Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) by Pres Maxson Read Free Book Online

quick one for you.” I turned for a glass. I was still hoping to
find a way to rush him out without being rude. “So what brings you in tonight?”
    “Oh,
I was in the neighborhood,” he confirmed again as he pulled a stool up next to Janie.
    “Give
it up, honey,” Janie softly whispered. “We might be in for a while longer.”
    I
nodded, feeling the tenor of the evening moving in that direction. She wasn’t
suggesting we stay because she liked him. In fact, she scooted her chair a
little farther from him when he made the move to sit down. Nonetheless, Janie
was being entertained. Like me, she wanted dinner. But clearly, she was enjoying
the bar experience at the Bon Parisien too much to want to leave.
     “You
said you’re a street performer?” I asked Pistache as I poured his beer. “What
do you do?”
    “Well,
I’m glad you asked,” he replied happily. “I have been known to do a little
dancing and a little magic.” With this, he did a little tap dance on the crossbar
of the stool and produced a single playing card from behind Janie’s ear.
    “Look
at this card, my dear, and don’t tell me what it is,” he crowed.
    “Okay.
Um … why? I don’t see the rest of the deck anywhere,” she responded.
    “Because
it’s the ace of spades!” he exclaimed and waited for applause. No one reacted. Janie
just looked at the card.
     “Did
I get it right?” he asked.
    “Yeah,”
she answered, unable to take him seriously.
    “Of
course you did,” I interrupted and smiled.
    “Well,
how was I supposed to know what card she had hidden behind her ear?!” Pistache
exclaimed.
    “It
was in your hand the whole time!” I replied humorlessly.
    “Relax.
Don’t take it too seriously. That’s the point of the joke,” he softly clarified.
    “Ah
I see,” I said.
    “I
get it now. You do comedy too,” Janie said.
    “That
I do. What did the snail say to the snake?”
    “I
don’t know,” she answered.
    “For
a slitherer, you’re so slow that I can sew a boa in the time it takes you to say
‘ssssss.’”
    No
one laughed. I scratched my head as I tried to work out the French to English
translation in my head.
    “I
think I get it,” Janie said, as she looked at me and shrugged.
    “It
wasn’t that funny,” I heard Fleuse mutter.
    “Not
at all,” Trudel snorted into her drink.
    “No,
it is funny!” Pistache explained. “Because snails can’t sew. And they’re slow.
And he’s sewing a boa. Which is a snake.”
    I
smiled more at him than with him. At least he was entertaining.
    “It’s
poetic. Wordplay. I get it,” Janie said.
    “You’re
into that sort of thing?!” Pistache exclaimed.
    “She
studies poetry, and writes it,” I stated. “Really good, too.”
    Janie
smiled modestly. “Okay, that’s enough.”
    “Excellent!
So you do get it!” Pistache said confidently. “The rest of you are crazy if you
don’t think that’s pure comedy gold.”
    “Okay,
we’re crazy,” Trudel declared.
    He
ignored her. “Also, I can sing a little, and execute perfect impressions of the
stars!”
    “Huh,”
I mulled it over. “Who can you impersonate?”
    “Well,
an impression is not the same as an impersonation.”
    “Oh,
okay. What is the difference?”
    “In
an impersonation, you act like someone else. You try to get their mannerisms
down.”
    “Got
it, yes.”
    “A
impression is a vocal imprint.”
    “What’s
that mean?” I asked.
    “You
take a mold in your mind of their vocal patterns: the tones, the inflection,
the pitch. Then, you form your vocal chords in a way to replicate the sound of
their voice.”
    “Isn’t
an impression part of an impersonation?” I asked as I made another drink for
myself.
    “Don’t
be stupid, American,” Pistache snapped.
    “Huh,”
Trudel grunted. “That sounds like nothing to me.”
    “Nothing?
I have entertained audiences here and in Italy and Spain!”
    “On
the street?” Trudel jabbed.
    “That is my best medium!” Jacques exclaimed with a