Outside

He stood outside the door. Between two fake palms, a poster of shirtless men advertised a party. His bag was at his feet and in the moleskin held open to passersby he had written a message. Men walked by, men he had seen before. They looked at the notebook and then turned away. They opened the glass door painted black and disappeared inside.

Clouds sat low in the grey Parisian sky, the fake palms reaching toward the sun beyond and two men came out to smoke. Grey men in a grey street under a grey sky. At first they did not speak. One glanced over and read the message in the notebook: carte bancaire marche pas – aides-moi avec les frais d'entrée? The man lit a second cigarette and looked away.

“Puis-je te demander quelque chose?” asked the notebook holder.

“You do not speak French well.”

The French, Brodie thought. Only the French speak French well.

“I am sorry, I am not from here.”

“Where are you from?”

“New York.”

“We love New York. I was there last month.”

“It is a great city,” Brodie lied, “I am visiting Paris, but my bank card is not working.”

“I am sorry, I cannot help.”

“I just need 10 euros to enter.”

“Listen, I am a consultant for a bank. There are ways to fix that. There are limits – daily limits, withdrawal limits. Change your limit if you have money in your account. Call your bank, they will sort it out.”

Brodie lied again, “I did, but it is Saturday and my bank is closed.”

“I am sorry, I do not have extra money.”

“Pas grave, merci. J’attendrai un ami.”

“Maybe we will see you inside.”

The men finished their cigarettes uncomfortably and returned through the black door.

Though it was not raining, Brodie felt wet. The paving stones were black with the morning rain, the white Haussmann boulevards washed grey in November light. In his bag, tucked on the inside pocket of the one jacket he owned, was stowed the passport he could not show to reserve a bed in a hostel even if he had money. But he had spent his money.

The next day, his train would leave for Barcelona. Behind the black glass door, the sauna was open until 6am. He had been to gay saunas before. No one asked questions. You pay at the desk. The attendant pushes a towel and key on a velcro bracelet with a pouch holding two condoms. In front of a locker, you take off all of your clothes and wrap the thin towel around your waist. The rest of your life is stowed in the locker. You lock it and velcro the key and condom bracelet around your wrist, or your ankle.

Brodie could stay there all night to wait for his train but he had spent the last of his money on the ticket. It was less expensive, moins cher, said the clerk, to go tomorrow. Fine, he said, counting out the euro bills and coins. The clerk watched him, asking for his name. Brodie gave the name Thomas Anderson and made up a birthday, pretending that his nervous pause in recalling it was due to the inversion of month and day between Europe and America. The clerk looked back at his screen and entered the information. He placed the ticket in an envelope and handed the ticket to Brodie. Bonne journée.

On the grey street outside the sauna, men continued to pass Brodie and enter the sauna. In the gay app open on his phone, their faces soon appeared one meter, four meters, eight meters away. The faces taunted him. It seemed futile to ask like this. It made the men uncomfortable. He picked up his bag and walked towards the metro.

Turning the page in his moleskin, he wrote a new message. Ma carte bancaire ne fonctionne pas. Il me faut seulement 2 euros pour retourne chez moi. He positioned himself with his bag and open notebook between the escalators to the metro in Les Halles where Parisians and tourists, in a steady stream, parted to descend. Most looked at the notebook. Most turned away. A woman with two children reached into her pocket and pulled out a euro. As she passed, she pressed it into Brodie’s open palm. She did not say anything but clutched the small hand of her brown-haired son tighter as she looked away and stepped onto the escalator. A student stepped out of the line behind Brodie and tapped his shoulder. When he turned, she whispered bon chance, gud lucke, and held out two euros in her gloved hand. Brodie nodded and took it. Merci. She stepped onto the escalator.

To maintain the pretense, Brodie closed his notebook and descended. Once the girl had gone. He opened his notebook at the base of the escalators. A man fished in his pocket and handed him two metro tickets. Notebook closed, walk slowly towards metro with bag. When the man was far enough ahead, Brodie turned and ascended the escalators and opened his notebook again.

In thirty minutes, riding up and down the escalators, opening and reopening his book, he had eight metro tickets and nineteen euros. He thought it was damn lucrative and was impressed at his ingenuity in asking for only a little. Others had done this for centuries before, but in this moment Brodie felt inspired, and admired his novelty.

“Je peux aider. Viens avec moi chez le distributeur.”

Brodie looked up from his small reverie. A latin man of twenty something motioned for him to leave his station at the top of the escalator.

“Non, non, désolé. Merci, merci.”

“Distributeur,” the man repeated. “Je peux aider.”

Brodie stared blankly at him. He is offering drugs?

“Parles pas français.”

“Oh, you spick Englesh? Where you frem?”

“New York.”

“I have bin, I have bin. I am in French foreign legion. I am Portugaul. I take you to . . . how you say . . . ATM. Give money. Yes?”

“Ohhh, yes, okay, if you are sure.”

“I want help. We find ATM.”

Brodie followed him. It was a good omen of the Iberian. He was glad now to have chosen to go to Spain. The man found an ATM and withdrew twenty euros.

“I have no change.”

“It is gift. Gooda luck.”

He stepped back into the grey stream coursing down the boulevard and was gone. Brodie placed the euros in his pocket. Thirty nine and some change in forty minutes. Not bad. He felt no guilt in deception. Maybe he once would have, now he did not. He felt he had been wronged. In exchange, he could wrong. In some way, the Portuguese man had wronged him once before. Or someone like him. Brodie had given much. Now, he was justified to take.

He returned to the door between the fake palms. Inside, gay club music pulsed and the lights were low shades of orange, rose, and umber. Neon blue surrounded the desk where Brodie placed the Portuguese man’s euros. With his towel and velcro bracelet, he walked to the locker and stripped.