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This is a time that those under 20 cannot know. La Loco? It’s the Machine du Moulin Rouge before you were born and also the spot you hit before turning 18. Of course, if someone asks, you definitely don’t admit you’re 16 and that you dressed up like Henry Leconte in the ’90s after a competition.
In the morning, I’m heading to the Paris Police Prefecture to get the Holy Grail: my receipt. I arrived in France when I was 4 and never saw the need to naturalize. Hey, I’m a political refugee! The ultimate status until hordes of refugees started coming from Syria, Iraq, and basically everywhere we messed up with our super-efficient preventive wars. Nowadays, being a political refugee is synonymous with being Roma, living in crack-infested hills, and facing lots of unglamorous stuff…
Back in those days, the Police Prefecture for foreigners was like Fort Boyard. To obtain that precious pass, you had to wait for a long, very long time in corridors filled with foreigners as tanned as you and the smell of urine. And if you had to step out, you had to do it quickly! To avoid being locked up in the Fort by those blueish master keys, often a bit sketchy about foreigners’ rights. As for me, I had been there for too long to be ejected. So, it was a matter of patience. I got the pass. I moved on.
That same evening, I went to Mr. Local’s place in the 11th district, who did things by the book. He invited 11 guys and 3 girls. With all that testosterone and weed flowing, the women didn’t feel at ease. Especially since in the gathering, 9 out of 11 guys were too shy to talk to them. So, they agreed to find a way out. They invited me and Mr. Local and told us that the party ends there for them. It’s, therefore, a real challenge ahead. Entering La Loco with 11 guys, not so well-dressed, reeking of alcohol, and with 60% of the crew being under 18.
At that very moment, as alcohol flows freely, Mr. has the same brilliant idea as usual: “Let’s approach some girls and ask them to join us.” None of us, not even ourselves back then, stopped to ponder on two essential questions. First: “Why would these ‘girls’ suddenly change their evening plans to accompany ’11 guys’ to a party?” The second question, no less crucial: “Even if these ‘girls’ intend to go to the same place, why would they want to be seen with ’11 guys’ like a horde of barbarians?” But we preferred to fantasize and prepare the evening in our minds.
At this point, you can see the smiles at the beginning of the night. Nothing is compromised yet, and you think this party is going to be epic. You’re still naive; you’re 18, and in your balding head, you believe the revolution is coming soon, and Jospin, who will be elected president in 2002, will legalize cannabis after already implementing the 35-hour workweek. For those who know history, things didn’t quite go as planned.
Metro heading to Porte de Clichy. Nowadays, when I hop on the subway, I often let out an exasperated sigh when a horde of drunk youngsters enters the train car. Well, that day, it was us, that group of tipsy youngsters. We were loud, and P.A even lit up a joint inside the metro. It was the pinnacle of young bourgeois rebellion, what we call “The Rebel Of The Bus.” This story goes back to the first day of high school when we were introducing ourselves and sharing our stories. R., not known for being daring, came up with this fabulous tale: “I take the bus, I don’t care, I don’t even show my Imagine-R card.” Poor guy, we called him “The Rebel Of The Bus” for three years…
We arrive at our destination. It’s often M. who attempts to make approaches. Like me, with my innocent face, M. seems quite friendly. He gets three or four consecutive rejections, and some of them are pretty harsh. Frankly, no one even responds to him, and we end up looking like 11 weird dudes. So, F. has a stroke of genius: we form groups!
We get in line. When we reach the bouncer, the first group barely makes it through. The four of us guys come up next. As the bouncer examines us, a “caillera” (slang for a tough person) from Porte de Clichy, looking completely out of it, asks me for a cigarette. Times are tough, and the night is long, so I brush him off. Then he says something I struggle to comprehend: “Brother, be careful, I may be nice, but Abdulaï is a very mean guy. Watch out, bro… And he leaves.” I start imagining Abdulaï as the patron saint of the “caillera.” And I forget about it. We stand before the bouncer.
The guy looks me up and down, and he thinks I’m the weakest link. He asks for my ID card, and that’s when I show him my receipt. The two guys burst out laughing and say, “Don’t worry; we’ve all been there.” They let me in with a “Pity entrance.”
In the vestibule of La Loco, we make a huge mistake. No one has enough money, so the groups start talking among themselves. The bouncer comes over. I’ll always remember this phrase: “Damn, how many of them are there?” He sends us back to the bouncer.
