The Story of Abie

Abie, the modern day Raskolnikov.

Abie was a club-promoter-slash-musician I met during my philandering French summer of 2008, and proceeded to see again during sporadic Paris visits. My friends labeled him ‘artsy-dirty’. I firmly believed his lack of hygiene to be directly correlated to the height of his intellect. His apartment had a porter potty (I kid you not) and he didn't use duvet covers, but I was too seduced by his mediocre guitar skills and  greasy mop of hair to let this offend me.

When I arrived to Paris last September, Abie was one of the 5-7 people I knew in the city, so I reached out on Facebook and soon enough we had a date. In true Abie fashion, he stood me up, but later saw me at le Montana with Bestie and tried again. This time, he invited me to accompany him to the after party for Le Bal Jaune, the closing event for the FIAC art fair at the Grand Palais.

I was at Shabbat dinner when Abie arrived to pick me up in a Club Chauffeur (the poor man’s Uber), a gesture that he appeared very proud of. He spent the entire car ride telling me about his personal evolution over the past years. As it turned out, he had given up drugs and music, started a technology business with his father, and even saved up enough money to buy an apartment in the 9^th Arrondissement. The only glitch was that the apartment was still inhabited by and old lady – in France, it is common to buy real estate from elderly people before they pass away, ensuring them a nice bundle of cash to live their last years on. In the meantime, Abie was living with his parents and searching for the final piece of the puzzle - a nice Jewish wife to share his reformed hipster life with. It was clear that I was there to audition for this prestigious role.

We finally arrived to the Grand Palais, only to find it completely empty. Instead, a number of buses were lined up in front, ready to take all the second-rate invitees to the banlieu (translation: suburb, an insulting word within itself) where the after party was actually being held. I took a deep breath, chanted some YOLO-esque mantra in my head, and got on the bus. After all, how far could it be?

It turned out, this far:

I was the blue dot.

As the bus sped further away from Paris, I noticed the climate changing as well. By the time we arrived, the weather outside could only be described as a torrential downpour.  A bunch of circus tents glimmered in the distance, with nothing but a dirt path leading in the direction.

You get the picture.

By the time we reached the circus, I was soaked to the bone, wishing for nothing more than to return to Paris and reach the safe haven of my bed. This was clearly not an option, so I medicated myself at the open bar while listening to Abie drone on about his new apartment and the art he was purchasing for it. He seemed very impatient to move in already, making me worry that he may one day decide to take matters in his own hands and go after the poor old lady Dostoyevsky-style.

Like that. 

Acrobats swung from the ceiling, Lescop played, I consumed enough alcohol to tune out Abie, who was at that point was telling me that I had matured into decent wife potential. Three painful hours later, it seemed that we were finally ready to depart. At the exit, Abie even managed to swipe me this huge clear umbrella, his last chivalrous gesture of the night.

As we made our way back to Paris, Abie ordered a Club Chauffeur to pick him up from the bus stop, promising to help me find a cab. For twenty minutes we stood on the Champs Elysées, with Abie 's Club waiting patiently on the corner. At some point, I saw a bus approaching and announced that, given the lack of better alternatives (a Club Chauffeur drop-off, perhaps?!), I would have to take it. Abie, not at all concerned about his potential future wife taking a city bus alone at 4am, gave me a kiss and happily rode away in his chartered taxi.

The bus crawled its way across the city, finally making its final stop at Chatelet, a sketchy area 15 minutes away from my house. As I ran from corner to corner, yet again trying to flag down a taxi, I realized that a very creepy short man was following me. The final straw snapped. Using my giant plastic umbrella as a sort of a sword, I lunged at him, screaming "ARRÊTES!" (translation: STOP!) on the top of my lungs. I must have come across as sufficiently mentally ill / dangerous, because he miraculously disappeared.

The next day I was walking around le Marais, ignoring Abie 's texts and nursing my wounds with pains au chocolat, when I saw a familiar lanky male body walking in front of me. It was accompanied by an equally lanky female body in a matching black pea coat, a sight straight out of a Kooples ad. As they paused to make out in the middle of the street, my suspicions were confirmed – the male Koople was, indeed, Abie.

Just like this.

It's very hard to conclude this story with a moral, but I guess that the main point is, you can't teach an old dog new tricks. The hipster with the porter potty will never evolve to be  much more than that.  Also, I hope that the old lady is alright, and that our modern day Raskolnikov hasn't gotten to her yet.