Jean Luc "Mahi-Mahi" Croissant

Part II: Pete & Mahi Become Temporary Roommates

Liquid Inspiration

Pete ended up helping me close down the bar on that first night, or, more appropriately, on that first morning, given that the two of us swapped life stories and a rapidly evaporating bottle of thirty-year-old Canadian whiskey until shortly after 4 a.m. Once I got past Pete's pungent facade, he proved to be a trully remarkable individual. It turned out he hadn't seen his home in Spain for almost three decades, and he was startled to learn that I hadn't returned to my own Canadian source in almost as long a period. So it became clear to us, right from that first gulp of whiskey, that we shared a background defined by a rejection of our origins. It would require a few more bottles and a couple of days at sea (I'll get to that presently) for us to admit to ourselves and one another that we also shared a secret longing for home and all this word represented for each of us.

Pete's knowledge of the sea was comparable to my passion for fine wine, smooth-sipping whiskey, and classic film, but I must admit that his tales of enormous finned beasts, foreign ports of call, and humanity-crushing storms reduced my ramblings on about excellent vintages and well-wrought mise-en-scenes to the level of mere anecdote. This stinky old sailor had trully sailed the oceans, seas, and canals of the earth, while I could only add to our collective saga that I'd seen a hell of a lot of movies, fornicated with a countless number of fine females, and put away a shipfull of expensive bottles of fermented grape juice and corn during the course of my gluttonous lifetime. But I should also say, lest I seem unclear, that Pete expressed just as much admiration for my wisdom of grapes, feminine beauty, and the cinema as I did for his maritime experiences. Our mutual respect for one another, not to mention our mutual intoxication, led me to invite him to stay at my home for a few days. My desire to breathe clean air again led me to offer him clothes from my closets, water and assorted soaps and shampoos from my water closet, and money from my pockets for an appearance-altering haircut.

Chateau Jean Luc Croissant

As we headed across town in my Peugeot in those pre-dawn moments, the windows rolled all the way down, I nearly plowed through a strange man carrying on a running soliloquy about darkness, evil, and the minions of Satan. Once I saw the man's face, his tweed suit, and that signature black leather satchel, I realized it was just the good Doctor Van Helsing, and I reduced Pete's growing sense of dread once I promised him that the old Dr. was harmless, albeit a little crazy. Once we reached my cozy little waterfront abode, I made Pete a bed out of my couch, pointed him in the direction of my closets and showering facilities, and told him of my intentions of taking him to see Miss Lolita later on in the morning. He seemed quite agreeable to the notion of a fresh appearance, and once I assured him that Lolita Gloriana Smith was a hair stylist, not a prostitute, I retired to my bedroom, leaving my new roommate to his scrubbings.

Part III: Decisions in the Diner

The Muse's Introduction