Leaving New York

Chapter 34

The following day, Phillipe, the roofer, honked on Rue Murillo earlier than Gar said. I wolfed down my breakfast, grabbed my camouflage hoody, then opened the door to a new-ish black pick-up truck. With his thick French accent, Phillipe yelled from the truck, "I couldn't find a parking place."

"No problem." I hopped in the toasty warm Toyota.

"Here, I get you a coffee from Starbucks—you Americans like Starbucks, right?"

"Yeah, thanks." The truck smelled like sweat, tar, and dark roast coffee.

"Nice truck."

"Thanks." I looked at his gnarled hands, similar to every firefighter I ever knew. I was a little tongue-tied as I witnessed his aggressive driving; he honked the horn as much as a New Yorker.

"The traffic—she is always bad here."

"Where do you live?"

"In Belleville. I take you one day to see the graffiti there. I do graffiti."

"You do?"

"You do not approve?"

"There's a lot in New York."

"Where you lived?"

"Yeah."

"Stupid—get off the road!" He laid on the horn.

"The supply house, she is right up here. My friend Michel, the owner, he's letting me use the delivery truck. We will have to block your one-way street. Monsieur Gar said we could put everything in the hallway."

"Okay."

He pulled up to a vast warehouse on the Rue de Chanter.

"Come." I followed Phillipe double-time into an office where a short guy typed on a computer.

"Michel."

"Ah, the artiste Phillipe. Comment ca va?"

"Bien. This fellow is Jack—he will be my helper."

"Nice to meet you.

Michel said, "If you help Phillipe, you will work hard."

"I'm used to hard work."

"Tres bon. The stuff is all loaded on the truck."

We went into the vast building filled with lumber, sheet metal, asphalt shingles, and tar buckets. We hopped in a big flatbed truck, zooming back to the house.

When we got there, the big truck blocked the narrow street just as Phillipe predicted. There was nowhere to park. Phillipe said, "Go staple this to the front door." He handed me a staple gun and a license. He put on the flashers; then, we unloaded the truck faster than six longshoremen could. After the last trip, lugging buckets of tar, three cars honked lined up to get by us. Phillipe blew them kisses, hopped in the truck, and took off. About ten minutes later, he came running back to where I stood at the front door guzzling bottled water.

"I find an illegal place, but if we run, we won't get a ticket—c'mon."

We ran to the flatbed, he gunned it into the Biblically-scaled traffic, then parked back at the warehouse.

I hadn't said much but managed a, "You're in good shape."

"You are."

"We get my little truck then something to eat." I almost said, 'I could make you something at home, but I was curious where he might take me—plus I was getting tired of my cooking and housekeeping roles. I was a man—I forgot sometimes.