I Don't Speak French

Curious eyes turned to the girl walked into the Pierre's Burger Cafe. Although no stalling was heard in the rapid flow of idle gossip bursting from mouths that apparently had never been taught that eating and talking at the same time is rude, it was obvious that the attention of the patrons of the fast food joint had been caught. Perhaps it was stuck in the folds of the girls long flowing pioneer-style dress, or the red and blue ruffles on the hem that swept the floor, leaving visible marks in the dust, pine needles and cigar stubs that the Cafe used for carpeting. Or maybe it was hanging from the fringe of the dark crimson wool shawl, small black beads clinking together as she reached underneath the material for a handbag. It could even have been tangled in the long brown braid that was sending off static wisps and tendrils in a manner obviously intent on world domination.1

The girl, ignoring the attention with an air of much practice, sat gracefully on the stool before the counter and set her handbag beside her, hand resting on it in a polite but firm warning to any snatch-and-runners. She smiled amiably at one old man who, dressed in what used to be a three-piece suit, was staring dazedly through her. 2

"Well aren't you just the perfect little princess?" asked the friendly but rough city biker type on her right side, complete with a black leather jacket, three days of beard, and an aura of stale cigarettes and alcohol. He seemed in awe. "My wife'd rather die than be seen in som'n like that." The woman with her arm around his shoulder spat on the ground and nodded vigorously, then remarked in the husky voice of someone who was going to die of lung cancer caused by smoking,3

"Vive la difference." 4

The girl smiled at the two of them, bright blue eyes meeting theirs and then turning back to the menu hanging by a rusty screw over the counter. The man behind the counter, stroking his greasy mustachio with one hand while whisking a even greasier cloth along the countertop, bowed to her with a flourish and as a piece of something grisly flying off his apron and landed two inches from the girl's hand, he ejaculated loudly,5

"Welcome, welcome to Pierre's Burger Cafe, the crown jewel of Quebec! I am Pierre, your gracious host." He spoke with a suggestive French accent. 6

The only other teenage girl in the place, who happened to be sitting at the girl's left, rolled her eyes. She obviously believed she was beautiful in many places, was obviously proud of it, and tried her hardest to make things just as obvious to anyone else who cared to look. And having someone else distracting all the lookers obviously annoyed her. The little man who had been complimenting her t-shirt now slid over to the newcomer, and asked,7

"Wanna be my friend?" The brown-braided girl ignored him, and spoke to Pierre,8

"Do you do anything besides burgers to go?" Her voice was bright and playful, with the slight burr that often attached itself to dwellers on the Nova Scotian or Newfoundland coast, reminiscent of the Scottish immigrants who had settled there. 9

"C'est possible," the cafe owner said with a raised eyebrow. "We have the frankfurter, and the corncobs. Or the potatoes or the salad. You want something very healthy, à coup sûr? With onions, perhaps? The French are the patrons of onions, you know."10

"Enough of that, Pierre," shouted a lanky journalist type with the tone of someone who has said this before. "The French didn't invent the onion! The Germans did! And you're Canadian, anyway." Pierre sent a killing look his way, and then whispered to the girl, 11

"Chacun à son goût. The man is insane anyway. Ici on parle français, and he refuses." The girl smiled shallowly, and then brought out her other arm from underneath her shawl and lay it conspiratorially beside the manager's. She then whispered back,12

"Is that French? I can't speak French." Pierre tsked his tongue, but tapped her shoulder forgivingly. Aloud, she said, "I think I shall order the potatoes and the salad. To go." People behind her nodded and murmured to themselves. An approving 'good choice,' could be heard faintly. 13

Pierre whisked the order into a paper bag and handed it to her. As she rose to leave, someone called out,14

"Wait!" She turned inquiringly. The old woman who had called out asked, "Do you work at the Historical Center?" She glanced triumphantly at the men beside her. Somebody murmured something inaudible. The teenager at the counter snorted, and the departing girl smiled sympathetically. 15

"No, I don't." 16

"Then why do you dress like that?"17

"Because I want to." And with that, the girl opened the ringing door and left. In the breeze from the door, a couple of cigar stubs slid across the floor underneath a table. The small man's attention turned back to the teenage girl in the skimpy clothes. The bikers wife spat on the ground again and muttered once more,18

"Vive la difference."19