A Life Lived By Alp Mortal
Categories: Contemporary Romance | Gay
Word Count: 22,976 Heat Rating: 2 Price: $ .99 Available here:
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What happens when you reach that point in life when the same routines aren't fulfilling anymore and you are looking for a change and a bit of excitement? Charlie heads to France to explore a new life for himself. New loves and ex-boyfriends provide a bit of hilarity whilst a friendship with the elderly ex-showgirl, Madam Giselle, shows him that it is all just a life lived.
I am always very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: alpmortal@hotmail.com. Visit the website, alpmortal.weebly.com, for updates on the next gay romantic story or crime thriller which I am working on. Thank you, Alp Mortal |
Chapter One – Paris Zone One
“What can I get you?”
“Oh, I can’t decide as usual; they’re all so delicious … you decide.”
The decision: Which infused rum to have, the specialty of the bar? The bar: A little café bar in Rue de la Ferronnerie near Saint Eustache run by Karl and Julian. The customer who cannot make up his mind: Charlie, staying in Paris, trying to decide where his future lies. The occasion: The regular evening stopping off point on the way back from his school where he is trying to improve his French and thus his chances of having sex; which, given the bar’s proximity to Le Marais, should actually be much improved.
Julian poured a shot of the rum infused with ginger.
“Christ; that’s strong … give me another!”
Julian and Karl, his partner, have taken a liking to Charlie and they are becoming firm friends. It was all quite accidental. Charlie standing outside the bar looking at the plaque set into the pavement which marks the spot where King Henri IV was assassinated in 1610; Karl trying to empty the rain water which had collected in the awning and successfully emptying it all over Charlie; profuse apologies and, hey bingo, new friends and already something to laugh about over the rum and tapas. That was a week or so ago.
It was Karl’s idea to enrol for lessons, so Charlie took his advice and started a short course at a small school in Cadet, stopping off on the way home to do his homework in the bar rather than in the lonely little bedsit place he is renting in Rue de Hyacinth.
“What’s the homework tonight?” asked Julian, still reasonably sober, favouring JD and coke by the bucket.
“A short piece on your favourite bar and why.”
“Easy then.”
“Yes, for a change. There is so much grammar! I hate it …”
“If it wasn’t so expensive, I’d say go for one-to-one tuition but at twenty euros an hour ... unless you exchange for English lessons; put an ad on Craig’s List.”
“That’s a really good idea, I will. Cheers!”
“Cheers!”
Charlie dives into the homework, commandeering a table near the back as his school desk. There is a permanent ‘reserved’ sign on it. The bar is quiet but at eight o’clock, it usually starts to heat up and then it’ll be packed until four in the morning. Except on Wednesday, which is usually dead, and the guys sit and chat and play cards; and if a punter does walk through the door, they are instantly given a rum and some tapas and a seat at the table.
Charlie’s table has a view of the kitchen where the big buckets of rum infusion were made; ginger, bergamot and black pepper, citrus fruits, strawberry, Provençal herbs. You name it; they put it into some cheap old rum and hey, there’s a winner at three euros a shot and it isn’t uncommon for rum shot parties to suddenly erupt and everyone is trying everything and getting very drunk. Karl does the tapas and the rum and Julian dispenses the drinks and ensures a very pleasant atmosphere is maintained, largely fuelled by his own consumption of Jack Daniel’s. Still, he’s the one who gets up to clean the bar and open for two hours at lunchtime … if only to sup the JD in peace!
The bar, named ‘Lizard’, had been bought with the profits of the business they’d sold on Reunion a few months before. They own and live in the little apartment above. The guys met on Reunion and have been together, and inseparably so, for the last five years and, subject to liver complaints, will probably always be together.
Charlie finishes his homework by eight usually and heads off. Unless it’s Wednesday, then the cards come out, or Friday, when the bright young things come out who get tanked up on cheap drinks in the bar and then head off to The Banana Circus club next door where the guys sometimes venture if there is a reasonable singer in the piano bar downstairs.
It’s Thursday, Charlie heads back to the bedsit.
It’s not a bad place; clean and cheap, very quiet, one hundred metres from the Metro stop and Les Jardin des Tuileries. The landlady is an ancient woman by the name of Madam Giselle. Karl seems to think she was a dancer or magician’s assistant and had her heyday in the Fifties touring the clubs in Pigalle and Blanche. She lives on the ground floor, collects the rent of one hundred euros a week every Friday, offers to do the laundry and if she likes you, allows you access to the miniscule courtyard garden which is overflowing with beautiful flowers, mostly geraniums. She likes Charlie and he has access to the courtyard, clean bed linen every week and she leaves the newspaper in his door every day.
“Bonsoir, Madam.”
“Bonsoir, Monsieur.”
Which is practically all they say to each other.
The room, on the top floor, is big. It has a balcony which just has space for an old wicker chair. The sofa converts into the bed. The kitchen is a partitioned-off corner of the room with an ancient two ring gas stove, a couple of shelves, a tiny fridge and a sink. A huge armoire in the room serves to store everything and the bathroom is shared with the two other bedsits on his floor; both occupied by young and bright things who work in advertising or design, both female.
There are a table and two chairs by the window and that is pretty much it but it’s amazing how quickly somewhere becomes home and very soon, with the addition of a throw, a lamp and a couple of cheap prints hung on the wall, it’s the dreamy artist’s garret, the successful businessman’s pied-a-terre or, as in Charlie’s case, his ‘don’t know yet where I’m heading, boyish forty-something mature student who looks at everyone and everything with clear green eyes and smiles’ loge in Paris, in zone one.
Charlie cooks; pasta, simple, with a green salad just tossed in oil and herbs. He reads the paper, sorts out the books for school and reminds himself that tomorrow is Friday; bright young thing night and he falls asleep dreaming of walking hand-in-hand by the Seine with a handsome man who loves art and is moneyed and generous and loving and funny and sexy and dark and who reads Camus and has a dog or a canary. Oh to dream!
“What can I get you?”
“Oh, I can’t decide as usual; they’re all so delicious … you decide.”
The decision: Which infused rum to have, the specialty of the bar? The bar: A little café bar in Rue de la Ferronnerie near Saint Eustache run by Karl and Julian. The customer who cannot make up his mind: Charlie, staying in Paris, trying to decide where his future lies. The occasion: The regular evening stopping off point on the way back from his school where he is trying to improve his French and thus his chances of having sex; which, given the bar’s proximity to Le Marais, should actually be much improved.
Julian poured a shot of the rum infused with ginger.
“Christ; that’s strong … give me another!”
Julian and Karl, his partner, have taken a liking to Charlie and they are becoming firm friends. It was all quite accidental. Charlie standing outside the bar looking at the plaque set into the pavement which marks the spot where King Henri IV was assassinated in 1610; Karl trying to empty the rain water which had collected in the awning and successfully emptying it all over Charlie; profuse apologies and, hey bingo, new friends and already something to laugh about over the rum and tapas. That was a week or so ago.
It was Karl’s idea to enrol for lessons, so Charlie took his advice and started a short course at a small school in Cadet, stopping off on the way home to do his homework in the bar rather than in the lonely little bedsit place he is renting in Rue de Hyacinth.
“What’s the homework tonight?” asked Julian, still reasonably sober, favouring JD and coke by the bucket.
“A short piece on your favourite bar and why.”
“Easy then.”
“Yes, for a change. There is so much grammar! I hate it …”
“If it wasn’t so expensive, I’d say go for one-to-one tuition but at twenty euros an hour ... unless you exchange for English lessons; put an ad on Craig’s List.”
“That’s a really good idea, I will. Cheers!”
“Cheers!”
Charlie dives into the homework, commandeering a table near the back as his school desk. There is a permanent ‘reserved’ sign on it. The bar is quiet but at eight o’clock, it usually starts to heat up and then it’ll be packed until four in the morning. Except on Wednesday, which is usually dead, and the guys sit and chat and play cards; and if a punter does walk through the door, they are instantly given a rum and some tapas and a seat at the table.
Charlie’s table has a view of the kitchen where the big buckets of rum infusion were made; ginger, bergamot and black pepper, citrus fruits, strawberry, Provençal herbs. You name it; they put it into some cheap old rum and hey, there’s a winner at three euros a shot and it isn’t uncommon for rum shot parties to suddenly erupt and everyone is trying everything and getting very drunk. Karl does the tapas and the rum and Julian dispenses the drinks and ensures a very pleasant atmosphere is maintained, largely fuelled by his own consumption of Jack Daniel’s. Still, he’s the one who gets up to clean the bar and open for two hours at lunchtime … if only to sup the JD in peace!
The bar, named ‘Lizard’, had been bought with the profits of the business they’d sold on Reunion a few months before. They own and live in the little apartment above. The guys met on Reunion and have been together, and inseparably so, for the last five years and, subject to liver complaints, will probably always be together.
Charlie finishes his homework by eight usually and heads off. Unless it’s Wednesday, then the cards come out, or Friday, when the bright young things come out who get tanked up on cheap drinks in the bar and then head off to The Banana Circus club next door where the guys sometimes venture if there is a reasonable singer in the piano bar downstairs.
It’s Thursday, Charlie heads back to the bedsit.
It’s not a bad place; clean and cheap, very quiet, one hundred metres from the Metro stop and Les Jardin des Tuileries. The landlady is an ancient woman by the name of Madam Giselle. Karl seems to think she was a dancer or magician’s assistant and had her heyday in the Fifties touring the clubs in Pigalle and Blanche. She lives on the ground floor, collects the rent of one hundred euros a week every Friday, offers to do the laundry and if she likes you, allows you access to the miniscule courtyard garden which is overflowing with beautiful flowers, mostly geraniums. She likes Charlie and he has access to the courtyard, clean bed linen every week and she leaves the newspaper in his door every day.
“Bonsoir, Madam.”
“Bonsoir, Monsieur.”
Which is practically all they say to each other.
The room, on the top floor, is big. It has a balcony which just has space for an old wicker chair. The sofa converts into the bed. The kitchen is a partitioned-off corner of the room with an ancient two ring gas stove, a couple of shelves, a tiny fridge and a sink. A huge armoire in the room serves to store everything and the bathroom is shared with the two other bedsits on his floor; both occupied by young and bright things who work in advertising or design, both female.
There are a table and two chairs by the window and that is pretty much it but it’s amazing how quickly somewhere becomes home and very soon, with the addition of a throw, a lamp and a couple of cheap prints hung on the wall, it’s the dreamy artist’s garret, the successful businessman’s pied-a-terre or, as in Charlie’s case, his ‘don’t know yet where I’m heading, boyish forty-something mature student who looks at everyone and everything with clear green eyes and smiles’ loge in Paris, in zone one.
Charlie cooks; pasta, simple, with a green salad just tossed in oil and herbs. He reads the paper, sorts out the books for school and reminds himself that tomorrow is Friday; bright young thing night and he falls asleep dreaming of walking hand-in-hand by the Seine with a handsome man who loves art and is moneyed and generous and loving and funny and sexy and dark and who reads Camus and has a dog or a canary. Oh to dream!
