets down to business. Clicking play on his favorite tune. “Alive” by Pearl Jam.

Bellowing, “Heeyyyheeeyhey.” He grabs Schuyler’s bangs with wet globs of gel. Forming a pair of sticky black antennae. I squeal and cackle, rolling on the steps with a head full of spikes. Schuyler takes his punishment with stoic resolve. Like a sportsman twice his age. I snap a picture of his horns, showing the little glowing image. Schuyler snorts and blows a mouthful of rosé from his nose. Falling into a fit of tear-welling laughter.

Mason turns to Schuyler, bellowing along to the track all the while, “Yeeheeeaaa. Schuyler do my hair, and make it crazy.”

Schuyler excitedly hops a few steps up. Giving Mason a fantastic middle part, the “Wet look.” As recommended on the tube.

Game. Set. Match. I shake the competitors' sticky gel-covered hands. Sylvie is still giggling that magic laugh of hers. We leave the five set of cobblestone steps, scrambling off into the evening summer sun. Hounding the city for a bowl of pasta. We push off our toes racing for the end of the block. Tearing the treads from our shoes. The scene around the next corner just can’t wait. Feeling the city welcome us with its unfamiliar embrace. The Streets hum and so do I. With one word on my mind. “Pasta.” Where could it be? We search every corner in a crazed pursuit of pesto. Questioning every passerby. But it could’ve been anything, fill in the word. What counts is that electrifying sense of now; washing over as we rattle around the city. Reality saturated with glowing vibrance. Squished and squeezed into a single plane.