ShatterGod

“That kid is a crazy motherfucker. He took an e pill, uhh, an ecstasy pill, on Monday, during school.” Xavier laughed and shook his head in admiration and awe while speaking of his third-cousin, Foucauld.

We had just met my host brother’s cousin in a public alley next to an outdoor market that sold porcelain figures shaped like animals. I laughed and shook my head to please Xavier, and thought about how this Foucauld seemed like a high schooler I would not want to meet again.

Foucauld bobbed his head while walking, as if his height of well over six feet was more than his neck could handle. Leaning slightly forward, he was like a paranoid cobra in his head movement, and always aware of his surroundings. Foucauld constantly appeared both comfortable and nervous; he moved like he owned the ground beneath him but never ceased glancing over his shoulders with fluid movements of his long neck. He was skinny, but did not look as if he could easily be knocked over. There seemed to be a notable weight in his bones, like those scrappy wrestlers who press their elbows into their opponent’s back. Those wrestlers were frustrating, even infuriating, and just picturing them made me feel Foucauld would not be the type to fight fair. He had the air of a student from a city bigger than Annecy, someone from Paris or Lyon who was never making fewer problems for everyone else.

I met Foucauld again the next night, when Xavier threw a party for another friend’s 18th birthday. He arrived wearing the same fedora as the day before, with a tucked-in button-down shirt and a thick hoop earring. I was thrown off because this look usually accompanies a pair of dirty Converse and an attitude of superior intellect but inferior ambition in the United States. I now understand this style to be popular with students who grew up in Lyon, and that it has a very different connotation here than at home. Foucauld wore a smirk that seemed like it should be the home of a toothpick. It was a smile I initially mistook for condescending but later thought of as one of good humor.

I reintroduced myself, and it took four exchanges before Foucauld questioned my ability to speak French. This was probably the furthest I had gotten in a conversation without the other realizing that I had only a small grasp on the language. I wondered if I was getting better at speaking, or if this boy was flattering me. After a few minutes of talking and affirmation of my initial desire to avoid Foucauld, I realized he learned to speak English better with every drink he had.

“Brandon-“

“It’s Brendan.”

“Brendan, you will get drunk now, no? We will all get drunk, it is a party.”

I pointed to the clock that said 20:45 and explained to Foucauld that it was too early for me to be drunk. Later, perhaps, but 8:45 is very early in the United States, I told him. He did not understand what I meant by too early to be drunk, but he nodded in agreement and said he would remind me later when it was time for me to be drunk.

All of the invitées milled in and out of the house and through the kitchen. Each time I entered the house, Foucauld reminded me that it was “very good to meet you” and that I was a “very good friend.” Each time I entered the house, I reminded Foucauld that my name was Brendan and that he had already told me I was a very good friend.

“Come outside to the garden, we will smoke a cigarette.” I told him I had just smoked a cigarette in the garden and would not feel well if I smoked another. Foucauld opened his pack and showed me his one remaining Camel. He looked up from the pack, at me, and did not blink as he said, “this last cigarette, I saved for you.” I sighed, at this point on the path towards exasperation with our conversations but led him through the open doors to the patio. Foucauld told me again that it was very nice meeting me, and I nodded and listened to his opinions on what is wrong with New York until I saw a girl I had met earlier. I told him I had been looking for her, which was only a little bit true, and used the chance to escape his conversation for a few minutes.

It had seemed very important to him that Adam and I were Catholic, and he used this knowledge in conversation to group the three of us together against an imaginary enemy that he did not name. He seemed astonished when Adam mentioned that he did not believe in God, as if it were a scandal that would be difficult for Foucauld to recover from. I said that my grandparents had been Irish, and his eyes opened wide with shock. He stuttered, and for a second seemed afraid to be seen with me as he questioned me further, both confused and accusatory.

“You are… a ginger?” He asked with mock incredulity.

“What? No. What? Do you even know what that means?”

With Foucauld, it was almost impossible to discern what was a genuine opinion and what was an act he used to elicit responses at parties. It seemed, at least by the end of the night, that he enjoyed the attention he got from playing his character, and did not realize just how offensive some of his comments were. He was eager to entertain, and loved thinking he was making others laugh, even when he was far from it. I told him to break dance, and he dropped to the floor and started rolling around. Foucauld stood up, and looked at me, eager for some sign of my approval.

A week later, he invited a few of us back to his apartment in Annecy. I learned that Foucauld played guitar in a metal band called ShatterGod. I did not like the band’s image or lyrics, but found Foucauld to be a talented lead guitarist. I felt his position in the group offered an explanation to his style, and I became more forgiving towards his attention-seeking attitude when I discovered he was the eighth of his parents’ eleven children. He had twice as many siblings as me, and three of his older brothers had fought for the French army in Afghanistan. I had thought Foucauld had an abrasive manner and contemptuous disposition, but that night found him to be a good host and agreeable friend. I learned that Foucauld operates much better in smaller crowds, and is entertaining and friendly when he does not put all of his energy into his effort.