Paris Times (NO 7) by Matthew Carlson

Paris Times (NO 7) by Matthew Carlson

No, don’t do that! No, don’t do it! No, don’t do it, I said….don’t…don’t! Fuck. Fuck you!” She yelled.

The thing was, Patches was all alone. Who the hell was she talking to? And then…

“No, stop that! I said don’t do that…no, no don’t, don’t! Fuck you! Fuck. Arggghhh”… (undecipherable).

Then Gelledge realized that Patches was on her computer trying to write an email to the vitamin company in the states. Her busy index finger tapped all the right buttons (most of the time) but when her finger slid a bit too far one direction or another, the beloved Windows 8, which she knew was pure shit would make her email disappear.

“Mother fuckers,” she screamed as for the tenth time her short email of only 4 lines had once again somehow evaporated…. or whatever. It was gone. No longer there. And each time to write it all out with polite forms and yours’ truly -had taken at least fifteen minutes each. More than exasperating…

Then of course, she had dropped her phone on the floor, happy slippery plastic which loved gravity more than anything else. In her difficult state of MS, the phone would remain on the floor until someone came to help her pick it up.

“Fuck, fuck” she yelled again, mostly at herself.

The MS had started in 2000 or so when she was living in her country house in Fountainbleau. She had loved living there, but when her company had taken away her company car, she could no longer go back and forth during her lunch hour. And then came the cane to help her walk, then the ambulator and finally the electric chair. Funny that when they had taken her car away and forced her to work near the Champs d’Elysee (where she couldn’t go home for lunch) that the MS had suddenly taken over, become stronger. She had had to get rid of her country home and move into Paris itself.

She had choosen a terrific place (or so she thought) after having come across a château in an ad. Apparently a ruin, it was now being renovated into several apartments. That was where she migrated too, once everything had been worked out. It was terrific to say that you ‘lived in a château in Paris …

But life seemed destined to keep punishing her somehow; the MS was growing stronger and stronger. After having moved in to her new immense apartment, while pivoting around in order to sit her butt down on the ivory throne  in her small water closet next to the kitchen, she went a stray topsy turvy twisting off into the toilet wall, falling and breaking an ankle.

It was the last time she would use the toilet all by herself. From now on, someone would have to accompany her to do the most personal of personal acts….

Then the walker took the place of her cane of course, and then even sooner an electric chair.

“Fuck, fuck,” she screamed once again. Her to To Do list too had escaped from her two finger-taloned  grasp. And then again, “Fuck you! Fuck you!”

Upstairs Gelledge waited to see if she would call to him. She didn’t, so he went back to watching a video. He wondered about his kidnapped dogs in the south of France and how he was going to rescue them.


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