But wait, peoplelikemy laugh. They say it’s catching. They try to get me going just so they can hear it and laugh with me. Or at me or whatever. I don’t mind either way.
There’s this old man who comes to the chocolate shop every morning for the express purpose of getting me to laugh. Monsieur Astruc in his bowtie and jacket shuffles into the shop, slow, his back bent nearly double and buys a tiny box of pistachio macarons, then tells the same joke every morning. And every morning, I giggle. I can’t help it. He’s delightful.
So, for reasons I only half understand, it somehow actually hurts that ole’ Grumpo here comes up and tears apart one thing about me that I know for a fact isn’t awful. It feels personal and mean and…
Hold on. This isn’t about me and my laugh at all, is it? I do everything I can to keep the volume down when I’m in the apartment. I take off my shoes the second I get in, whisper on the phone, and sit as soon as I can. Anything to keep him from pounding on the ceiling of his apartment. No, no. This is about him being fat-phobic and misogynistic. The man’s acted like garbage since I called him out for scowling at my ass my very first day in Paris.
He’s got a thing against women, at least women who look like me.
Sure, it’s a big butt. Get over it! If I’ve got no problem with the size of my behind, I don’t see how he can possibly find it offensive. It’s abutt, for crying out. The butt I was born with. The fact that people—okay,men—think it’s okay to judge and leer and make all kinds of unsolicited, sizeist comments about my body is astounding to me.
So, yeah, forgive me if I ignore his nonsense complaints and objectify Le Jerk for a moment. He’s clearly okay with that kind of thing.
The way he’s glaring down at me now, like he’d burn holes through me with those eyes if he could, just reinforces my belief that this is about more than just an early morning noise complaint.
This is his problem, not mine. The man wants war? Well, maybe it’s time I gave it to him.
Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, I rack my brain for something that’ll take him down a peg. Something big, huge. A single phrase that will cut him to the quick.
Without thinking it through, I open my mouth and ask, “Have you considered calling the Guinness Book people?”
Oh no. What am I doing?
A moment of silence and then, “What?”
“You’re, like, the angriest man on earth or something.”
“I’mnot.” How can he possibly sound so surprised? Offended. He has to have an inkling of how grumpy he is.
“You’re literally telling me not tolaugh. Who does that?”
His scowl deepens. “Your cackling keeps me up.”
Cackling? It shouldn’t bug me that he says this. It shouldn’t, but it does, a little. “That’s the building’s fault, not mine.”
“How so?” The landing’s worn wood floor creaks under his feet.
Everything in this building scrapes and ticks and drips and creaks. Even when it’s quiet, it’s loud. At night, I hear the elevator’s high-pitched squeal from my bed, which is behind two walls. From up here on the 6th—and last—floor, I can tell when Madame Christen on two takes her tiny dog for a walk by the tinkling of its collar. Sure, he lives right below me, but even so, the fact that he can isolate my voice from the cacophony is almost unbelievable.
“I hear you moving around, too, you know. And you’re right under me.”
Under me.Crap. Why does that sound so sexual?
“You hearme?” His dark eyes narrow. “I doubt that.”
I shake my head, kind of shocked at how awful he is. “Oh, you don’t believe me? Great. Well, let’s see. There wasScarfacelast Monday. Right?”
He jolts like I’ve hit him. “How can you possibly know that?”
“You’re notlisteningto me. Pay attention, big guy. Iheardit,” I tell him. “Every word.”
“Oh, really?” He folds insanely thick arms over his chest and leans against my doorframe, giving my ratty T-shirt and shorts a quick, dismissive up and down look. “Give me one line,” he says in the exact tone of voice I imagine him telling me to open my mouth and—
Oh my God, shut it down. Shut it down, Jules!
“One? Okay.” I focus back in. “How about,Say hello to my little friend.At the end, when he mows down a bunch of guys. Or, hey. I’ve got another.” I launch into a pretty decent Al Pacino imitation. “I’m Tony Montana! You eff with me, you effin’ with the best.”
It’s possible a shadow of a smile crosses his face. Although, it’s probably an angry tick pulling at his mouth. Totally involuntary. I’d be willing to bet his lips haven’t seen anything resembling humor in a decade.
