Gastien Pt 1 (20 page)

That day started a run of weeks that pretty much mirrored each other. Picking up his supplies from Mic’s place in the mornings. Walking around finding people to sell drawings to all morning, painting in the afternoons. Some days he sold drawings, some he did not. He managed to make enough money for a bowl of soup every day. If it was too cold to paint in the park, he would go to a museum and ask if he could paint in a room that was not being used. Sometimes they would let him, once they saw how well he could draw. Other times, he was refused. It depended on the museum and the people working that day. Often, he had to search out an abandoned building and paint there.

As days turned into a week and then two, Gastien knew he was becoming less appealing to strangers. Dirty and smelly, he washed his face and hands in the public fountains late at night, but it was too cold to take any clothes off for a bath in the river.

He had nothing to wipe with when he went to the bathroom, unless he happened to find something on the way to the alley or river bank. Most often he used his right hand, since he was left handed. He then washed his hand in the river with his bar of soap, as soon as he got the chance. When the bar of soap became so small it was useless, he used the money that would have bought him soup for another bar of soap. He went hungry that night. At least one good thing happened as he ate less and less. He did not have to pass shit often at all. His body held on to and used every bit of food he could find. The problem of not be able to wipe himself was not as awful as he had at first feared. There was little to wipe.

The nights he got soup (which in December was most) he sat as long as he could before heading out to find a place to sleep. As he got dirtier, he was embarrassed for Mic to be seen with him, so he avoided coming around him. Mic said he did not care, but Gastien knew that he was unappetizing. As
Noël
approached, Gastien knew he had hit a new low when the waiter at a bistro asked him to not come back, even if he had the money for a bowl of soup.

“I am sorry,
Monsieur,
but you are upsetting our clientele. It is not good for business. Please forgive me, but I must ask you to not come into the restaurant anymore. You are welcome to come to the back door and buy a bowl of soup. We will only charge you half price.”

Gastien wanted to die of shame. His good looks did him little good now! He merely nodded and quickly left, not even bothering to eat his soup. From then on, he went to the backs of restaurants, money in hand, so that they would know he was not begging.

After eating, the worst part of the day began. Evening and early night found him running into whores servicing johns in alleys, cock fights that he inadvertently walked into, craps games in dark corners, others hunting through garbage bins, drunks staggering down the alleyways. Some threatened Gastien, until he drew his large knife. Another had seen him lop off a finger when a thug had tried to steal his tarp. Word quickly got around that the “sweet faced one” was not someone to mess with. Men propositioned him at first, but once he smelled bad enough they did not even meet his eyes. With his greasy hair and ratty beard even he was no longer appealing.

He had another run in during the second week with the fat chef that had offered to bugger him the first day he had looked for work. Gastien was walking down the alley looking for shelter. The cook, out back smoking a cigarette, saw Gastien. Leering, he stepped out into the alley.

“Hey, handsome, I remember you! Only, you aren’t so handsome anymore! That is too bad. You were so delicious looking!” He laughed cruelly. Gastien kept walking. “Hey, good looking, I tell you what. The offer still stands. In fact, if you blow me right now, I will give you a steak dinner. I bet you have not had a steak dinner in a long, long time. What do you say?”

Gastien turned and looked at him. “Not in a million years.”

The chef laughed again. “You just aren’t hungry enough yet. The offer will stand, at least until you are so unappealing that even your mouth would be too dirty. I would say, oh, another two weeks and even I would not let you service me. Already I would not want to use your ass. Something tells me it is not so sweet right now!”

“
Va te faire foutre!
” Gastien growled.

“You are quite ungrateful! I should take back the offer because of your filthy language. However, I am a forgiving man. Keep that steak dinner in the back of your mind. A nice, large steak, potatoes, vegetable… I’ll even throw in desert. Of course, you will have to swallow, if you want desert!“ The chef made a smacking noise with his lips.

Gastien slowly turned around and walked back to the man. Coming face to face with him, Gastien said softly, “Do you really want a piece of me that badly?”

The chef knowingly smiled. He knew the young man would come around. Most of them did. “Of course I want a piece of you! I remember how cute you really are under that dirt and stink. I will simply close my eyes and picture that.”

Gastien smiled back sexily. “Well, then here is a piece of me for you. I hope you enjoy it!” Gastien hauled off and punched the chef hard in the gut.

Coughing and wheezing, the chef growled, “You little piece of shit! I would not let you suck my cock if YOU bought ME a steak! Get out of here before I kill you!”

Gastien laughed harshly. “You and how many others, you fat pig?” He pulled his knife and held it up. “I should gut you with this knife. I could have you for dinner the next fourteen nights in a row. Lord knows there is ample meat there.” The chef stared at Gastien and his knife. Gastien growled, “Now you see the real me,
trou du cul!
I don’t ever, and I mean ever, want to hear you speak to me about “servicing” you again. If you so much as wink at me, I will plunge this fucking knife deep into your heart. Believe me, I have nothing to lose anymore. Jail would be better than these stinking alleys.” The chef stayed glued to the spot, his eyes huge, and his mouth quivering. “Do I make myself clear?” The chef nodded. “Good. Now get your fat
cul
inside!” The chef quickly dropped his cigarette, hurrying inside. He did not dare to even glance back.

Such was the drama that unfolded, night after night, in the evenings. Later at night, most of the vagrants were passed out or puking up booze and spoiled food in various areas of the alleys. Gastien learned to avoid the alleys if he wanted any sleep. He instead went to the
Académie Julian,
where
he slept in a protected place between a wagon and a building. No one bothered him there, but he slept with his knife under his blanket where he could grab it quickly, just the same.

Noël
came and went. Suddenly, it was New Years Eve. Things had slowed down dramatically after
Noël
as far as selling anything went. In fact, there were much fewer people around. Most nights he did not have any money for even soup. At first, he did go
Notre Dame
on Thursdays for soup. After awhile, when he was not eating regularly, it was too far. He was afraid he would not make it.

Gastien learned to dig in dumpsters for food. He watched the restaurants to find out when they were emptying that evening’s trash. They would many times discard unused foods that would not keep. Sometimes, if they saw him and were kind, they would give him the food before it hit the trash. Most times they simply cursed him, yelling at him to stay away. He told himself it really was not so bad. If it had just hit the trash it was probably safe. Sometimes he got a whole piece of chicken or something else fully intact that a patron had been too full to eat and too lazy to take home. Other times he was not so lucky. Those nights he had to make do with partially eaten food or food that was ready to spoil.

As January progressed, it was even colder. It snowed at night sometimes, although it melted during the day. Many nights Gastien could not find dry ground to sleep on anywhere. He would then lay his tarp on top of the dampness. He was amazed that he did not get sick. Some days he was grateful for that. Other days he wished he would just die. No matter what, he kept on painting as much as he could, whenever he could find a place to paint.

He would stop by the park to check in with Mic at least a couple times a week, so that Mic would know he was ok. He could not stand the pity in Mic’s eyes, though, so he did not stay long. They would always talk about when Mic would be leaving and Gastien got his job, but even Gastien knew now that he would not get it.

He was a mess, with both body and head lice. The red spots all over his body itched something terrible, even on his face. He had lost a lot of weight, making his filthy clothes hang loose. Gastien’s hair had grown over his ears on the sides, with the top always falling into his eyes. Since he could not afford to get it cut, he could not wait until it was long enough to tuck behind his ears.

Mic had put some of Gastien’s work in the restaurant where he worked, but nothing much sold. This was always a slow time of the year. Gastien was grateful that his friend was trying to help him.

By February he was so weak that he sometimes stumbled if he walked too long. He managed to get to Mic’s for his supplies almost every morning, and still he painted. At the end of the day in the third week of February he once again made his way to the alleys of the 6th to search for food in the dumpsters. He had not found anything he dared to eat for six days. Before that, he had eaten precious little for two weeks. Gastien was so dizzy and weak he wondered if he was dying after all. As he approached the dumpster at yet another restaurant, a server saw him. She took pity on him, calling him over. She then brought out a thick stew with three pieces of bread.

“Be careful not to eat too fast. If you do, you will vomit it up,” she warned him. “I have to go back in. If I get caught, I will be fired.” As soon as she was gone, Gastien shoveled down the food. He could not pace himself, he was literally starving to death.

As soon as he finished, he knew he had been foolish. Stomach rolling, it was evident that the food was going to come back up. He hardly got to his knees before he vomited the meal. Gastien retched until he thought his heart was going to explode. Once he was done, he felt weaker than ever. He could barely hold himself up. He knew that if he did not eat and keep food down, he would be dead by morning. Gastien was simply too weak to go on anymore.

The colors called him to continue. The paintings he had yet to do danced in his head.
Non
! He would not die! He was put here to paint the color. He would not fail that calling! Suddenly, he knew what he had to do if he wanted to stay alive. There was no other choice. Soon, the thugs and addicts would be coming out. He began to breathe only through his mouth. Then, he bent over and ate his own vomit.

How Gastien kept from vomiting again was a feat in itself. He fought the need to retch while eating it by thinking about colors and paints, getting a job, once again being with a female. When finished, Gastien crawled away, trying to gather what little strength he could find. He finally just collapsed behind a dumpster, without even taking out a blanket. If the rats want me, they can have me, he thought faintly to himself.

He awoke a few hours later shivering. He managed to get his two filthy blankets out so that he could wrap up in them. He could not even worry about being eaten by rats or killed by a vagrant. Gastien was exhausted. He did not care about anything except sleep. Sleep that would heal and give him strength.

At dawn, he once again woke up and managed to sit up. He remembered how he had eaten his own vomit, and instantly felt sick again. He fought it, knowing he had to keep from getting weaker. Finally, he tested his legs. Evidently the horrendous meal had done something for him after all, because he could walk. He forced himself to Mic’s to get his paints. Then he painted all day long.

He painted as if his time on earth was running out, because it very likely was. The painting he did that day was his best so far. Looking at it, he knew that he had managed to become a skilled oil painter. There was a satisfaction in the knowledge of that, even if he got no further.

For Gastien realized, as he looked at it, that he was heading nowhere and had no options. He would simply keep painting every day until he ran out of supplies. After that, perhaps the color would call him home. If not, then it had better present one hell of an opportunity. What that could possibly be, he did not know.

That night, after eating from a dumpster yet again (at least he found food!), he decided to chance falling asleep behind a wagon in the alley. In this cold, any walking in the wind he could avoid was a benefit. Much later, he jerked awake. The hairs on the back of his neck were at full alert. Something bad was happening.

Just a little way down the alley he heard a man begging for his life. He sat up, forcing his eyes to focus.
Mon Dieu
! There were two men down there, and one had a long knife! As Gastien watched, horrified, the man plunged the knife into the other man’s guts! The stabbed man slumped over and fell. He heard the other say, “That will teach you for beating me at cards you
fils de pute
!”

Gastien would never know why he did what he did next. It would always remain a puzzle. He was half a block away, it was dark, and without thinking he yelled forcefully, “Drop your weapon! This is the police!” The man with the knife immediately fled.

Gastien ran over to the extremely well dressed man lying on the ground. The amount of blood pouring from him told Gastien his wound was fatal. The man was gasping for air and clutching his intestines, which were pouring out of his body. His eyes rolled in his head, but he managed to focus back on Gastien.

“Quick! Before he comes back. Take the money. Left pocket.” He gasped for breath. “Huge amount. You need it by the look and smell of you.” Blood poured from his mouth. He managed to continue, “That
enculé
lost it fair and square. He does not deserve it. Quickly!” His breathing was a rasp.