by Big Hark
Ligne Cinq
Four stops, the ride to school: Oberkampf, République, Jacques Bonsergent, Gare de l’Est. The Hatchet, a natural mimic, learns to say, Attention à la marche en descendant du train in German: Bitte achten Sie auf die Lücke zwischen Zug und Bahnsteigkante; Spanish: Cuidado con el espacio entre el vagón y el andén; and Japanese: Ashimoto ni go-chûi kudasai. And I learn the back pocket of his trousers is where a dumbass keeps his wallet.
L’Américaine
After five years in France, we repatriate. Wait for our Paris stuff in a short-term corporate condo in the Loop. We’re across from the Macy’s (née Marshall Field’s) on State, and the Hatchet can see the Chicago Theater’s marquee through her high-rise bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling window. After her first day of American middle school, she asks for ice cream from the Walgreens downstairs. I give her a five from my wallet and at least two extra bucks in silver. She returns with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a flurry of French profanity. Apparently, when the clerk took the banknote and asked if she had a nickel for even change, she froze in silent confusion, unable to make out the American monnaie. A nickel, emphasized the clerk. Her Irish up, the Hatchet then dumped a pocketful of coins on the counter and countered: Mister, you’re going to have to show me what one is.
****
Big Hark is a writer from Chicago. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in LIBRE, Sunday Morning, HAWKEYE, serious-lit, Some Words, Plague Circus Press, Dodo Eraser, Citywide Lunch, and other places.