Why such an intelligent-looking physically strong young guy is behind the counter selling sandwiches at the airport? When I ask him to make me a tuna sandwich he points at his ear indicating he can’t hear well.
“Tuna on one of those big Parisian rolls, sil vous plait,” I shout.
He nods. “American?”
I shout, “Canadian. From Quebec.”
He nods again and asks my name.
“Victor Hugo,” I shout.
He frowns. “Yeah, and I am Quasimodo.”
I want to explain to him my father’s last name was Hugo and my mother was a voracious reader, and the two of them had decided early on if the baby was going to be a boy they would name him Victor. Back in Montreal my French speaking buddies think it’s a cool name, otherwise no big deal. This guy here at CDG is different; he seems quite pissy about it. Hello, it’s my name!
When I insist that I want the sandwich, he flips the bird and turns to the next in line.
I see the manager is at the other end of the store. I go complain to him; he waves it away. “Don’t mind him, he is cranky today, he’s got some girlfriend problem. And it doesn’t help he sometimes works nightshift in the Notre-Dame. Apparently not a cakewalk, a real back-breaking job. Let me make you that sandwich. It’s on the house.”
He makes the tuna sandwich and he hands it to me with a friendly smile. I am inclined to
ask him the crazy assistant’s name but decide against it.
That would be too much information.
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