7 December 2007 My very first story

Trigger: Each person was asked to  write a description of an auto with some special difference.  All responses placed in a pile and then a blind drawing.  I drew:

“1980 Vauxhall Estate Car: Pale Blue paintwork and a rusting base metal.  Interior very tired with matching engine.  High mileage and very cheap.  Absolute shit heap.” Then we were instructed: “Using that auto, write a story about that have someone sit into the passenger seat. “

The Old Vauxhall

The tall young man holding the sign “Aux Montpelier” was less than excited when the noisy, smoking, pockmarked blue Vauxhall Estate Wagon pulled over to the side, just down the road from where he had been hitching, thumb outstretched.  But as the evening had passed with few cars and no “stoppers”, he felt that he could not make himself be choosey.  Looking into the car he saw an older, middle-aged man, dark hair graying, eyes charcoal black, staring unflinchingly back at him.

 I’m going that way” the man said, pointing to the sign. “Store your pack in the back, it’s open.  Put it wherever you can find room.”

 The rangy, whispy-bearded hitcher, wrestled his large back pack into the rear seat after opening the door to a pronounced screech.  He had to slam it three times before it stayed shut. 

 Getting into the front seat, he shifted about bits of paper and leftover food boxes from the entire range of fast food outlets.  Taking his right hand from the gear shift, the driver extended it, introducing himself with a nod of his head. “Georges.”  “Jean-Luc” was the reply.

 Gears grindingly engaged, the car shuddered its way back onto the departmental road.  Silence reigned for a bit as the two regarded each other with side glances. 

 Going off to the universities?” Georges asked, trying to start the conversation. 

 No” Jean-Luc replied.  “I’m going back to see my mother.  She’s a professor there.”

 Been away on vacation?”

 “Actually, I have been working in the Dordogne for the summer.  At a tourist park.”  Jean-Luc avoided adding any details as he felt uneasy providing too much information.  “And you?” he inquired. “ Why are you going in that direction. 

 “I’m going to the Camargue.” Georges said.  “It’s reunion time,” he added as an afterthought.. 

Jean-Luc was puzzled but did not push the conversation.  Slowly looking around the car, he noticed duffle bags and boxes along with a battered suitcase in the open space behind the rear seat of the estate car.  On top of all the baggage were two instrument cases, one for a guitar, the other a violin.  

 “Are you a musician?” Jean-Luc asked, pointing at the cases.  Looking in the rear view mirror, Georges saw his two old instruments reflected back at him.  “I’ve been playing all my life” Georges replied.  “I learned it from my father, and his brothers.” 

 “I wish I could play an instrument.” Jean Luc said lightly.  “My mother tried to get me to take lessons, but I never liked the practice.  I always wanted to be reading or out doing something less structured.”

Georges drove on for a while without speaking, the night beginning to close in on the road.  “I guess I have never done anything but play music,” Georges finally said.  “It’s all I ever wanted to do.”  And the words began to spill out as the miles passed.  Georges relived his history for Jean-Luc without prompting. 

 “I’m from a Rominy family” he explained.  Jean-Luc thought, “He’s a gypsy!” but not knowing if it was politically correct to call him that said, “Oh, like Django Reinhardt.” 

 “You might say that.  If only I could play like him,” Georges said with a small, almost silent laugh.  “I guess it is my profession, if you can call it that.  I go from town to town, working festivals and carnivals.  I play in bars for food and wine and the change that gets dropped in my hat or case.  I know all the dates of all the markets.  When the Brits will be there.  When the Germans and Dutch arrive.  Who tips.  What songs make them stop long enough to feel guilty and throw me some coins.  I used to see lots of Americans but they don’t come to France now as much – at least the ones with money to tip me for my music.”

 Georges’ story was one of life on the move.  Never making long term connections with people or places.  “ I guess it  is truly in your blood, this wandering life.  But I am a free man.  All I own is here, with me.  I have no wants or needs.  I can stop any time, any where.  My music feeds me: both my stomach and my soul.”

 “You said you were going to a reunion” Jean-Luc noted.  “Does that mean you are going to visit with your family?”

 “I don’t have any real family – blood relatives if that is what you mean.  At this time of the year, all the folks of the Rominy clans come together in the Cammargue.  It is after the festivals and carnivals, and what work there is for most, is done for the year, until the next tourist season in the spring.  So we gather, and tell stories…and lies.  And we make music and restart our lives.”

The miles had rolled away and the Vauxhall pulled up to the side of the road at the roundabout at the edge of Montpellier.  “You sure you don’t want me to take you on into town?”

 “No” said Jean-Luc.  “It will be easy to get in from here to my mother’s place. Thanks for the ride… and your stories.” He pulled his loaded packframe from the back seat and using all the leverage of his long arms, slammed the door closed on the first try. 

 The car jerked haltingly away, smoke belching from the tailpipe leaving the sight and smell of burnt oil as incense in the air at the roundabout.  Jean-Luc watched the tail lights dim down the road.  He thought about how good it is to get home to family, no matter where that is.