By on December 22, 2013

parisienne

They’d been on the freeway for maybe half an hour when the first joint appeared between the fingers of Serious D’s right hand, briefly flaring in the rear-view mirror as D took a long draw and passed it over to Premiere, who bogarted it with a pair of puffs before handing it forward to The Emperor, who swore under his breath as the lit end briefly touched his knuckles. Premiere and The Emperor started fussing with each other trying to negotiate the passing of the joint into the Pontiac’s front seat.

“Just turn it around, man, I’ll grab it.”

“I can’t see your hand.”

“What does it matter?” Scott reached down and twisted the Parisienne’s headlamp switch, flooding the interior with a sickly yellowish glow. “Got it now,” The Emperor noted with satisfaction, puffing it to a roach as Scott turned the dome light back off. “Hey man, you want to finish this off?”

“No,” Scott heard himself say, “someone has to drive us home.”

In his junior year of college, in the afterglow of his successful work volunteering for Bill Clinton’s election, Scott prided himself on his ability to maximize every situation. He didn’t have much money so he made a project of determining the lowest possible cost for his daily meals. With the aid of a spreadsheet, he determined the price of the components for five of his favorite cheap options then calculated the savings that would be gained from increasing the quantity of certain components at the expense of variety. It took him the better part of a day to do it, but the payoff was an average meal cost of approximately one dollar and twenty-two cents and three distinct options at that price. Skipping breakfast as a matter of course meant that he was eating all week for well under twenty bucks.

The money that he earned working the front desk at one of the dorms was a full fifty to sixty dollars a week, so he had plenty of cash for the occasional splurge at the local Hot Sam’s or, when necessary, a new tube for his bicycle. Not a bad way to live, even if he couldn’t even begin to think about spending any time at a campus bar. Five bucks to get in, three for a beer. In an hour you could be out twenty. And what if you met a girl who wanted you to buy her a drink? It wasn’t even worth thinking about.

Better to save the money and use it to fill up his car on the rare weekend when he could get home. Gas had popped above $1.05 a gallon, and his Fairmont rarely beat ten or twelve miles for each of those gallons. Moreover, his father insisted that he leave it at a full tank whenever he went back to school, so it was best to budget at least twenty dollars for each weekend away from school. Plus some Burger King or something. So thirty.

It was Friday afternoon when, during an otherwise unremarkable argument about certain aspects of Foucault’s Discipline and Punish, Scott heard with some not inconsiderable amazement his own voice telling Jenny, his sullen but serviceable sophomore girlfriend, “You are a fucking idiot, a second-rate mind, literally too stupid to have an opinion on this.” Quick as thought, she slapped his owlish Ralph Lauren glasses off his face, screamed something that didn’t seem to be any particular word, and slammed the door to his apartment on her way out, hard enough to rattle the windows in their frames.

Thirty minutes later she still wasn’t answering the phone at her dorm, so Scott rode his bike over there and prevailed upon the goodwill of another girl from the same hall to walk him past the desk and up to the third floor. Once there he found the door locked. The only sound he could hear was that of Jenny’s next-door neighbor, Cara, being strongly and rhythmically banged by whatever hockey player she was entertaining that afternoon. Cara had a flat stomach and deep, firm breasts. According to Jenny, some married associate professor had gotten her drunk and sodomized her against a tree a few weeks ago, throwing her bra and panties into the branches of said tree before leaving her to sleep it off until the morning among the roots. Three days later, Cara came into Jenny’s room and asked Scott to rewrite her letter to the associate professor.

Dear Kurt, it began, what you have done to me is the most humilative thing a women can expeareance, but I forgive you and when you leave that old bitch you will find that I can be the person you want me to be no matter what that is. After gaping at that and the three following paragraphs, which were in a similar vein, Scott took a Sharpie, crossed out everything after “Dear Kurt,” and wrote at the bottom,

I yearn for you tragically.

A.T. Tappmann, Chaplain, U.S. Army.

“You fucking nerd,” Cara snarled at him, yanking the letter out of his hands, “now I have to write it again and it took me all day to do the first time.”

Scott rode back to his apartment, only to find his roommate, Trevor, hanging out with That Damn Posse. That Damn Posse, or TDP for short, was a rap group consisting of three of Trevor’s friends from high school. None of them were in any way truly involved with their scholastic futures at the university. Serious D, the three-hundred-pound, bleach-blonde leader of the group, was still nominally in his freshman year and on academic probation, a full five semesters after his arrival there. Premiere and The Emperor had both flunked out last year but were still living in D’s apartment, which thanks to D’s wealthy parents was almost incalculably nicer than Scott’s. As usual, they were both wearing neon Ocean Pacific tank tops.

As Scott entered, D was preparing to debut his latest version of “The Artistic Rap”, the putative lead single of TDP’s not-yet-recorded breakthrough album. Eyes closed, leaning back in his black leather trenchcoat against Scott’s couch, Serious D commanded the start of Premiere’s beat-boxing with a nonchalant wave of the hand and then began to rap over the beat.

A pen to me
Is like a brush to an artist
The paper’s my canvas
And my lyrics are the hardest
A pussy’s a flower
Like Georgia O’Keefe
My cock’s so enormous
It makes all bitches queef

With a snort, Premiere lost his steady beat, causing Serious D to open his eyes and snap,

“You do that shit in the studio, we’ll have to do a second take, and I might not have the magic on that second take, you know? Oh hey, man,” he brightened, seeing Scott, “you want to roll back home with us in, like, an hour? Your bitch of a roomie has to stay here so we got room in the Spliffmobile for ya. Ten bucks for gas.” Scott’s heart leapt. He could get out of here, go home and see his friends, get away from Jenny and also postpone the misery of their inevitable but certain to be drama-soaked reunion. He had twenty-two dollars. The drive home was 134 miles each way, that’s 238 roundtrip, that’s 20-plus gallons in “The Spliffmobile”, a rust-red Pontiac Parisienne that showed every one of its ninety thousand miles. Serious D was cheating him.

“Make it six,” he said, “and you’re on.”

“Check this motherfucker out,” D laughed for the benefit of the audience, “all wrapped up in four dollars and shit. You’re on, Mr. Rockefeller. But since you’re negotiating with me, I’m gonna negotiate with you. You got to drive us there and back.”

“To my house,” Scott countered, “and you guys go the rest of the way, I’m on the west side of town and ya’ll are on the east.”

“Fine, man, fine. Pack your shit, we out in like an hour.” But there was more rapping to be done, and then it turned out Premiere needed to stop by the apartment and get his shoes, since he’d forgotten to put them on in the morning. Scott’s watch showed a quarter after ten by the time he pointed the Pontiac off the university grounds and up the on-ramp for the freeway home. He was nervous. His father didn’t permit him to pick up the Fairmont after dark for some reason, so he would have to go to his mom’s and wait until tomorrow to catch a ride over to the car.

Though there was no snow on the ground, even with Christmas around the corner, the temperature was surely below freezing and the Parisienne’s heater wasn’t quite keeping up. Serious D had his bulk sprawled across the back seat, clutching an old Gibson J-40 that he alternately strummed and beat like a bongo as he rapped.

The New Kids On The Block is their silly-ass name
And it’s beyond my comprehension why they’ve risen to fame
They’re slurping loads of come every night backstage
And if they’re feeling kind of kinky, let the goat out the cage
They’ll bang it up the butt and stick its horns up their asses
You don’t have to be a genius or even wear glasses
To see
They’re not inclined musically
And flippin’ burgers at McDonald’s is where they oughta be

Halfway to home, Premiere started to insist that Scott take a hit from the joint of the moment. “You need to do this shit, man. He needs to, yo!”

“Scotty boy,” Serious D declaimed, “you’re in my car and you need to follow my rules. Toke that motherfucker.”

“I’m not,” Scott demurred, “a drug user.” But then he changed his mind and took it. The first pull made him cough. The second made him cough worse. The Pontiac wobbled down the road as his head shook.

“Virgin!” D laughed. Then Premiere started a rap of his own, a freestyle of sorts

Got this little dorky nerd
Who ain’t ever heard
Of smokin no joint
Didn’t see no point
But now he’s high as a kite
Gonna be alright
Won’t have to fight
Gonna drive all night

“I’ll take it again,” Scott demanded, and he smoked it down to the roach before jamming it in the Parisienne’s ashtray. Ahead of him, the road seemed smooth. “I don’t know why,” he said to nobody in particular, “I ever worried about that bitch.” His head felt good. The agitation that typically wore at him seemed to be gone. The needle on the Pontiac’s speedo slid past the “80” mark. “I’ll rap for you motherfuckers,” he said,

Back in the days of Jackie D
We would deconstruct
Like the man said,
Il vous dit
Wasn’t giving a fuck
We could blow a brother’s mind
Open up the abyss
With the beats and all the rhymes
While we’re talking a piss

“The fuck,” Serious inquired, “are you talking about?” But Scott was too busy laughing to answer the question.

“I’m going to get my car tonight,” Scott declaimed, “My dad can suck it, that’s my car, he can’t tell me not to get my own car, can he?”

“HELL NO,” Premiere agreed, and passed him another joint.

“I would really like,” Scott said, after giving it some thought, “to nail some bitch right now.”

“Haw haw haw!” laughed The Emperor. “Play the Tom Sawyer,” he directed Serious D, who began to play the bassline from the Rush song on the Gibson’s low E,

I’m his highness
A dope-smokin’ madman
If anybody can make this shit up
I can
The Emperor
And upon my throne
I’ll make all the bitches kneel
When I slip ’em the bone
Put away the vibrator
No batteries required
The Emperor’s nine inches
What every ho desires

Time seemed to stop for a while, the four of them laughing, singing, and then they were rolling slow down the street to Scott’s father’s house. It was well past midnight. Scott killed the lights and pulled up next to the Fairmont. The keys, he knew, were under the front seat. “You guys take it from here…” he said, but then he heard the back door pop open and saw Serious D waddling at high speed toward the side of his father’s garage.

“I gotta piss!” D stage-whispered, before disappearing into the shadows. Premiere slid over and took the wheel. Scott opened the Fairmont’s door, found the keys, and looked up to see Serious D sheepishly waddling back to them. Behind D was Scott’s father, walking two paces back with what looked like a brand-new Para-Ordnance P-12 forty-five caliber pistol leveled at the back of D’s head.

“This, I presume,” Scott’s dad snarled to him, “is your friend?”

“Um, yeah, he just had to go to the bathroom, I’m really sorry, I think he thought it would be okay to just run around and use a tree or something.” Surely, Scott thought, he can see how high I am. But perhaps not; how would his father know what drug use looked like? They didn’t even keep alcohol in the house.

“Is this why I send you to school, Scott? To hang around with a couple of fuckin’ idiots like this guy?”

“I’m really, really sorry, Sir,” Serious D mewled.

“Who are you?” Scott’s dad demanded.

“I’m, um, um, David McCormick, my, um, dad owns McCormick Investments, sir.”

“I know your father. Does he know you’re out here pissing against peoples’ garages?”

“No, sir, he does not.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell him. Go home, all of you. And drop Scott off at his mother’s house. Scott, you and I have an agreement about the use of this car. You’ve broken that agreement and we’ll discuss what that means tomorrow. Go, all of you.” Without a further word or motion, Scott’s dad executed a neat about-face on the driveway and walked back inside.

“Dude,” Serious D whispered as Scott got back into the front passenger seat, “I thought your dad was gonna kill me! That’s so fucked-up it’s, like, cool and shit! You’re in so much trouble. You shouldn’t go home.”

“I know. But what can we do?”

“Dudes,” Premiere offered, his eyes bright and wide, “let’s drive all the way to school and smoke all the way back, too!”

“Hell yeah,” The Emperor affirmed.

“I agree,” Serious D said, after pausing for a moment to contemplate the idea. “Scott?”

“Um… yeah, why not? The journey beats the destination, right?” Premiere switched the headlights on and they barreled back the way they came, the big Pontiac swaying over the speedbumps, the smoke filling the back seat. Serious D closed his eyes.

A pen to me
Is like a brush to an artist…

(In memory of “That Other Posse” and its motley crew of members — JB)

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21 Comments on “Sunday Stories: “A Free Man In Parisienne” by Jack Baruth...”


  • avatar
    Halftruth

    Serious D? For Seriously Dreadful? Now where in the hell are today’s kids gonna smoke pot and come up with atrocious poetry and grand ideas?
    In the back of an Accord? or a Hyundai Genesis? It just ain’t the same..

    • 0 avatar
      Spartan

      Funny you say that, because I have fond memories of being a freshman in high school and smoking pot in my friend’s car of similar vintage, a 1985 Buick Lesabre. Man, those were good times. Life was so care free back then.

  • avatar
    marmot

    That “yearn for you tragically” quote was in Catch 22, right?

  • avatar
    Joss

    Good memories of this car. Comfortable lounge-on-wheels The only downer was panic braking could spin the rear in the wet. Puff that weed dude…spin those yarns. Reliable, low maintenance if a little heavy on fuel. But that’s weed – eh?

  • avatar
    Kenmore

    Proto-wiggers?

  • avatar
    dont.fit.in.cars

    “I yearn for you tragically.

    A.T. Tappmann, Chaplain, U.S. Army.”

    Well Done.

  • avatar
    -Nate

    Thanx Jack ;

    I get out of the hospital and am in serious pain , I get this to read & brighten up an otherwise drab Sunday .

    Another good read .

    -Nate

  • avatar
    3Deuce27

    LOL! Reminds me of good, but crazy times in my friend ‘T-Bird Johns’ new 75′ Bird. A car the likes of we will never see again.

    Women loved that lush hiway and boulevard cruiser with its classy white exterior, red velour interior, plush 24 oz. carpets, and great sound system. The fully optioned Bird had a certain style enhanced by us stripping all the soft exterior trim off and adding a set of True Spoke wires and Double Eagle tires, and putting in a CB radio connected to a PA speaker behind the grille so we could talk or whistle at the pretty Grrls’ on the street.

    We used tell people it had every option, including Anti-Gravity. And there were times at night in certain mental states when it felt like it did.

    Despite being down in horsepower it was effortlessly motivated by the torque of a big 460″ mill, it reminded me of driving a big thirties Duesy, Packard or Cadillac, it seemed unstoppable.

    You could watch the fuel gauge quickly move down to empty in just a couple of hundred hiway miles, but who cared as you luxuriated in its enveloping comfort while making you feel special just being lucky enough to enjoy its shameless magnificence..

    And, I should get down on my knees facing toward Dearborn and give thanks for the new anti-skid 4-wheel disc brakes that saved our altered state asses way too many times.

    Where is that car now? And, is T-Bird John still running ‘supplies’ to the oil rigs in the gulf in his big 1,500 hp three engined Cigarette ocean racer? Call home John, we miss your big smile and encompassing conviviality that would light up any bar you entered, drawing instant attention from men and women, alike.

    Thanks for the story, Jack.

  • avatar

    I can say with complete honesty that I’ve never smoked any marijuana in a Pontac Parisienne.

    • 0 avatar
      rpn453

      Nor have I. But I have consumed quite a variety of inexpensive alcoholic beverages as a regular passenger of one. I had almost forgotten how bad the stuff I drank as a freshman tasted.

    • 0 avatar
      Frank Galvin

      We used to partake in my mom’s g-body Grand Prix. Would have gotten away with it too, except the seat covers I purchased were half velcro. She started the car one day and couldn’t but notice they had picked up all the excess seeds and sift. Real smart on my part.

    • 0 avatar
      mikey

      I cannot. We had Parisienne’s up here from the mid fifties to the mid eightys.

    • 0 avatar
      3Deuce27

      Mr. Schreiber… The court directs you to name ‘all’ the vehicles where you inhaled the dangerous and illegal vapors from Mary Jane. We will give you a minute or two to compose a list. Officer… Please give Mr. Schreiber a pen and paper.

      Mr. Schreiber… Do you need more time and another sheet paper?

      • 0 avatar

        Mr. Schreiber respectfully tells the court that it can respectfully suck on U.S. Patent #4,253,475.

        • 0 avatar
          3Deuce27

          Ah! Hem! Mr. Schreiber,

          Based on evidence of habitual illegal behavior, the court finds you guilty as charged. You will serve 90 days in the county jail with no access to communicative devices or any media of any kind, pen and paper include. Officer remand Mr.Schreiber to holding.

          http://patft.uspto.gov/netacgi/nph-Parser?Sect1=PTO1&Sect2=HITOFF&d=PALL&p=1&u=%2Fnetahtml%2FPTO%2Fsrchnum.htm&r=1&f=G&l=50&s1=4,253,475.PN.&OS=PN/4,253,475&RS=PN/4,253,475

          • 0 avatar

            On the contrary, your honor, with all due respect. A basic point of U.S. patent law is that you cannot patent an illegal device. Ergo, that patent is in no way evidence of any illegal behavior. The patent is in fact prima facie evidence that the United States Government itself considers Mr. Schreiber an inventor worthy of note, not legal sanctions.

  • avatar
    Silence

    Haters gonna hate.

    Ya’ll just jealous.

    I had one with a V-12 and the Corintian Leather upgrade. That leather wasn’t exclusive to Chrysler products. It was such a popular option that it became the standard issue seat cover on almost 375 million bikes in China and India.

    IIRC, the V12 produced 591 HP and 432 lbs-ft of torque.

  • avatar
    DGA

    Replace the Pontiac with a 1984 Citation and substitute the gun toating dad with a mother in a bathrobe and that sums up some high school early Saturday mornings out.

  • avatar
    3Deuce27

    “Mr. Schreiber… What world do you live in?”

    “When the courts can throw and innocent former state governor, who was robbed of his reelection, in prison, what standing do you have as an inventor of a device that is illegal in many states, counties, parishes, and cities?”

    “The court didn’t consider your farcical, but hilarious patent as part of its decision. But it was compelling evidence of your past behavior and cynical disrespect of the laws of the land regarding, but not inclusive of, substance abuse.”

    ‘But!’… “Silence Mr. Schreiber”

    “Officer… Proceed”

    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Siegelman

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