Losing It In
Paris
by George
Sparling
Celebrating
the 175th anniversary of Bastille Day, my friend
and I ran through the streets with Parisians,
stopping off at many bistros for warm, red
Bordeaux wine with beer chasers, and more Vive la
Revolution.
Re-joining the
celebrants, my legs sloppy and wobbly, my stomach
churning, the warm and cold inebriants sloshing
around my stomach, we ran back to a small family
bar near our hotel and had more than one nightcap.
Suddenly I
laughed convulsively, the revolution reeling
through my brain, and I blew out my front crown
on the tiled mosaic floor.
I screamed at
the female barkeep, “Where’s my
goddamned tooth? Find my fucking tooth!”
then crawled on the floor as it undulated beneath
me, my nose scraping the floor, my hands running
over the intricately patterned floor. The crown
disappeared in its drunken design. All the while
I yelled, “Where’s my fucking tooth?”
until a man with a infant in his arms came down
the stairs, saying something incomprehensible to
me, the ugly American who knew no French.
I blubbered,
exuding tears, shaking my finger at the clinging,
horrified family, not knowing what the hell
I’d do next. I lost it.
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