Leaving New York

Chapter 14

The next day, Gar fired Francois. I heard them yelling at each other in the front hall. Francois said something derogatory about refugees. Gar called a cab and wrote a check to Francois. The old man yelled at Gar as he picked up a box of his belongings and grabbed the money, "You're ruining France."

Gar yelled, "No, you are—you hateful old bastard. Where are the car keys?"

I said, "In the bowl. You want me to drive you?"

"No."

The sour older man zoomed away in the taxi; then, Gar peeled off in the other direction. I guessed I was the new gardener.

I cooked, cleaned, and kept the backyard/garden looking presentable but also made time to see Notre Dame, the Pompidou Center, the Louvre, then took a cruise on the Seine at night alone. Everywhere I went, I practiced my French.

I also taught myself about the European migrant crisis. In 2016, the French government tore down a Calais migrant camp called "The Jungle," but migrants made their way to Paris, even set up tents on the Champs Elysee. To learn more, I began reading "The Connexion," the most significant circulation English newspaper. One article said migrants were camped out at Porte de Clignancourt, not far from where we lived. Two hundred fifty immigrants were living on the sidewalks at the Clignancourt Metro station. After I finished cleaning all the bathrooms, I took the Metro to buy immigrants food. I had a good role model; Dave at the station used to lay out yoga mats he'd paid for out of his salary in the fire engine garage for the homeless. On freezing nights, we'd let eight people stay inside and eat with the crew. It was all against the rules, but the chief looked the other way. People need help everywhere.

I took the Metro to the Clignancourt station. Tiny tents covered the trash-strewn sidewalks. I'd read many sought asylum from Afghanistan. There was no electricity, showers, and only a handful of porta-potties. I stopped at a ratty supermarket and bought fifty cans of tuna, salmon, and baked beans. The guy at the counter got cardboard boxes to carry it all in then pointed to an area where people had been dropping off donated food, clothing, and water a block down the street. I lugged everything in several trips to a tall man who seemed in charge.

"I've got some canned food. Is it safe to leave it here?"

"Oh, yes—this is the place. Thank you. I am Ari. You are a good man to help us. We thank you."

"Well . . ."

"I will tell you a problem we have now—if you can help. The police arrest teenagers, but they have done nothing. They wander around because they are bored—they are not criminals.

"Ari, I'm Jack. I'm not sure how I can help."

"I know you cannot control the government, but. . . You must meet my mother, my sons. Our tent is down there. Meerab is ten, Khalil is six. You must have tea with us."

"I would love to, but I need to go." His face fell.

"Do you have a cell phone?"

"No, but the Red Cross has a medical truck with a phone one can use." I jotted down my number. "Here, if you need something, call me. Maybe I can bring more food."

"You are a good man."

"Well, I need to go." He shook my hand, "Thank you, thank you, Jack."

"I'll see you, Ari."

I sat on the subway thinking of the emaciated man. How frivolous it would be for me to travel around Europe. I could help Gar, Chloe, and refugees. I had to have a purpose; traveling wasn't it.

When I got back, I made a sandwich pondering my next moves. The big front door slammed.

"Hey."

"Hey, Gar—how was your day?"

"I hate being a stockbroker."