I hung out at my girlfriend Laura’s place the other night. Her parents, who were visiting from Texas, kindly dropped off a care package. I went to enjoy some girl talk and retrieve my booty: Pepperidge Farm Cheddar Goldfish, a special request, and Cadbury Cream Eggs, a pleasant surprise. (I was also curious to see if the blood came out of her carpet!)
The metro had stopped running by the time I was leaving so I decided to walk home. Laura hesitated, not wanting to scare me, but then asked if I knew that there was a serial killer in our arrondissement. She said not to be worried because thus far the killer had only targeted homeless people (Newsflash: Homeless People and Serial Killers Exist in France). She insisted we call a taxi, but just then a group of people walked by. I figured I’d be safe if I shadowed them and convinced Laura of the same.
I followed the pack for a few blocks but eventually had to break right. All of a sudden I found myself in a Halloween movie – alone and in the dark. I could hear something following me. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was my own pant-leg dragging on the asphalt.
As I made my way towards the main street my fear briefly subsided thanks to the sound of some French drunks singing "Love is Battlefield" from a nearby apartment. I called Fred so he could hear his countrymen imitate Pat Benatar and to talk to me as I made my way home. Just as he picked up, a good looking man approached me out of nowhere. The French Ted Bundy. He said something to me, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I slightly smiled and picked-up my pace.
I told Fred that a serial killer was loose in our arrondissement. I tried to calm him by repeating what Laura had told me. The killer seemed to only target homeless people. He wasn’t pacified. He jumped out of bed, swiftly changed, and headed out in my direction. But not before asking what I was wearing: “Are you dressed like a homeless person?” “Kind of, my left pant-leg is a little tattered and I probably smell like alcohol."
Before I had the chance to be scared again, I could see my husband running towards me. He has been coming to my rescue a lot lately. Sometimes in small ways, like finishing my sentences when I get flustered ordering from the menu or helping me find the subtitles on a DVD, and other times it is running down rue de Vaugirard to save me from a serial killer. Depending on my day, the magnitude of his rescue missions are equally important.