Métro, Boulot, Dodo
A Short Story by J M Jackson
Métro
The underground heaved with bodies. Passengers reading newspapers, rubbish eddying on the track blown by gusts of air that had never seen the light of day.
Paul used to count the days. He didn’t bother anymore. He’d spent all his free time his first year in Paris reading Camus (in English) at various local cafés. He was too naïve to see that as gauche. But the locals soon got used to him and the waiters stopped spitting in his coffee.
He always had a flashlight in his pocket. Ever since a friend had warned him of the métro’s tendency to lose power, plunge into darkness, and for the beggars to start stabbing everyone in the dark. All nonsense of course.
He alighted at Rue du Bac and a beggar was crumpled in the corner of the platform sleeping. A cardboard sign in front of him said: ‘C’est pas la peine.’ Something about it not being worth it or not to bother. It was a Monday morning. The beggar’s message seemed appropriate.
Paul gripped the flashlight in his pocket as he passed the bundle of rags.
The stairs safely delivered him to street level. It was a five-minute walk to the office from the station. He would pick up some breakfast on the way.
