The French Lesson

When my friend called me earlier yesterday afternoon, and asked me if I'd hang out with a French girl visiting from Paris, I never imagined I'd wind up in the "personal care" section at Duane Reade with her later that evening. There was a group of people going to see a show, and my job was to keep this Parisian company until the show was over, at which point we'd all meet up somewhere for a drink. My friend said she was cute, and that she was open to meeting new people. He said I could consider it a date, if I wanted to, or a babysitting gig. It was my choice. He rushed me off the phone to get back to work so I didn't get the details of how he knew her. All I got was a phone number and a name. "Just call," he said. "What the hell else do you have to do tonight?" So I called.

Her English was broken, and her French accent thick, but we managed to agree on a cafe at which to meet. The conversation in the cafe was a bit strained because of the language barrier, but we managed to kill an hour discussing what she was doing in New York, the strength of the Euro versus the dollar, as well as a number of other subjects. She seemed uncomfortable as we spoke, and I asked her if she was okay, thinking she was simply frustrated with our inability to communicate fluidly.

She blushed, and said in her thick French accent, "I am feeling, how do you say...." and then she said something in French that I didn't understand. She could tell by my confusion that I was lost so she tried again in English.

"I am const...(something in French) constipe? Is that how you say?"

"I'm not sure what you're trying to say," I responded.

"Em, when you can not go toilette," she said, nervously laughing.

"Constipated?," I said.

"Oui. Constepteted," she retorted.

"C-o-o-nst-i-i-i-pay-ted," I replied slowly and deliberately. I figured, if she can't shit in America, she better know how to say so in English.

"I can not go for one week since I come here," she said.

"Happens to the best of us," I said trying to put her at ease, wondering if I was on a hidden camera show. "There are things you can take for that," I continued.

"What sings?" she asked.

"Laxatives."

"No. I try zat. No good."

"Suppositories?," I said, trying not to laugh at this poor girl.

"Oui. Oui," she said excitedly. "Where I can buy zis?"

"Any drug store should have them," I said.

"Can you help me? I am embarrass," she responded.

"Depends what you mean by 'help,'" I said. "I can go with you to buy them, but that's where my 'help' ends."

She clearly didn't get the joke, not that I was even remotely joking. She was cute, but suppository insertion is more of a 4th or 5th date thing, not that I was considering this a date anymore anyway.

"You can help me to buy zem because of my bad Anglais?," she asked.

"Sure," I replied pseudo-enthusiastically. Like my friend said - what the hell else did I have to do?

So at approximately 8:30 pm last night, I found myself asking an employee at a Duane Reade on the Upper East Side where I could find suppositories, while Frenchie stood there like she was ready to die of embarrassment. In less than two weeks, I went from overpaying for condoms I'd never use to looking for suppositories with some French chick I'd met an hour earlier. The suppositories weren't cheap either, and although I never let a woman pay on a first date, she was on her own on this one. Besides, the Euro is so strong nowadays she could've bought enough of those cone like pellets to allow all of Paris to shit for a month.

Once the purchase was made, she thanked me for my kindness, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and went home. I never did meet up with the group for drinks, but hopefully French girl is feeling a little lighter today.