Je N’Aime Pas Les Filles

For the last few days, the Eagle has been doing more business than a fat man during Christmas. The amount of people we have in the store at one time is unbelievable. At any one time, I can expect to have the fitting rooms full, the go-backs cart packed, and a full line at the cash registers. It’s a living hell adorned in moderately priced apparel.

As I was putting some clothes on the go-backs cart, a woman walked into the fitting rooms carrying some shorts. I asked her how many she had, and she replied Deux…umm, two. I smiled as I walked her to a fitting room and asked if she was from France. She said yes, she was, and went to try on her clothes.

A little while later, she returned the clothes to me and asked how I knew she was from France. Not wanting to seem rude by drawing attention to her incredibly thick accent, I made up some excuse by saying that a Canadian would have probably wouldn’t have said two before deux. I don’t know why this reasoning came to mind. I just knew I couldn’t tell this woman she sounded like Steve Martin in the new Pink Panther [ps...what the hell was he thinking with that waste of film?! I'm disappointed, Steve. I hope you're reading this].

She continued to question me, though, and asked me how I knew deux meant two. Again, not wanting to be rude by telling her that every person and their mother knows that deux means two, I let her know that I used to take French when I was in high school and a bit in college. Then, out of the sacre bleu, she starts speaking to me in French.

I don’t know if this was a challenge to the validity of my French education or what, but I quickly came right back at her. By no means am I fluent or proficient, but I’ve been known to conjugate a few etres since my last class. So after a brief conversation in broken francais, I started to take care of my other customers.

Hey, how many do you have?…Okay, great. Let me just take you to this dressing room where you can commence to shit all over the walls, leave hangers underneath the seat, return all 8 items to me inside out with deodorant all over and knock over my stack of jeans while you leave. Have a great day, and thanks for coming to America Eagle, you size 2 tramp.

When I got back to the fitting rooms entrance…she was still there. French girl.

And when I got back the next time. And the next time. And the time after that. She was always there. Asking me questions. Where do I live? Am I still in school? Did I know how hard it was to find a place to live for 10 weeks in America while here on an internship?

On one of my return trips, she asked me if it’s possible to travel to the north of Boston, where I live. Of course, I said. Just take the green line to North Station and you’re set. No, no she said. To visit me.

I’m sure most of you are getting where this is going. I, on the other hand, am clueless to the matters of what the French call amore. Especially that heterosexual hubabaloo.

Oh…um, you and your friends?
No. Just me.
Oh…well…oh…

I don’t know how it happened, but I ended up giving the French girl my email address. She’s going to get in touch with me about a date.

Go into work expecting to sell some jeans and tube tops. Leave work, having broken down international and sexual boundaries.

C’est la vie.