Page 23 of The Child of Rue Royale
“No shit.”
“I mean, you’re really sick. Possibly terminal. Do you know what that means?” I was known for asking impossible questions, a trait I was familiar with and accepted. I enjoyed making people squirm, seeing the shock on their faces. But Bastian didn’t squirm, didn’t look shocked. He just licked his lip, heavy-lidded, and stared straight into my eyes.
“We’re all sick. Dying a little every day.” Bastian’s voice was raspy, the acidic vomit undoubtedly burning his throat.
“Most of us.” My long hair hung over Bastian’s face, as I took him in. “Perhaps you should eat.”
“How ’bout vodka?” Oh, he reeked of vomit and liquor, and I had to pull away from him to keep from gagging.
“How about some food?”
I took him to a diner, where he swayed as he spoke, pushing French fries in ketchup and missing his mouth fifty percent of the time. I was forced to stare at a grown man with ketchup everywhere on his face but his mouth.
“Where do you live?” I asked, presenting a napkin and pushing his cup of water closer to his hand.
A slow smile graced his wet mouth, yet his eyes looked nothing but solemn. He had a scar on his forehead I deduced was likely from another bar scuffle. “I live quite a ways…away.” He laughed at that, taking a sip of water. “I was supposed to stay at Shar’s.”
“I can get you there. What’s the address?” What was I saying? Why did I care about a drunk getting someplace safely?
“Yeah, she never told me. So I guess that’s unfortunate. Got a car...somewhere.”
“How did the two of you wind up at the bar?”
“I have no idea.” He chuckled, shaking hishead. What was it like to be so carefree? To not be so controlled? It was something I had pondered for years. Humans like this always perplexed and enthralled me.
I clasped my hands in front of me and considered walking out. Leaving this pathetic spirit close to where I found him. But then he smiled at me, this ridiculous goofy smile, so I leaned in and spoke forcefully.
“You are a lost soul. And so am I. I call them when I see them. What are you doing with your life?” I was intrigued, curious if mortality had given him something worth living for. Perhaps he was an artist, a philanthropist, or a scientist on the verge of discovering something spectacular.
He looked up at me then, wiping the ketchup from his face, leaving a tiny red droplet on his chin, like a trace of sweet blood. “Well, I’m merely surviving, sir. Slogging day to day through the most dreadful yet glorious gift one gets. I am simply surviving.”
The combination of his pitiful face and his answer impaled my heart. It wasn’t poetry. It wasn’t a theoretical response to a question about one’s purpose. But it was real. And we relate most to what’s real, don’t we? My own answer would be identical. I am surviving. I am simply making it day-to-day. So complicated yet so simple.
I cleared my throat, twisting the malachite ring on my pinky. “Surviving isn’t a winner’s sport, is it?”
“It’s not. Eventually, everyone loses.” He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting, and there was something innocent there, something deeply benevolent. “Don’t I look like a winner to you?” It was riddled with sarcasm, yet Bastian Dezaiffe had a vulnerability to him, a gentility I rarely saw in other men.
He was mostly right. If you lose the game of survival, you’ve died. But that wasn’t my reality.
“I appreciate you getting me food. It was needed.”
I bowed my head, acknowledging his gratitude as he continued to speak.
“What’s your name?”
“Cassius Delacroix.”
“I’m Bastian DeZaiffe.” His eyebrows lifted, as if we had some kind of brotherhood, two men of French backgrounds in the melting pot of America. “Is your French father an asshole too?” He laughed, and my mouth pulled into a smirk.
“The worst.”
“To French asshole fathers,” he said, lifting his water glass and drinking it. “Are you from around here, Cassius?” He finally wiped the speck of ketchup from his chin with his napkin.
“I’m from New Orleans,” I said, the mention of my city brightening his eyes.
“I’ve heard ofStoryville,” he whispered as if any listening San Franciscan would be appalled.
“The red-light district of New Orleans? The war forced its closure years ago. But there is still much fun to be had. Burlesque shows, dinner shows, jazz. You should come sometime,” I said, wanting desperately to offer to bring him back with me like he were some sort of souvenir. But he wasn’t, he was a grown man. I could not save him.
