French Connection

     The Whitaker family had dinner guests by the names of Joel and Cynthia. The Beefeater gin I bought on our way back to the farm was accepted with open mouths. With determination through the assistance of gin and tonic I kept up conversation. Over crackers and micro quiche I gathered that Joel was an erratic actor and his wife Cynthia his Filipino superego. Notion of our progressing odyssey found its way into words, as it often does, and travel was settled on as a key topic for the evening.
     The couple had been to a substantial portion of the United States but more importantly to me they could speak of their time in France. I felt enlivened and wanted only to eat their tales and assault them with questions. They had survived Cognac and infiltrated dinner parties so private that shades were drawn as not to alert a wandering eye.
     It was agreed that there was no reason to work in France. This bit of information was to my ears like a conflagrant Black Dice, the equivalent to a symphony to a harmonious mind, I'm sure. There exists no legislation to remove the homeless from private or commercial property. Layabouts were not referred to with admiration but simply knowing that the artist may still wander the streets of France rekindled the blue flame in my being. I became so frantic with jubilation that I invited David and myself to Joel and Cynthia's house for dinner and drinks.
     Swimming in a buttery, fishy meal, the fluidity of the talk (and the alcohol) continued. Recalling my disappointment with New Orleans' French Quarter, I asked Joel how it compared to its French father. My concern was mollified by his shared sentiment. Joel and Cynthia highly recommended Chicago as a place where a person like me could thrive; it was by far their favorite U.S. city. The day grew tired and night shooed the guests away, allowing me and David to stay.
     Country life is rather simple. Not a derogatory simple but a truer definition, one having few options. My days in Wheeling, West Virginia were spent with a feline leisure. Because I excluded myself from two of the primary activities, swimming in the pond and manual labor, I spent my time figuring out the possible orders in which I could eat, sleep, and read. My research suggests eat, read, sleep, repeat to be favorable. Lazy excitement was added to the routine on the day of the dinner arrangement.
     David's aunt Maria, a very kind and patient woman, elected to be our designated driver for the evening. I'd be Thanks Giving thankful if I was able to predict vomit.
     Joel and Cynthia wanted their dwelling to feel more French so they had the English torn out. The house grinned, boasting its French lustre. The dinning room was like a museum in which pictures were allowed. I secretly shared Cynthia's fondness of snails; they were whiling around antiques and decor. We sat at a table where I could see every face and pre-dinner margaritas were poured. A Mexico/California theme was decided on by our hosts, who flew their red, white, and green colors. The margaritas were hand squeezed, the pico de gallo and guacamole were hand chopped, and these things overwhelmed my nervous hands. Our drinks before dinner were to last all night, which we each knew and intended.
     After consuming what felt like the majority of the Mexican favorite, Dave and I inquired about a liquor on display in the dinning room. The child sized Otard XO cognac was extracted from the pregnant liquor cabinet and Napoleon's snifter was placed earnestly in front of me. The amber liquid passed my nose, touched my lips, and entered my greedy mouth. Not only was this the best cognac I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, it was the best adult beverage I've ever sampled. Not only that, Napoleon winked on my devilish satiation.
     Because moments last only that long, the Tour de Gin began with a polite clatter. We started at home and made our way toward and through the exotic. Bombay Sapphire, Bluecoat, G Vine, Hendrick's. As far as gin goes, which is further than you can see, Hendrick's was bliss. Somehow a section of the quarry of my mind remained intact so Ty-ku sake, Zubrowka vodka, and Vieux Carre absinthe were prepped. The absinthe must have been the final stick of dynamite for I don't recall drinking it.
     Sitting else. Where? Dinner for breakfast, the most important duality of the day(s). "I can't" or "I'll...", "stay." I was painting the parking lot red. Or yellow. Ochre. I passed on green, I'm allergic to avocado. Never stop sitting/spinning. Mostly on a bed, I pull the light sheets over me to keep out the flies and the mo(u)rning.