Setting the Scene: We’re nearing the end of a friends-and-family vacation in Paris. Since such was the case, we got a bit festive with the alcohol whilst ensconced on the patio of our hotel. In a rare moment of personal responsibility, I had gone to bed at a respectable hour. Others did not. And this is their story, second-hand…

  I wake up the next morning, somewhat refreshed. Not completely refreshed, of course, I’m about seven years behind on my sleep at this point in our trip, but this too shall pass. I let out a big yawn, stretch a bit, then I just lay there and reflect on how much fun we have had this week, despite the alarming number of incidents where we were just shy of fleeing the country under cover of darkness.

  Then I start seeing signs that perhaps something a little suspect may have taken place last night, presumably at some point after I left the happy remnants of the clan in the bar downstairs, and my heart rate starts to increase just a tad bit. Will we be needing a lawyer this morning?

  The first clue is when I glance to the right, and see that Trace is face down in his bed while still wearing most of his clothes. Interesting. I know that position. It means that he imbibed enough that once he returned to the hotel room, he no longer had the functional ability to properly prepare for slumber or even identify himself in a police lineup. He just fell in the bed and that was it.

  I rise out of the bed a bit to get a gander at Nynette. She’s making moaning sounds in her half-sleep. I know those sounds. They are echoes from my days in college, after a particularly energetic night spent hitting all the houses on Fraternity Row. Those sounds mean “Daylight kills. Please make it stop.”

  Well, then. We swigged a bit too much, did we? And now the first installment of the payment plan is due? Got it. I slip out of bed, and I try to be a considerate, accommodating roommate as I discreetly prepare myself for the day, trying not to be too rambunctious and overly chirpy as both of them slowly stir and begin to shake off the fog of their respective comas. To give them a bit of privacy as the random nocturnal memories begin to surface, I adjourn to the bathroom where I proceed to spritz and scrub as quietly as possible.

  Within minutes, one of them suddenly pounds on the door, interrupting my cleanliness. “Hurry up in there!” (It was hard to tell who was being so insistent, since everyone’s voice sounds the same when coming from sleep-roughened, stale-alcohol throats, but I think it was the shorter female one.) Luckily, I am already nearing the end of my beauty routine, the part where I stare into the mirror and marvel at the ability of the human body to decay practically overnight, so I open the door and leap out of the way as the two heathens charge past me, clawing and fighting.

  I make my way to a sedate chair near the window, where I can review some lovely flowers across the rue, and I patiently wait for Trace and Nynette to either kill each other or get dressed.

  Eventually, the three of us head down to the breakfast room, anticipating one last run at the golden buffet that we worship and praise. As we stand at the overloaded serving table and peruse our options, the rest of the clan trickles in the door, and I furtively assess their motor and cognitive skills for signs of the apocalypse.

  Maman and Reina are fine. They headed off to bed earlier than me, so they’ve probably been up since 4am, chattering away and watching TV and rearranging their room because it just seemed like fun and they didn’t have a hangover. I’m sure Tatum, who was trapped in the midst of this perkiness, hated the fact that there were happy chipmunks dancing around her as she burrowed further into her bedding and prayed for an end to the singing and Julie Andrews crap.

  And I assume that Tatum finally gave in and just took a shower to block out the noise. Judging by her appearance as she wanders into the breakfast room and begins throwing croissants onto a plate like the hounds of hell are after her, the shower did not quite wash away everything that it should have. In fact, it looks like there is still a cocktail peanut lodged in the curls of one of her damply glowing tresses, but it might just be a new-school hair ornament that I don’t know anything about. (I’m a little late to the party when it comes to the latest trends in fashion. This has always been a glaring demerit on my gay scorecard.)

  Then Daisi and Dash show up, and it’s like The March of the Damned. Dash appears to be in somewhat better shape. He at least has some color in his face, but he’s certainly not going to win a Revlon Cover Girl contract looking like that. Daisi, on the other hand, has no color whatsoever and she can barely stand up as she commandeers the coffee urn and proceeds to slug back two entire cups in 22 seconds. Of course, she still has enough coordination to reach behind her and backslap the fool who just suggested that she might be hogging the coffee. And then she pours herself another cup.

  Okay, then. Everybody just needs to get some food in them, and then we’ll soon outshine the Brady Bunch, maybe even perform a choreographed song on a nearby escalator. Maybe. It’s equally possible that this situation could escalate into a crime scene with lots of yellow police tape and investigators asking eyewitnesses things like “and at what point did the suspect begin using the butter knife in an inappropriate manner?”

  I let them have their fill of breakfast fare, biding my time until I can justify cornering one of them and getting the real scoop on what took place last night. As soon as I see Tatum slow down on her intake and pause, I get her attention and make the international hand gesture that means “join me on the patio RIGHT NOW so I can smoke and you can fill me in on every single thing that happened.” I follow this with the international hand gesture for “and don’t act like you don’t know what the first gesture meant, get your ass up and start moving immediately.”

  Tatum sighs, sets aside her Granny Smith apple yogurt, and joins me on the patio.

  Once outside, I whip out a cigarette, light it, take the first deep drag of the morning, let it out slowly, then I turn to Tatum: “Spill.”

  Tatum: “Okay, I’m really not sure what happened. All I know is that we kept buying rounds of drinks, and then Jacques the waiter would buy a round for us, and then we would buy some more. Constant supply of alcohol. With me so far?

  Me: “Got it.”

  Tatum: “And we just talked. Well, mostly Jacques talked. He talked a lot. We know more about that man than I know about some of my own relatives. But it was fascinating. He’s really done some interesting things. Not like me, with my boring life. I never do anything. I just sit around and-”

  Me: “Focus, my little lamb. Get to the good stuff.”

  Tatum: “Okay, right. Well, he kept talking, and we kept drinking. Did you know that his entire family is still back in Africa and he sends them money every week? When I heard that, I started to cry a little bit, it was so sad. Of course, by that time I had enough alcohol in me that I was crying about everything, like the fact that I needed a manicure and I couldn’t remember who won the Battle of Hastings and why am I not the queen of some country by now and-”

  I grabbed Tatum’s shoulders and forced her to look at me. “It’s very sad that you were sad but that’s not the objective here. You have got to get a grip!”

  Tatum stared at me for a second, evaluating my desperation level, then she made a very admirable sighing noise that was on par with an exhalation that Meredith Baxter-Birney would make in a Lifetime movie about an alcoholic who must come to terms with possibly having killed someone during an unsupervised drinking binge. “Why are you so invested in what may or may not have happened last night?” She glances off to the side, as if waiting for her agent to hand her an updated script for this scene that would make more sense, an action that was also reminiscent of Lifetime movies.

  Me: “Because this trip is almost over, and I need just the right material to wrap up the blog series that I plan to do about this trip. I need something juicy.”

  Tatum: “Oh. So you’re making this about you, even though you weren’t there?”

  Me: “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

  Tatum: “But you just did. Basically.”

  Me: “Okay, yes, that’s what I’m doing. Now tell me exactly how it played out after I left. I need the exact order of departure of the various family members, the condition they were in when they departed, and anything they might have done that they wouldn’t want the entire world to know about it. Because I plan to tell the entire world. In a loving way, of course.”

  Tatum: “Oh my God, the pressure. Um, Nynette left first. You know, she’s not really a heavy drinker, but she did have a few, and she was smiling a LOT. I think she had a conversation with that potted plant over there.” [Points.] “I guess the plant said something she didn’t care for, because the next time I looked the pot had been knocked over and Nynette was gathering up her things.”

  Me: “Check. Possible story about Nynette having a fling with foliage, but it didn’t work out. The next one down?”

  Tatum: “Trace, not too long after Nynette. He was pretty buzzed. He was VERY happy about everything, I think he did a Pat Benatar solo, or he might have just had a really bad itch, and he wasn’t making fun of anybody, so you know something was wrong there. Oh, and he was doing something with the peanuts, trying to throw them in the air and catch them in his mouth. But he would forget that he had tossed one and it would just fall to the ground while he took a swig of beer. It was kind of sad, really.”

  Me: “Hmmm. Well, I suppose I could do a story on how that’s an analogy for his inability to-”

  Tatum, cutting me off: “Oh, wait. That wasn’t Trace. Maybe Dash? I don’t know. Somebody was trying to do something with peanuts and it wasn’t working out. Maybe we should skip this one?”

  Me: “Skipping, happily. Okay, who went down after that?”

  Tatum: “Uh…. Well, I think Dash left next but I don’t really know. Because Daisi got really friendly with Jacques and I was completely focused on them and I’m not sure if Dash was still there, but he probably was, but I don’t know.”

  Me: “Wait. What do you mean my sister got friendly? Did they…”

  Tatum: “No! I don’t mean that! God, you’re putting so much pressure on me to give you some scoop for the blog that I’m just babbling and I don’t know what I’m saying and WHY IS THERE SO MUCH SUNSHINE ON THIS PATIO!”

  That last bit was said with such intensity that I believe the ground beneath us actually moved. Somewhere in the distance, there was a snapping sound as part of The Louvre broke off and fell into the River Seine.

  Me, realizing this city has suffered enough: “Calm down and breathe. Take a sip of coffee. Now, explain the friendly thing.”

  Tatum breathes and sips, then: “Okay, Daisi was just really fascinated with Jacques and asked him to move in with them.”

  Me: “What! Move in?”

  Tatum: “With her and Dash. They have an extra room upstairs in their house, I guess? And she said he could live there.”

  Me: “You’re kidding me. My sister got drunk enough that she’s inviting people she just met in Paris to live with her in Oklahoma? Bingo, we’ve got blog gold right there. It’s slightly trampy and it’s got an international theme and it sets up a tawdry situation involving a potential love triangle that could lead to divorce or at least deportation. Love it. I can definitely use that.”

  Tatum: “But you can’t tell her I told you.”

  Me: “Of course not.”

  I lied.

—

Previously published as part of a blog series and then later as part of a book, repackaged somewhat for this WordPress share. I was initially planning on one more episode in this story arc, but perhaps it’s best that I leave things right here. Besides, there are many more arcs from The Paris Chronicles that we can explore. We shall see…