Chronicles of an Academic Predator Pt. 01

I heard the song "Peggy Sue" playing on the jukebox, reminding me of my "date" last night, and how she'd tried to get information out of me, which had just made me more defensive. I'd become a master of making small-talk while saying, in essence, nothing, and it was going to take someone a lot brighter and more attractive than Peggy to break down that barrier.

Two young men walked by and sat at the table behind me. They both looked to be about 19, one with dark hair and the other with red hair. As they sat, they started speaking, but not in English. I listened more intently, not to eavesdrop, but just to see if I could figure out which language it was. At first I thought it might be Spanish, which I was competent in, but after a few seconds I realized it was French. Not French like the French spoke, not even the heavily accented French that was spoken in Brittany or Languedoc. No, this was a guttural type of French. It was...Quebecois! French Canadians. Listening to them was like an Englishman listening to someone from the Southern Appalachians. Whether I planned to eavesdrop or not, the temptation to hear their accents and diction sealed the deal.

"I told you we have to be careful. You can't hold my hand in public like you just did. We'll get arrested, deported!" one of the guys implored. He had a deep, resonant voice, the kind of voice that a sexy guy would have, the kind of voice that you might expect someone who was a good singer to have.

"I'm sorry. I made a mistake. It's just so hard, I love you so much and I just want to touch you all the time," said the other guy. This one had a softer, more pleading voice dripping with effeminacy. I found myself trying to figure out which was which, wishing I were sitting on the other side of the table so I was looking at them. I consoled myself with the knowledge that if I were over there, I wouldn't be able to hear them as well.

"Just watch it, OK. We're foreigners here, and I don't want to get sent back to Montreal with the word "Queer" stamped on my forehead," Deep Voice said. His husky voice was almost an aphrodisiac.

"I love you," asserted Soft Voice. "Do you love me?"

"I love you too," responded Deep Voice, relenting and calming down. It seemed to placate Soft Voice, even though it didn't sound very sincere to me. "I hope no one in here can understand us," he continued, the caution returning. I could almost feel his eyes on the back of my neck. I made sure to pay close attention to my paper, and to at least turn the page once in a while.

"Not likely," said Soft Voice soothingly. What a contrast they were, Deep Voice so fearful of being outed, while Soft Voice was only concerned with being in love.

Nonetheless, they started whispering so that I couldn't hear what they were saying. I could gather that some of their conversation was about money, but beyond that it was too jumbled.

Suddenly André appeared, and before I could stop him he began speaking to me in French. I responded in English, which brought a puzzled look to his face, but I motioned him to leave it alone. He shrugged, sat down with a thump, and started reading the menu. I could feel the tension at the table behind me. I could hear the muted whispering, the near panic.

Within seconds, they'd gotten their check and prepared to leave. I was listening to André recount his adventures with Barbara the Bimbo, pretending to pay attention, while I waited for the two guys to walk by on their way out. The footsteps started and they were next to the table. I casually looked up and made eye contact with the redhead. He looked at me with a terrified expression. I felt so sorry for him; I broke my rule and actually smiled at a stranger. As he walked away, I noticed his lithe body, his nice clothes, and his new shoes. Those fashionable ankle length square-toed numbers. André rambled on, oblivious as usual.