La vulgarité de l'escalier

[General Goose]

"Hi, I'm Saachi. I'm a stupid moron with an ugly face and a big butt and my butt stinks and I like to kiss my own butt."

((Chuck Soileaux continued from We Know Who Our Enemies Are.))

Chuck had been mumbling under his breath, in that indignant timbre and with his barely suppressed Cajun lilt shining through, during the entirety of his walk. He had zig-zagged, so as to avoid the chances of meeting Saachi again. Fuck her.

Chuck bit his thumb, which transitioned into a middle finger, which transitioned into the 'wanker' gesture, all directed at the camera. Partially to vent his frustrations with Saachi, partially because doing so in the direction of the camera would make him look like a high-minded big-picture thinker concerned about the broader context. It looked saner than doing it at rocks and trees, anyway.

You know that feeling, after a debate or an argument, where you think of a brilliant counterpoint or comeback too late after the fact? The French called it 'staircase wit'. 'L'esprit de l'escalier', it had been one of his grandmother's most favourite phrases, and she and Chuck had bonded early on by sharing every example they had. Made it feel like less of a waste. He and his gra-mere would sit together, in the front room, revisiting the disputes they'd had that day. Chuck with a rude classmate or a stubborn teacher, his gra-mere with some obnoxious queue jumper at the grocery store, thinking of droll retorts and piquant ripostes they could have fired back.

And those comebacks were revised, frequently, on the slight chance that exact event would return. It was pretty important to his development, if Chuck were to think about it. An early first step into debating practice. In hindsight, his gra-mere was operating at a somewhat more...mature level than he was. But her enjoyment had been sincere. The chance to divulge in childish name-calling, like a giggly schoolchild? Oh, now that Chuck was an adult (aged mentally quite a bit in the past few days), he understood the appeal.

That method of coping with staircase wit was no longer there for him. And so Chuck was left with no outlet. No outlet, but to grit his teeth, clench his fists, kick some pebbles, and mumble all the one-liners he should have said earlier.

Yeah, Chuck wasn't thinking of anything insightful or penetrating to say in that moment, of course. Calling it staircase wit would be a dramatic overstatement. But he was thinking of a lot of very crude, very cutting, very blasphemous, very profane, very scatological comments that he could have made. Ones that would have felt liberating to say. Cathartic. And he was feeling that frustration, that regret for not telling Saachi exactly what he thought of her twisted moral reasoning and selfish demands in the moment. He wouldn't have been able to share these comments with

She'd always been a bitch, but this? Oh, this was prime awfulness. In a way, a slight relief that he wasn't having to learn to hate someone he liked.

But still. Dammit Saachi.

He was walking around the perimeters of the parish now. It looked like the parish, at least. Fit the description. Lone building. Chapel-y. He was skirting the edges of the property. He had paused to look at his map some time ago. Chuck knew he was heading west. This had not been the plan. He wanted to stay on familiar terrain. The east side of the island, that was his home.

He thought about venturing in. His gra-mere would have approved. Gra-père, maybe less so. He was not an ecumenical man with his faith. Not a 'burn the heretics' sort, but an 'ornate Catholic church or bust' sort. This non-denominational building would not be to his taste. Going to the church to please his grandparents had been a part of his life for a very long time. Wasn't super eager on doing it now.

He could have gone for his own sake. But Chuck was not feeling super in touch with his religion at the moment. Not crisis of faith levels. But that whole 'no atheist in foxholes' thing...maybe it worked at the edges, but for people like him, in the religious but not devout middle, it didn't seem to be working. Sure, by the island's standards he was doing fine. It was probably a sign of great privilege that his greatest emotion right now was anger. But he wasn't exactly seeking religious salvation.

If the chapel was acting as a sanctuary, as the old laws decreed? Sure. He'd be all over that. But not now.

That'd be nice. That'd be a fun project. Turning the chapel into a sanctuary. A portable sanctuary, for when the danger zones inevitably jumped down on it. And Saachi wouldn't be invited. She'd have to build her own sanctuary. With no blackjack and no hookers.

((Chuck Soileaux continued in We're Mostly Made of Water. And don't check the grammar of the title.))