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A NETFLIX COMEDY SPECIAL
I don't know how to kiss girls.
It's terrified me since I was a kid.
Kissing girls scares me so much.
Not long ago, I met a girl I liked a lot.
At the end of the first date, I couldn't kiss her.
I tried.
I think she didn't get what I was doing.
First date, I couldn't kiss her.
On the second date, I couldn't either.
We set up a third date,
and on the way, I felt so much pressure
because the more dates are set,
the more attempts there are,
the more pressure there is.
Just like the driving license.
If you flunk it once,
you hang on and study.
Flunk it three times? "Take the bus. You're a pain in the ass."
Has anyone here flunked it several times?
Clap if you have. Go on.
You're proud too!
"We can't read signs!"
Some of you raised your hands.
You didn't listen to the instructions until the end.
I know why you flunked your license. Listen until the end.
"Now, turn…"
"No. Shucks. I was going to say right."
"You turned left. Unfortunately, that was an elementary school."
"You've just killed eight children. Oops."
"And a pregnant woman
expecting twins. That's ten children!"
I flunked mine so many times, always because of parallel parking.
Parallel parking scares me.
I realized recently that parallel parking was a symbolic action,
like a kiss, and if you mess that up, as a man,
it means you're not a real man. Which is ridiculous.
What's perverted about a kiss is,
you can't tell the girl, "Hang on, I'll try again."
"I'll do angle kissing!" No, that doesn't work.
You can't have a buddy behind her going,
"Go on…"
"Stop. Glottis."
No.
Third date,
I couldn't kiss her.
I felt so ridiculous, I went home, and I vented to my housemate.
I usually struggle to open up,
but it's easy because my housemate is my best friend.
He was there because he always is.
He's 40, and I love him, okay?
I told him, "I think I'm afraid of the moment when I go to kiss a girl."
He gave me good advice.
"Don't be afraid of the moment when you go to kiss a girl."
I said, "And?" And he said, "Yes."
That's not advice. That's denial. It doesn't work.
-"Mom, I'm scare of the dark!" -"Don't be scared, Timothée."
"Go back to the cave, please."
He told me,
"You're scared of starting because you're scared of being rejected."
"Fourth date, you invite her here. I'll be in my room. I won't listen."
I was like, "That's a weird thing to point out, but fine."
"She rings the bell. You open."
"Get her settled in. She should talk for a long while."
"At some point, you look her in the eye. You interrupt her."
"And you go…"
"Go on, suck my dick."
No, I'm joking!
He told me…
Should I use this tone for the whole show? He told me…
"You interrupt her, and you say, 'I'm sorry.'"
"I may kiss you in the next three minutes. Go on.'"
"If she goes, 'No, thank you,' don't do it."
A very good consent-based technique.
He said, "But if she goes…"
"'Okay.'"
He said, "If she goes high-pitched, the chick is happy."
That sentence misogynists used in the '80s.
Like, "It's a good sign if she wags her tail."
Truly Neanderthal-like.
It was my only advice.
I invite her on a fourth date. I'm so stressed.
She's late because she's classy.
So I had time to think behind the door.
I think I know why I don't know how to kiss the girls I like.
It's because of my parents.
They are the only couple I experienced.
They've been together for 30 years. I've never seen them kiss.
Not one sign of affection.
Like people who love each other a little, but nothing crazy.
They're like office colleagues whose boss went,
"Both of you,
on Monday, I want a family on my desk."
They were like, "The boss said it!"
I don't understand their dynamics as a couple.
Sometimes I go eat at home. I ring the bell.
They open, like, "Hello, son!"
They're like Sims. It's so weird.
"How are you?"
"I was well…"
I see them about, and I think, "How did you conceive me?"
There are six children in my family.
One child conceived every three years, which is too mathematical for me.
But I have a theory.
Every three years…
my parents rent a meeting room.
They put on their outfits and like…
Sex civil servants.
Can't imagine anything other than something very civil.
Very cordial. "Hello."
A handshake. I guess my dad rubs a bit.
She picks it up in a little well which she applies.
She lies on her back, and it infuses.
Like a small tea.
A mommy fruit tea.
That's my theory. Don't know.
I can. She's my mom.
I don't like that you laughed. No.
My parents love each other.
They just never look at each other. I like to annoy my mom with that.
I like to annoy my mom, but with this at the moment.
Sometimes I go home to wind her up.
I tell her, "You don't love Dad. You never look at him."
"You can tell me. I'm your son. Let's talk."
She goes mental. "What are you saying? Why are you saying that?"
When he's two meters away, I go, "Hey! You don't love him?"
"You can tell me, even if I'm asleep! 'I don't love your dad! Let's talk!'"
She broke down and said,
"You don't understand anything about life, you punk."
She said, "Loving someone, Panayotis, isn't about looking them in the eye."
"It's about looking in the same direction."
"The same direction."
It moved me.
When she said this, it moved me, but I didn't show my emotions.
I reacted in a weird way.
I just pushed my mom,
and I said, "That was ridiculous, what you said!"
I screamed in her face
with the choked voice of a racist old lady.
The voice of that lady who opens her shutters at night,
"Too many Arabs!"
You know that lady, right? That was my voice. It came out naturally.
The worst is, the lady is right.
My mom! My mom is right!
Sorry. Oops.
I mix them up as they're the same person. But it's just…
That was a joke! Okay!
Recently, I understood what she meant by looking in the same direction.
We were having dinner at my parents'.
We were eating in silence because we don't know how to communicate.
And…
for the past 15 years, every summer,
my mom rents a vacation rental with a pond so that my father can go fishing.
Is this love? I have no idea.
She started late this year. There was no pond available.
We didn't know it yet. It was complete silence.
Something deep, sad was going on inside my mom.
She stares at my dad, she takes a deep breath, and,
"Well,
I'm sorry. I haven't found a rental with a pond."
He was eating.
He said to her, "And?"
She said, "Well,
I haven't found a rental with a pond so that you can go fishing this summer."
He said to her, "And?"
She said, "Well,
is he stupid or what?"
"Because you like to go fishing."
He goes, "No."
My mom's eyelid started twitching.
She said, "Yes."
"You do like it. I've been renting a pond for 15 years so that you could go."
"I've been fishing for 15 years
because you've been renting a pond for 15 years!"
What's there to do in Poitou-Charentes?
He started shaking. He got up. He went to bed.
I was eating. I was freaking out.
I said to them, "Is that looking in the same direction?"
"You're cross-eyed."
"Watch out."
Of course, with that example, I can't kiss the girl I like.
I'm working on it, but not yet.
I was waiting behind the door for the fourth date.
I kiss her on the cheeks. I get her settled in.
She's gorgeous.
I try to play it cool.
I have to interrupt her. My housemate's three-minute technique.
But I'm so shy.
Not usually, but I get flustered with someone I like.
So I motivate myself.
I talk to myself. "Come on. You can do it."
"Just interrupt her. It's not difficult. I'll count down."
"One hundred."
I look at her and I go…
A bit too intense!
She jumped. She looked at me.
I swear this is true.
I panicked. I went…
She said, "What's going on?"
I said, "I need the toilet."
I was improvising. I did this with my arms.
I locked myself in the toilet.
I thought to myself for ten seconds, "What have you just done?"
"What just happened?"
A new terror crept up. I thought,
"She'll hear I'm not doing anything. She won't trust me!"
I had an idea. I emptied the toothbrush holder.
I filled it with water, and I…
poured.
I thought, "Go see a shrink, Panayotis."
"It's time."
"You're faking a little pee for a girl who doesn't care
because you're scared of kissing her. Something's wrong."
I go back to the family room. I'm stressed.
I needed a pee
because water dripping into a toilet sounds exactly like a pee.
So I…
I can't flush twice in a row. Like, "No."
"It's not what you think. I don't like a long pee."
"I prefer two short, little pees with a break in the middle."
"So I do what I call the first pee,
then I stop deliberately, and when it tickles me, I go back."
"That's the second pee."
"Don't take it from me. It's my thing. It's mine."
"My private garden."
No.
I go back to the family room.
I'm sweating.
I look at her, and I don't know, I let down my guard.
I interrupt her. I go, "Sorry."
"I may kiss you in the next three minutes."
"Go on."
What a stud!
She went…
"You're such a weird guy!"
I went Neanderthal
because in my head, I was like, "Go high-pitched!"
"Come on, sweetie!"
You become a little shit so quickly!
I could tell in her eyes that she wanted to.
I wasn't scared of rejection. It was a cute little moment.
Two minutes go by. My heart's racing.
Two minutes and 30 seconds. Two minutes and 40 seconds.
Two minutes and 50 seconds.
Thirteen minutes.
She's looking at me like, "Didn't we say…"
I couldn't kiss her.
I can hear you!
I'm not scared!
I'm not scared of a kiss! I'm scared of being vulnerable.
I'm convinced that when you kiss someone…
I mean, real kisses. It doesn't happen often, but you can tell.
You feel a fluttering in your stomach.
This is the most vulnerable moment of your life.
Because in one action,
as symbolic and stupid as…
you pour out the feelings you stored
when thinking about this person for weeks or months.
You find the guts to send them on a silver platter.
You look them in the eye.
You wait to humbly offer these feelings on a silver platter at the right time.
What's horrible is she can go…
You should be like, "It went well. No big deal."
"It happens."
"Well, yes. Are you kidding? Nothing ventured, nothing gained."
"Yes, Sylvie, are you kidding?"
"Mind if I go sleep? Today has been exhausting."
"I'll pick this up? Of course."
"Are you kidding? I'm not messy."
"No, it's broken, but it's only my self-confidence."
It terrifies me.
It scares me so much.
I've learned recently that when you kiss someone,
the bacteria in…
You're not going to like this.
The bacteria in the mouth of the person
stay within you for four years after the kiss.
Those people who kissed losers are like, "What?"
"What's he saying with his T-shirt in his pants? What, Steve Jobs?"
It's true.
Go home and Google it.
Your mouths are full of people from the past.
Your mouths are Airbnbs.
I'm a small vacation rental.
Not many visitors. In Poitou-Charentes.
"Hello!"
"Welcome to the Three Lavender rental!"
"How was your journey?"
That's me.
I couldn't do it.
Nothing more emasculating than a failed kiss.
She has work in the morning.
I walk her back to the door. She stops one last time.
I kiss her on the cheeks. Awful.
She said, "Well, see you next time, then."
I said, "Yes."
Then I slammed the door.
It looks like a slap on her ass. No.
I just can't mime.
The guy can't smooch, but, "Come on, princess."
"Get out or I'll take you out. Yeah, get home safely." No.
I just can't mime. I don't know how to slam a door.
I look like Passe-Partout, I don't know…
Whoa, no.
I slam the door. Okay.
Right then, my housemate opens his door. He goes, "What happened?"
- "I know you listened." - "Yes."
He won't lie anymore.
He's going through a midlife crisis. He's a truth toast.
He goes, "I heard it. She went high-pitched."
"She wanted it to happen. So the fear was only in your head."
It drove me crazy. I said, "You're not my father!"
He punished me and sent me to bed.
I couldn't sleep.
I had insomnia. It drove me crazy. Actually, enough with that word.
Insomnia. That's really a lie.
That's a coverall to hide the truth.
-"You look tired, Bertrand!" -"Yes, I have insomnia. It's okay."
Let's tell the truth.
Let's learn to say, "True."
"Right now, I have problems in life,
but I can't think about it during the day."
"So I think about it at night."
"And I cry."
"Since I'm lying in bed, my tears drop in my ears,
and I listen to my sadness."
"How was your weekend in Cévennes?"
We'd have everything to gain.
I'm just saying.
It made me angry.
My dad used to say "It's all in your head" to us all the time.
We'd go see him. He'd go, "You're sad?"
"It's all in your head."
"There's no point crying. It won't help."
"Stitches?"
"It's all in your head."
-"I'm bleeding." -"It's all in your head."
"It was in my head. Now it's coming out."
My father has an old-fashioned view of what a man is.
For my father, a man is strong,
confident, a little funny, a bit of a womanizer,
but never vulnerable.
My father denies two things in life.
He denies feelings. For him, they don't exist.
And speed bumps.
Those don't exist either.
We go over a speed bump at 70 kilometers per hour.
-"There was a speed bump." -"What makes you say that?"
I have to argue whether my forehead hit the car ceiling.
It drives me crazy. Not long ago,
we'd left a restaurant. He'd ordered a coffee to go.
I don't even know why.
These days, he likes to say, "To go. I don't have the time."
He has time.
I know his schedule.
A lot of time, not much use of it.
We're in the car. He has his coffee. We run over a speed bump.
And on his thigh, I see a little coffee stain.
I go nuts. "Didn't we go over a speed bump?"
"Okay, sorry. Quick question."
"Why do you have a coffee stain on your thigh?"
He replied… This isn't a joke.
I'm just offering this life moment.
He told me…
"This is how I drink my coffee."
He doesn't give a damn anymore.
The crazy thing is, for him, that's a man.
"I'm right because I said I'm right!"
He started teaching us this way early on.
I was eight years old. We were on holiday in a vacation rental.
You're laughing at my life, but fine.
My dad, my brothers, and I were walking in the woods.
It wasn't a fun, educational walk
like I hope you have all enjoyed in your childhood.
Like, "Kids! Come!"
"Here is a conifer."
No. Though it'd be stupid to whisper for a tree.
We'd just follow one another in single file,
without talking, for 45 minutes in the woods.
We were so scared!
We were hostages
stretching their legs like,
"FARC are so nice, giving us five minutes of exercise a day."
"It wasn't like during Ingrid's time."
One of my brothers is crying. It's annoying my father. He goes, "Hey!"
"Stop crying."
Which from an educational point of view has never worked.
There's never been a child going, "Yes!"
"It's so silly! I hadn't thought of that!"
"We turned off the faucet!"
"Nice to meet you. You are?"
"You're Daddy!"
No.
If a child speaks like that, you should run.
He's haughty. He's screwing with you. Not a good sign.
He goes on crying.
My father is so annoyed that he goes over to him like, "Hey."
"It's all in your head.
"No need to show it to the others."
He pauses. He looks at us. He says, "I'll give you a lesson."
He drops his pants.
Relax, this isn't going there at all.
I don't know why, in all of my childhood stories,
my father is in his shorts, but to each their dad.
He throws his pants, and he goes, "Hey!"
"You watch me!"
He's not drunk, but that's how he talks.
We watch our dad walk into the woods, in his shorts,
natural as a weasel.
He was always too hairy for a man. We were wondering.
Twenty meters in, he stops. He goes, "Hey!"
"There's a ditch with nettles!"
He goes in.
He rubs around the ditch.
It's weird. We only see his chest. It's scary.
He comes out. He goes to my brother. "Hey!"
"Am I crying?"
We were like, "Who's gonna call child protective services?"
"Just once. We'll be separated, but we'll be safe."
No. We were scared. We went, "No."
-"You're not crying." -"I'm not crying, right?"
"You see, that's a man."
"You don't cry even if you feel like it."
"If you show what's inside of you,
the world is gonna eat you alive."
"Capisce?"
As for us, we all started crying one at a time.
He was scaring us. That big, itchy, red man.
He went, "What didn't you understand?"
Like Philippe Etchebest in Cauchemar en cuisine.
My mother was meeting us. She sees this scene from afar.
Her husband in his shorts,
crying and handling it badly, in front of all of his kids, crying too.
One of my brothers dropped his pants for no reason.
In every family, there's an oddball.
He drops his pants when no one's watching.
"Mom!"
"Mom, look!"
That was my bro-- That was me.
I quickly found my calling, okay?
My parents had a big fight that day. I understood something about couples.
In the long run, we often match with our opposite, character-wise.
I don't know why there's such a rule.
That's my parents. My father hides his feelings.
He suppresses them. He buries them. When my mother has a feeling, "Take it."
"Do with my soul as you wish."
"Sir, before you go, pull on this thread. It's the thread of my life."
She's in a musical.
She shows everything, always. Too soon. To everyone.
It's uncomfortable. Same as when you meet a naturist unexpectedly.
You know the vibe? You get on the beach, like…
The beach is empty.
He stays 1.5 meters away from you.
He introduces himself. "Hello. Jean-Claude."
"Yes!"
"I already saw your dick, so your name doesn't really matter."
"You should learn to prioritize your details. It's important."
It's the same.
It's the same with feelings. It's too much all at once.
We were on tour recently,
and we were having dinner with the venue managers.
A gentleman arrived late for dinner,
and he was so full of information and emotions.
I felt uncomfortable. He came in, "Hello, nice to meet you. Guy."
"Sorry, I'm a bit late."
"I was signing divorce papers with my wife."
"Ex-wife, actually. Hey, guys, I play the clarinet!"
Throughout dinner, we were like, "Put briefs over your emotions, Guy."
"We can see your emotions' balls."
"It's too soon."
My mom shared what she had inside of her early on.
She triggered an existential crisis when I was very young, in middle school.
And we were in the car, the two of us, on the way to music school.
I was going to sit in the back. Normal.
She blocks the car door. She goes, "You know what?"
"Sit in the front."
First time in my life!
Do you remember what a big step up that was?
I said,
"You sure?"
She said,
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Then why are we whispering?"
I get in. I was freaking out.
I was like, "We're in the place!" I was so happy.
Right away, in my head, I thought, "Now you're gonna pay taxes."
I grew up scared of taxes.
My dad would open them up in front of us. He'd go,
"Enjoy it while you're kids. One day, they're gonna come and get you."
He'd go to bed and leave us in this air of mystery.
Every other evening, with my brother, we'd be like, "Are the taxes coming?"
"I don't know how it works. I don't get it."
We're in the car with my mom. We leave. It's a bit hot.
And so I'm happy 'cause I'm going to open the front window.
In the back, the window is for losers.
In the back, it's…
"I don't have money for an automated system."
"I'm using elbow grease."
Poor people.
Remember when you discovered that…
You became so imperious with others all of a sudden.
Teasing those in the back.
"Let me know if it's too windy. I'll close it, Carole."
I suck at miming. I'm sorry.
It's like I'm sticking my finger in a cow's eye.
We don't know if she's enjoying it. It's unclear.
"No, stop it!"
Or, "Whoa!"
"More! The other one too! Yeah!"
I can go on for another five minutes, but I can tell
that more would be self-indulgent.
I wanted your opinion. It's important.
There's no more… No!
It's…
Don't know how to feel about you clapping more for noises than jokes,
but I'm with you. We're on the same page.
For real, put your finger in a cow's eye-- Sorry.
I'll stop. I'm sure she won't react.
I could take a bet with whoever. I'm sure of it. Try it in a field.
She'll be like…
"Damn, I can't see on the right. What…"
"Damn!"
"I could swear there was a tree! I can't see it. It's weird!"
"Whoa!"
"It came back! All is well!"
Okay, let's focus. You're distracted.
I lower the window. I'm in the car with my mom.
I lower the window.
I can feel the warm summer wind on my head.
I have an idea. Something silly.
You'll get the reference. The opening of American movies.
Deserted road. Two studs in a Cadillac. Leather jackets, Ray-Bans.
They have rock music playing loud.
They lower the windows, their arms out like,
"Freedom!"
I want to do that so bad.
I lowered it by that much. Because my mom won't allow any more.
So, discreetly,
I put out three fingers like that,
like an octopus trying to escape from a Japanese restaurant,
and I look at my mom like…
"Freedom!"
"But not too much!"
My mom lowers the window on her side. I get sucked out.
I think she wants me to jump.
My arm is completely outside.
And I have an idea.
I tell myself, "I'll do it."
I don't give a-- I put my hand over the roof.
And I tell myself, "Whoa. Take it easy, man."
"Taxes are gonna fuck you up. Careful."
My mom plays some music.
She plays "Hey Jude" by The Beatles.
One of the best songs ever. One of my favorite moments in my life.
I'm becoming an adult. The start of summer, possibilities.
In the front with my mom. Looking in the same direction.
We're enjoying ourselves.
Nice weather. It's all good.
She lowers the volume, and she goes, "You know what?
"I'd like you to bury me to that song."
I had a small existential crisis.
"I don't like to be in the front, actually."
"The lady talks to me. I don't like it."
She sees I'm struggling. She lowers the volume again.
"Hey, calm down."
"Everything's okay."
"It's not just Mom who's going to die. We all die. That's life."
My mom, like all moms, always goes one sentence too far.
She's on the edge of a cliff. She should stop.
She doesn't realize everyone's uncomfortable,
because she's lost all social sensors.
So she digs herself deeper in shit with each new sentence.
She says this to me. I can tell she feels better.
It's then I understood why my mom never has mental issues.
She puts them in our heads.
Which is very smart. That's what kids are for.
Life is a relay race from one generation to another.
It gets tiring after a while. "There, kid, that's for you!"
-"What's that?" -"Trauma!"
I think that's it.
I still have this recurring image in nightmares.
My mom throwing me out on the sidewalk, driving away, with the Beatles on.
Me thinking, "We're all going to die."
My accordion teacher coming to pick me up. Class is about to start.
I did six years of accordion.
Yes, this is the expected response. You're looking at me pointedly like,
"Sounds like a great childhood!"
I wanted to play the guitar at first.
Like all young men, in order to have sex. That's what the guitar is for.
The guitar is a subtext.
It tells a story.
The guitar is a phallic object
which you play on the beach, looking someone in the eye.
It tells a story.
While this…
It isn't the same subtext, believe me.
This is, "I can make all kinds of rillettes."
Not the same vibe.
Six years of accordion to make my dad happy.
When we were kids, my dad didn't like us doing kids' stuff.
Like, us being happy wasn't his priority.
He wanted us to be, later. He wanted us, as children,
to work on the future happiness of the adults we'd become.
I thought, "I'm going to show him I'm an adult."
"Let's pick a grown-up instrument."
L'acordeonisto.
That's what the pros call it.
Stupid. Have you ever seen an adult play the accordion?
Who isn't homeless?
As a child, I spent hundreds of hours
with 9.5 kilos of brushed metal crushing my thighs,
playing post-war music.
The accordion, it's like the war just ended. They sent you there.
The songs are…
The stumps of the Avignon fighters
Who came back from the front
Everything about this instrument is horrible.
It's a bottomless well of melancholy until death.
The worst bit was getting out of school with friends,
going to music school together
because we were all white.
And they'd go to the guitar room
all cocky like, "Gonna smooch girls!"
I'm like, "See you later!"
I'd go on all alone, sad, along the hall,
all the way down to the accordion room, with a vibe like…
"Watch out for the Germans."
"Learn to protect Strasbourg, kiddo."
It was tough.
I stopped the accordion at a key moment.
It's another moment which is…
It's a bit tough, but I was very much in love with a girl.
In middle school. There was a big party. I was very much in love with this girl.
Ninon.
My best friend, Thomas, was at the party.
He knew that I loved Ninon.
I had told him. Because he was my confidant.
Can you tell where this is going? Let's go there together.
At this party, Thomas cleverly brings a guitar.
Out of nowhere!
He stands in a corner, and he plays a few shitty tunes.
Ninon goes over to him. That whore puts a hand on his back!
Sorry! I apologize.
I said sorry before you reacted. It doesn't count.
She told him,
"You're so cool, Thomas. You play the guitar."
At this party, she jerked him off.
This is France now, ladies and gentlemen.
You jerk off someone for an F-flat, apparently.
You realize I had told him I loved her? He still…
Looks like that's okay for you. Are you crazy?
Whose side are you on?
I told him. He knew it!
He betrayed me. It's a Greek betrayal.
It's a stab in the back in the third act. Same gesture. Disgusting.
It breaks a child's heart. It stays with you. That's what I mean.
I was so angry.
First time I felt like killing someone.
I wanted to strangle Thomas with my own hands.
I could have. I had strong arms. Carrying 9.5 kilos every week.
It was so unfair.
I thought, "I can't bring my accordion to this party."
A party on the sixth floor, no elevator.
It's a first-floor instrument. Or subways. Trenches.
Everything close to hell, gravity-wise.
It's the devil's instrument,
as the pros like to say.
Even if I had managed to bring it up,
you can't play the accordion at a middle school party.
You're having doubts, but think about any of your middle school parties.
Try to visualize…
that kid who doesn't have many friends, who blinks a lot.
Eating crackers all night long.
He's getting hyped. He grabs the karaoke mic.
"Come on. Come stand around me. Don't be afraid!"
"Ninon, this is for you!"
He opens the trunk. There's a trunk!
This huge thing no kid has ever seen.
It's like a Fiat 500 for them.
He puts on suspenders. The word "suspenders"!
With a small latch at the back to connect the suspenders.
Or the accordion could fall on your legs, and you become disabled for life.
Oops, kiddo!
I swear this is true. My first accordion lesson,
the teacher said, "Always remember the latch."
-"Or else, see Jean-Louis?" -"Hi!"
"Well…"
The kid has scoliosis,
and he goes, "Ninon!"
The stumps of the Avignon
It's over for him.
Over!
No palm will touch his genitals tonight.
No one on earth ever said,
"I'd love to bang the accordionist."
Never.
I stopped. I started doing things I enjoyed.
When I was allowed to go to Paris,
I'd often wait outside comedy clubs after the shows
to talk to the comedians.
Because I love humor.
Such a stupid sentence. Sorry, I take it back.
I heard myself, like,
"I love humor, yeah."
"And breathing! I love both these things."
"They're requisites. Yeah, I know smart words too."
I wanted to know how it works.
One comedian introduced me to a casting director.
I messed up many auditions, and I pulled one off at 16.5 years old.
It was for Le Petit Journal.
I get my foot in TV at 17 years old. Which is really too young for TV.
The first evening, there's a drinks party with the crew, celebrities, famous people.
In my head, I thought,
"I need to go home right away so that I can talk to my parents."
I took a taxi. Because I had money.
Because TV.
Because Jews.
And… No, I'm joking! The show went in a different direction!
"There are so many of them in this industry!"
I'm joking.
I get home in the taxi.
I remember I slammed the car door.
I take my time, and I watch the taxi turn left,
as though I didn't want any witnesses.
I turn around. The house looks huge.
There's the gravel path in front of the house.
I still remember the noise of the gravel. Heavier than usual.
Everything was oppressive. So weird.
I ring the bell. I'm stressed. I'm not sure why.
My mom is in her bathrobe.
She hugs me so hard. It had never happened to me.
So hard!
She whispers in my ear, like a secret, "I'm so proud of you, my son."
I stepped back.
And I said,
"Very well."
Apparently, I had joined the aristocracy. "Very well, Mother."
"You can go back to the stables now."
It wasn't like me! I ran to the family room.
My dad was sitting in front of the TV, which was off.
In his boxer shorts.
He said, "Sit down."
I sit down. I'm like, "This is a student-teacher conference."
He said, "I…"
"I watched Le Journal Petit."
"And I…
I think that…
you stare into space too much. You look like an idiot. Too bad."
He said that. There was a silence.
He slapped his hand on his thigh.
He got up with difficulty.
He said, "Right, good night, everyone."
I was alone.
But he used that tone
which all men who plan to murder their family at night use.
"Good night, everyone."
"Sleep very peacefully."
And he went to sleep in his shitty little weasel burrow.
I thought, "I'll kill you one day, you know!"
I was expecting "I love you" or "I'm proud"
because I know he's never ticked that box.
I can't fault him for not doing a thing he never experienced.
I know my dad loves us with all his heart.
He would kill for us.
He's already done it twice.
But there's this kind of wall
between him and the world as soon as feelings are involved.
It terrifies me. I'm so scared of it happening to me.
When I'm with a girl I love, and I want to kiss her.
If you don't sort this as a parent, it echoes through your kids.
It leads to a line of kids uncomfortable with feelings.
"Hello."
It leads to very silent family dinners.
We love one another, but we don't say it. Hearts racing.
Screaming inside. The kid like, "I know you love me!"
"But I'd like to hear it once
because it'd give me confidence for 25 years!"
The dad like, "Fuck, I love you, son. I could eat you."
"I'll eat you! Yum! Nothing but bones left!"
"I'll gobble you up!"
"I can't tell you. Love is a feeling. Feelings are for those with vulvae."
The mom like, "Don't worry, I have enough vulvae to love everyone!"
"And I found a rental with a pond!"
"Finally!"
Such a shame.
We all do stupid things. Me included.
We start hiding our love in small sentences,
in small everyday acts.
We delegate the responsibility of understanding that it was love
to the person we love.
It's getting complicated.
That's called a Trojan horse. Which is a war strategy.
Such a funny question. Asking myself what I hide my love in.
A few months ago, I realized that I hide mine in mean jokes.
When I love someone, I want to destroy them.
It's unhealthy. I realized this because my housemate,
my best friend, the guy I've been talking about,
had cancer.
When we heard, without thinking, my buddies and I held a surprise party.
To wish him a…
We should have thought about it!
"Happy cancer to you, buddy!"
We hid in the apartment, behind the sofas, waiting for him to get in.
When he put the key in the door,
we looked at each other like, "Maybe it wasn't a good idea,
a surprise cancer party right now."
Isn't it unbelievable?
Humans have this ability
to realize that an idea was absolutely shitty from the start
in the heat of the moment.
You realize what's at stake right before.
You're like, "Whoa."
"Honey, is now a good time to have a child?"
The doctor is like,
"Cut the umbilical cord. What's going on?"
That's how we work. We think after the fact.
He had been in the flat for 10 to 15 seconds. We were still…
We're burglarizing him, actually.
One of my buddies is really brave, and he went,
"Fuck, what…"
He went, "What the…"
We thought a heart attack was a nice gift.
It's a neater way to go.
Hey, he's better. Relax. He's cured.
He allowed me to make jokes.
He said, "You do all the jokes you want about me and my cancer in your show."
He said this right before he died.
That was the first joke he approved.
At that party, we had a football game. He likes it.
He was the goalie. Because he had cancer.
It's very hard to know how to react when a loved one tells you this.
I was the first he told.
He said, "I have cancer." I said, "Drink water!"
I don't know why that came out, but it did.
He was the goalie, okay?
He's an awful goalie.
The ball is near him.
It'd have been so easy to catch it, but he's awful.
The ball goes in.
My friends were so angry. But they couldn't show it.
Because he has cancer.
There's nothing more enjoyable than seeing men swallow their anger.
They all went, "No big deal!"
"Focus. Look around you. Right!"
"No problem. We're having fun!"
"Are you having fun? I am! We're having fun! What a nice evening!"
"We only have one life, right?"
I was so angry.
That's when I realized I make mean jokes about those I love.
I went to see him and I said, "Sorry. You've got cancer?"
"You can get the ball, then."
Meaning, "Very good joke" in Italian.
He was in stitches… I never drink at the right time.
For all comedians, there's applause, bam.
I'd be an awful doctor.
Like, "So you have…
AIDS. Okay."
That felt good.
He was in stitches.
He knows. He knows where I hide my love.
He saw the kindness in it. Like, "Best joke of your life!"
That offended me.
No, I was so happy.
I was like, "Best joke of my life!"
I looked at all my friends,
and I said something that I still don't understand today.
"You heard the hot potato I pulled up this dimwit?"
What does that mean?
It came out naturally, as if I'd grown up in a village.
My friends did the opposite of The Voice.
They all looked away.
They were all so uncomfortable.
I was too, actually, because what's when I realized
that I didn't make that joke to make him laugh,
but to make me laugh.
Because I was sad.
My friend is unwell,
and when I felt that I was about to cry, I'd make jokes about people.
It made me feel better to see them struggle.
I thought, "You need to see a shrink."
I went to see one.
I told her about that party. She said…
"So, actually,
when you feel vulnerable,
instead of showing your true colors to others
because you're scared of them rejecting you,
you'd rather make them more vulnerable than you are."
-"I'm an asshole." -"No."
"Not quite."
"That isn't the medical term."
"Actually, it's as though…"
-"I'm an asshole." -"Yes!"
"So that'll be 72 euros."
That lady is unbelievable. She blows my mind.
You think she treads cautiously, but then she doesn't.
I sent my housemate to her because of his midlife crisis.
He couldn't talk about it.
He saw her so many times.
Then she said something so crazy, he came home and told me,
it blew our minds.
She told him,
"This will be our first work session."
"I finally have your diagnosis."
"So, you…
you're having a midlife crisis."
He said, "Yeah."
"That's why I came here, because…
there were clues."
"I'm 40."
"I'm going through a crisis."
"It doesn't look like it, but put two and two together,
and I'll keep my 72 euros."
She said, "No."
"You're not keeping anything."
"A midlife crisis doesn't mean anything."
"Let's say that at birth, we all had a small shell on our back."
"Like a snail."
"Follow me."
"We go through life."
"When we find a defining experience…
in the shell!"
"You didn't care. You thought you knew who you were."
"So you rushed headfirst into life."
"Fifteen years old, 18, 22, 26, 30…"
"You think it's filling up."
"But I know. It's my job."
"Knock knock, the shell is empty."
"So you go on."
"Thirty-three, 36, 40."
"At 40, you stop."
"You take stock."
"You want to know what you've set aside. And you went…"
"But there's nothing in my shell!"
"Shell… shell…"
"What do you do when you have lost something?"
"What do we all do?"
"Hello, Shell Police?"
"I know. It's silly. But that's a midlife crisis."
"It's an emergency."
"But there isn't one."
"Because it's too late."
"You're a slug."
He was completely disoriented.
He limped back home.
I was happy on the sofa.
He jumped at me like, "You gotta live!"
I was like, "That was the plan before you caught me."
He said, "You have to learn to collect… because…
because then, knock knock, the shell."
"Okay."
"I'm missing some details. I don't know everything."
"Hello, Shell Police?"
"Okay. Whoa."
"Now I have all the bits. You're scaring me, actually."
It was so funny. It made me feel better to talk about it.
I was going through my twenties, and I thought,
"When does it start?"
You ever thought that?
Like, "When do I become myself? Officially?"
I always felt out of sorts,
not in tune with something everyone else understood so easily.
It drove me crazy.
To see my housemate, at 40, ask himself the same questions
as my dad surely did at 70, relaxed me. It made me feel better.
Our whole lives, we'll almost be ourselves.
We'll try to manage. It's the taking part that counts.
We'll be a draft until the end. It relaxed me.
You, less, it looks like. I can tell.
We were ourselves as kids. We were never more ourselves.
What goes wrong as an adult?
I don't know. Why all these questions?
Do we actually become adults? Debatable. I don't think so.
I think that the adult we all became
grew around the kid we used to be, to protect him.
Eventually, he suffocated him. We all have a dead child inside.
That's my outlook on life. To each their own!
Not dead, if it helps!
A child in agony inside.
Because no matter the age,
20, 60, no matter,
you walk down the street, you see a crosswalk, and you think,
"I'll only walk on the white strips."
It's the kid going, "I'm still here!"
"Why are you bald?"
That'll happen to me.
I was myself as a kid.
I wasn't afraid of anyone.
Someone new?
I'd go and see them. "Hello! How are you?"
I wasn't German. Just a weird voice.
People must have thought, "Here's a German kid. Hello!"
When I was a kid, I was too much myself.
You know the kind?
With big adult heads. They stare at you for eight minutes,
as though you owed them money.
At a family dinner, I was the type…
You've never seen this kid in your life.
He looks at you.
He comes over. He pulls at your sweater. "My butt hurts."
"Okay. What…"
"Was it me you wanted to talk to? I don't think we've ever communicated."
"Mom had said no moussaka!"
-"I helped myself twice." -"Right."
"Okay. Sorry."
"Marc, did you hear that? What do I… what…"
-"What's your name, sweetie?" -"Panayotis!"
"Okay, right."
"Marc, he's an SS soldier!"
"It's very weird. I'm scared. I need to leave, Marc!"
As a kid, you just didn't care. After that, middle school is tough.
It's a small society. Especially tough when you play the accordion.
In middle school, to get the others to love me,
to get the older kids to love me,
I'd buy chocolate with my pocket money and hand it out after school.
If you're looking for what emotion to feel, it's pity.
I'd carry melting chocolate in my pockets all day.
In the evening, I'd wait at the gate,
and when they came out, I'd go, "Operation Choco-Choco."
Not in my head. Aloud!
Like a '70s cop in civilian clothes, a little bit shady.
"Operation Choc-Choco!"
I'd go see them. It was pathetic. I'd say, "Do you want some chocolate?"
I was like a reverse pedophile, when you think about it.
With older kids, "Want some chocolate?"
"Come, there's plenty in the Twingo!"
"Come!"
It worked.
I'd hang out with them. I felt like I was someone.
I had a box of chocolates. I'd take one or two for school every morning.
One morning, I open the box, and there's nothing.
I freaked out in a way I seldom have in life.
It was sad, but also sort of funny.
I was running everywhere, screaming, "Anyone seen my chocolate?"
Which is sort of funny. Half sad, half funny.
Sadunny.
I go see my sister. I ask her.
She just went,
"No."
I understood, and I cried all the half salty tears in my body.
She said this sentence, now legendary in my family,
"All right, chill, praline!"
Apparently that was my nickname.
I took a knife. I said, "I'm gonna stick her!"
My father came running.
He grabbed the knife.
One piece of advice.
If you want to kill someone, don't shout your plan just before.
Strangely, that alerts local authorities.
He took the knife, and he went, "Hey!"
He paused.
When my dad does that, it means he's about to teach a life lesson.
My dad isn't very involved in our education,
but every two years, he pulls a publicity stunt
so that he gets reelected as Dad.
He was at the end of his nettles mandate. He needed something big.
He took the knife, and he went, "Hey!"
"You look at… I'm going to do…"
He had to improvise, poor thing.
He took the knife.
He gave it to my sister. "You stick him. I give you permission!"
No, I'm joking.
He took the knife. He snapped it against his knee.
You're like, "Your dad had skills!" No.
He cut his hand and his knee.
"See? You shouldn't play with knives!"
"Well, yeah!"
"You too. What was… You hear yourself speak?"
"When the sound comes out of your mouth, does it get to your eardrum?"
He was in denial.
He's a man. He doesn't get hurt so foolishly in front of his children.
"You're bleeding. You're okay?"
He was like,
"What makes you say that?"
That's his catchphrase.
When he's up against it, "What makes you say that?"
He couldn't deny it anymore. His injury was making noise.
Like, "Plop."
He went…
"Go get your mom. Let's see."
It was unbelievable.
I hurried down the stairs. "Mom, quick, Dad is hurt!"
She said, "He can handle it. He's grown up!"
"Nein!"
Dad is dying on the wood floor. We need help.
It was crazy.
It was on that day I started to make jokes for people to love me.
Instead of chocolate. Simpler. And less dangerous.
Year after year, I started to build the "almost me" my dad dreamed of.
Self-assured.
Confident, funny, a bit of a womanizer.
But never vulnerable. It's helped me so many times,
but not when I want to kiss a girl I like.
My confident self is in the bathroom with a glass of water.
And I'm alone, defenseless, sweating.
I fell in love with this girl I talked about like in the movies.
She said one sentence, and I was in love. I knew it.
It was self-evident. Like warm water from my ears to my toes.
For you to understand this sentence,
I need to tell you one last thing about my childhood.
As a kid, I used to touch my nipples.
If you start snickering now, we won't be able to talk about it.
I'm starting to feel comfortable, I open up,
and you laugh at me. That isn't nice.
Stop looking at me like that. I see your eyes!
"He seemed like a weird kid, but that's something else."
No! Each kid had their own weird thing.
No? There was a pause.
We'd often take my brother to the hospital,
because he'd go, "I won't breathe until we get home!"
After 20 meters, he'd crash on the pavement like a loser.
When I was sad, I'd rub my boobs. That was my thing.
Boobs, tits? There are many ways to say it.
Stop looking at me like that! I see your eyes!
When my parents told me off, I'd go to my room, and…
It was my thing.
Throw me in jail!
We all did it.
It was my own Narnia. I released tension.
That bit doesn't matter.
What matters is, as a kid, I'd think,
"Why don't they talk about the ability to disappear?" Okay.
So I started to try and talk about it.
To spread the word.
I went to see my friends.
"When you touch your nipples--" "Stop hanging out with us."
Quick sentence.
So I tried to talk to my parents' friends when they came for dinner.
Poor people.
I'd wait on a corner of the sofa, like this.
Like a hairless cat.
I'd wait for them to hang out their coats.
They'd go up to the room with them.
And I'd strike.
"Sorry, Sylvie,
when you rub your boobies…"
They were so scared of me.
They'd freak out.
For them, I was Élise Lucet in Cash Investigation.
They'd see me and turn around, "No."
"No undocumented workers are employed by this company."
"Are you allowed to follow me? Is this legal?"
They were so scared.
And one evening, my mom came up to my room, and she said…
"All right, Panayou?"
"Yeah?"
"Great."
"Marc and Véronique are coming over tonight."
"You're okay? Yeah?"
"Great."
"Maybe you shouldn't talk to them
about your little secret?"
It became taboo at home.
"But if you want to talk to someone, we can see a shrink."
I said, "What's a shrink?"
"A shrink, Panayou, is someone you pay
to feel listened to, accepted, like everyone else."
The most beautiful definition of a shrink I've ever heard.
Only with a shrink can you go, "My name's Philippe."
"My boss is rude with me, but I handle it. I stay professional."
"I go on a cigarette break, but I don't smoke."
"I get out of work. I turn left because there's a flower shop."
"I buy a hamster there, and I kill it under my armpit."
"That's my thing."
Only with the shrink can you say that. Do you realize how lucky that is?
Your best friend would go,
"Philippe, you okay? What…"
"They sell hamsters in flower shops? I had no idea."
There are so many overwhelming questions in life.
But the shrink gets excited.
She's like, "Challenge!"
"What color was the hamster, Philou?"
"Rodents often symbolize Christ in the subconscious."
"Yeah, let's talk about it."
It's her job.
I sit down, but I understood that people laugh at me because of this.
So I decide not to talk about it.
-"What do you do all day?" -"I often touch my nipp--"
"Damn, she's good!"
"Pay it no mind."
I'd be terrified if a kid said, "Pay it no mind."
Their vocabulary is too precise. "I'll tell you everything, Doctor."
A James Bond villain.
"I shan't omit any details."
"Sometimes I feel
frivolous."
"And I lock myself in my room…"
"Or rather,
the entrance hall."
"And I rub…
vigorously, Doctor,
the nipple area."
"And I feel my soul
transcend itself."
"And I like this feeling, Doctor."
I said it in a way that was less terrifying.
Trust me. I was less terrifying.
But I tell her,
and I swear it's true, she just went,
"What?"
She laughed!
And I told myself that I wouldn't talk about it ever again.
Never ever!
As long as Germany isn't…
No, I'm joking.
But I was extremely embarrassed. So embarrassed.
I buried this inside. I didn't talk about it for years.
It was my first date with this girl.
Not too long ago, the last girl I…
It was under Chirac.
So it's been a minute.
It wasn't that long ago, but I felt uncomfortable.
First date. I joke around to make her love me, and she stops me.
She says, "Hey."
"You've been making jokes. We're not really talking."
"We could get to know each other. Talk about our lives."
"Don't you have a funny childhood story?"
I said, "I have something,
but you go first, just to see."
I wanted to know what kind of story to aim for.
Imagine she says something cute. "I'll go first."
"I was left-handed,
but I'd play tennis with my right hand!"
I can't follow with, "Well, as for me,
I'd touch my nipples to make myself disappear!"
"With both hands! Ambidextrous!" No.
So I let her go first. She says something a bit daring. I relax.
I tell her. She stops. She says, "What?"
"Me too."
I said, "What?"
Have you ever loved someone so hard
you want that person to die because you can't handle it?
Like, "I like you!"
"No, I liked them!"
No, that's never happened? Me neither.
I wanted to see if we were the same.
It's the same. Crazy.
I went crazy. "Go on! Tell me. I'd like to hear."
She said, "I've never told anyone. I can't tell you here just like that."
I said, "Yes!"
She said, "Well…"
"When I was little, I felt like I was in the way."
"I'd lock myself in the bathroom. I was so ashamed."
"I felt like I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders."
"I'd go to the bathroom. No water. Just the cold tiles. It was horrible."
"And I'd rub one rib. Mine was a rib."
"It'd feel like an electroshock."
"I felt like I was disappearing."
"I wasn't there anymore. It felt good. Like dying for a bit."
"It'd make me appreciate life more."
I told her, "Can I…
can I rub my nipple against your rib?"
"To see if we'd both disappear to the same place."
She laughed.
It wasn't a joke. She laughed.
I was in love with her.
I couldn't kiss her on the first date.
Second date, I could tell she wanted to. I couldn't do it.
Third date. A disaster. I told you about the fourth date.
She leaves the flat after the fourth date. I'm on the sofa with my housemate.
I'm in despair. "She's going to move on. Rightfully."
"Four dates? Then eight? Twelve? I'll need to pay her a salary!"
"It's an employment contract!"
He wasn't listening. He was pacing.
He said, "No!"
"We're going to kiss her!"
I said, "You're too involved. You're scaring me."
He said, "Now you listen!"
"Fifth date. You invite her here. I'll be in my room. I won't listen."
"She rings. You open. But she stays in the corridor."
"She's just rang. You open. You don't talk."
"You look her in the eye, and you kiss her."
"You step back. You bring her in."
"You go, 'Hey.'"
"Weren't those the longest three minutes of your life?"
With hindsight, I understand that it was trash.
But right then, don't be mad, I was like, "You're a genius!"
So many things point to the opposite.
Eight ex-wives. Twelve times child support.
Is it even legal?
I listened to him. 72 hours later, I was all dressed up,
waiting for the fifth date.
She gets there. We could hear her heels on the wood floor.
"We" because he opened his door. "You hear? She's coming!"
"Okay. I feel pity for the two of us."
"It's very weird. Put on your pants."
She rings.
I open.
I look her in the eye.
And nothing.
In my head, it's like…
And she steps closer to come in. As expected.
Imagine. You ring someone's door. They open, and…
You start doubting yourself. "Did I ring or did you?"
"Who's coming in? I don't get it."
So she comes closer without thinking. I'm freaking out.
He said she should stay in the corridor!
I use my elbow to block her, as if this was a natural pose.
She steps back. She says, "You okay, Panayotis?"
I think, "It's now or never. Go for it!"
I go to kiss her, but not like in a romantic movie.
Like a zombie movie.
I went…
The closer I got, the further back she went.
I thought, "It's further than I thought."
"If I'd known, I would've brought snacks."
I couldn't go further. I'd reached the limit of my isometric butt muscles.
No kissing.
No touching. Nothing.
But I had nothing else to say but,
"Weren't these the longest three minutes of your life?"
Embarrassing. I used that tone.
Disgusting. Like I had just tortured her.
"The longest three minutes of your life, Jean Moulin!"
So weird.
She straightened up. "The longest three minutes of my life?"
"Is this about that weird three-minute thing from last time?"
"You tried to kiss me?"
I said,
"What makes you say that?"
I couldn't touch my nipple to disappear. She knew about it!
Literally, I thought, "It'd help the two of us if she died."
"We'll move on."
"Me, especially."
So I failed. I'm in the apartment.
She's in the corridor. There's an open door between us.
Just like that.
We're talking.
In my blind spot, I can tell that there's someone by the wall there.
I just hear,
"Kiss her!"
As if he was commentating on a football game!
She hears a voice. She looks in.
She sees him!
"Is he your housemate?"
I say, "Huh? What?"
She says, "He's not your housemate?"
"There's a man in his shorts in your family room."
"Is that why you don't want me to come in?"
Not sure if that was a joke, or if she wanted to push me a bit.
But I took everything literally. And I said…
"I don't see anyone."
I denied someone.
Literally.
Even though he was there. I tried.
It's bold. As if she was gonna say, "Your lamp is really stylish!"
I'm so stupid!
I thought, "No, you didn't say that."
I tried to put it right and pretend it was a joke,
but the pause was a telltale.
"I don't see anyone."
What a moron.
Luckily, she's got a sense of humor. She said, "He isn't real?"
"Okay."
"I can see him really well."
"Sorry! Nice to meet you."
"This is a weird question, but are you real?"
And he went…
"Fuck, I don't know."
"But we're gonna fill up that shell."
The truth is worse.
She talked to him. He just turned and left.
Like, "If I don't reply, she won't know I was there."
She looked at me.
With a face that was like, "You're a bit silly at times."
She pushed the door.
She walked in confidently.
As if she paid rent.
And she just pushed me into a corner.
She looked me in the eye.
It wasn't cute.
An owl.
I could tell she realized that I just didn't know how.
That it was out of reach. Not part of my family's DNA.
She kissed me.
I'm not a puppy!
It sounded a bit like, "He pooped on his own!"
"Well done, Melchior!" No.
I didn't feel anything.
"We don't know where we stand!"
I became a granite block in front of her.
I felt cold. I felt distant from her, from myself.
From everything. I felt alone. So weird.
She went over to the sofa.
So I went too. It's my place. It's strange.
We talk for an hour or two. And when we talk,
I feel like I think that I love her.
But nothing when she kisses me.
She has work early, so she has to go.
I walk her to the door. She kisses me very slowly.
Nothing. Less than before. It's so weird.
She says,
"Well, I think we're gonna see more of each other."
I said, "Yes."
I was allowed by then.
I was so lost.
I came back in. Well, I walked one meter.
I sat on the sofa, and I thought,
literally, word for word,
"Now you know."
"You don't know how to love."
It sent shivers down my spine. It's silly, but I believed it.
I convinced myself for a whole minute. "You don't know how to love. It happens."
"Your dad can't really do it, and so you don't know."
"That's how it works."
"Some people are good at love, and some aren't."
"Like bread. Some people can make bread. Others, you try their bread. It's a no."
"It needs more salt."
My housemate came out.
He'd heard everything. He put his hand on my shoulder.
He whispered,
"You're a man now, damn it! I'm proud of you".
I felt a fluttering in my stomach.
I thought, "Have I been in love with him?"
I'd love to tell you that I'm dating this girl,
that we have beautiful kids,
that we see each other for brunch every weekend.
Eggs Benedict.
But I never saw her again.
Some are disappointed.
For you, it's a show. For me, it's my life.
We had the opening for the show recently.
I mean, before this beautiful pandemic.
Yum! We should do it again.
I was so scared before the opening. I call my mom when I'm scared.
I tell her I'm scared. Pragmatic.
I say, "I don't feel like myself."
She said, "He's so annoying with this!"
"Yes, Panayou, you're yourself!"
"When you called, it was your name!"
She's always so cute in moments like this.
"Is it about the show?"
I said, "I don't know. I think so, yeah."
"Listen, it's your opening."
"An opening on stage is like every first time."
"You try things out."
"If you're not feeling it, try something else. No big deal"
"And it's your opening."
"You're going to screw up. No big deal." "Stop!"
"One sentence too many. No, thank you."
She always puts it right like Jean-Claude Van Damme.
She went, "No, you're going to screw the nail of success!"
She stutters, and she hands the phone to my dad.
He takes the phone. I hear him breathing. I go all-in.
I tell him,
"I'm scared."
It's about feelings. I can hear him clam up.
He says, "Is it about the show?" I say, "What makes you say that?"
He says, "Call me after the opening."
"Tell me once things are done. Not when you're doing them."
I heard the…
only dads do on the phone after a weird, mean joke.
I understood we were the same.
I played his game for the first time.
"Want me to tell you once things are done?"
"Okay."
"When my girlfriend is pregnant, I'll tell you when it's born?"
He said, "Yes."
So much ego.
We want to see which one of us would break first.
"Call me once your girlfriend is back from the hospital."
"She'll call you herself, so I don't have to talk to you."
He goes, "The baby will call. Don't worry."
Because he's really funny, he added,
"Still don't have a girlfriend, right?"
"Call me once it's done."
"Actually, about that,
maybe I wrote this show
to tell you and Mom something I'd struggle to say
and which I can't even tell myself, and it's annoying."
He said,
"I think we know, little punk."
"You should know that I…" And I went…
He said, "What?"
I said, "Don't say it."
He said, "I don't want to."
I go, "Don't say it."
"I won't say it."
There was a pause.
He just added…
"Have a good show, son."
And I said,
"You too."
I almost said,
"Thank you. Have a good evening."
THANK YOU TO MY MOM AND DAD