Category Archives: Zoey and Xander

Stories about a philosophical hipster couple in love.

Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa

She slowly backed the car into a spot, then pulled up a bit, then backed up a little as he eyed up the row of artwork lined up at a yard sale.

“Would you park already!” he yelled playfully. She giggled and started pulling forward again just to get him riled.

“Hey!” he said, pretending to shove her. She laughed harder.

“It’s fine! Go on without me!”

“You know I can’t do that. Yard sale etiquette.”

She stopped the car and turned off the engine, but by that time he was already out the door.

“Come on!” she heard him say, muffled through the closed windows. She smiled; she couldn’t help but love him. She undid her seatbelt and joined him.

They were both pulled toward the same piece of art at the same time.

“Wow,” he said, picking it up. “I love this.”

“Me too,” she agreed.

The artwork was a dark blue silhouette screen print of a man with a big had, bushy beard and old-fashioned glasses. Next to the image was the name Lautrec in fancy lettering.

“I wonder who this is! I want it.”

“It would look great on our red wall,” she said as she pulled out her phone and started typing what he could only assume was the name on Google. He waited a moment knowing what she would say.

“Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa.”

“Well that’s a mouthful. Glad the artist shortened it for this print.”

She ignored him and continued. “Post-impressionist French painter, printmaker, draftsman and illustrator, wow he sounds interesting. Says he is as well known as Cezanne and Van Gogh.”

“Hmm…then why haven’t I heard of him, but I know them?”

She ran her finger up the screen. “Um…you have. We brought one of his back from Paris.”

“No we didn’t!” He thought for a moment. “Did we?”

“Yup. Look!” She showed him the phone.

“Funny. Who knew? I like Lautrec!”

“We do, honey. We do.”

He looked at the print once more then held it up to the purveyor of the sale.

“How much?”

La Nuit Française

“I’ve never seen a balloon cause so much trouble!”

“I know, right?” she said to me.

We had just finished watching the 1956 French classic Le Balloon Rouge, or The Red Balloon.

“That kid got into so much trouble!” she said. I nodded. “How did you know there was so little dialogue?”

“Someone told me.” I had come up with the idea of creating our own soundtrack to it, side two of Françoise Hardy’s Maid in Paris, then side one of the Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin record.

“It made it more fun, didn’t it?”

“Oui!”

“Dork.”

She fell back onto the couch and started staring at the ceiling. “I’m glad we didn’t sell them.”

“Even though we could use the money.”

“Money can’t replace the beauty of those records.”

Someone had just offered me a shit-ton of money for my collection of record française. Yeah right, like I would part with them.

“Yeah right, like I would part with them. I lugged half of them all the way across Montreal, and most of the others, I left clothing behind in Paris for those. They are definitely worth more than money to me.”

“Me too. They’re half the reason I liked you at first.”

“Very funny.”

“Fine, that’s a lie, but on the first date it is how you lured me back to your place. French records, a little wine, you sure know how to make a girl melt.”

“You’d be surprised how often that line works. I have a nice collection of French records at my place…”

“Nice.” She frowned. “Wait, you are kidding, right?”

“Of course. I’ve never shared these records with another woman.” She looked at me. “What?”

“Never?
I thought about it and decided to come clean. “Fine, fine, I have tried. None of them appreciated them.”

“Not as much as me, right?” she said, grabbing my arm and pulling me into her arms.

“Nope!” I said as I kissed her. We made out for a bit until the needle started scratching against nothing, then returned to its arm rest.

“Should I flip it?” she asked. “Or should we maybe watch the movie again with the real audio, just to see if the effect is different?”

I smiled and picked up the remote to start the movie again. The balloon once again floated down to the little boy and I laughed as he was once again told he could not bring it on the bus, thus being late for school again.

“I’ve never seen a balloon cause so much trouble.”

Who is Your Favorite Muppet?

“Who is your favorite Muppet?”

She looked up from the puzzle they were working on, a large version of The Great Muppet Caper movie poster. She had what looked like Gonzo’s nose in her hand.

“Come on, you don’t know this one?” she responded with a sly smile.

He laughed. “It’s probably Miss Piggy.”

She shifted in her seat. “Ew. Miss Piggy isn’t anyone’s favorite.”

“When we were little and played Muppets, we always made my cousin Miss Piggy because she would get mad.”

“You’re sick. Wait, how did you play Muppets?”

He laughed. “You can’t really. It was mostly just to piss her off. I don’t think we ever even really played. She usually ran off and told on us, and then we’d get yelled at and forget the game.”

She found the rest of Gonzo in the many little islands of puzzle they’d completed and pushed it into its spot.

“Victory!”

“Are you going to say that every time you get two pieces to fit?”

“Mhmm,” she said as she stuck her tongue out at him.

At that point, the record they were listening to stopped and he got up to flip it.

“I love you,” she said. He stopped and looked at her, wondering where that came from. “What? I do. Only you could get me to sit here and talk about Muppets while we put together a Muppet puzzle and listen to The Muppet Movie soundtrack on vinyl. Where did I find you?”

He laughed as he flipped the record, hit start and returned to his spot, picking up a loose piece and staring at the little islands again.

“You didn’t answer me. Where did I find you?”

“You didn’t answer me either about your favorite Muppet. You found me at a coffee shop. I was too adorable to resist. Now answer me.”

“No.”

He looked up from his work and started laughing.

“Answer!”

“NO!”

He put on his serious face and she looked away. Finally she answered.

“Miss Piggy.”

A Great Road Trip

They put their vacation on hold for a few minutes when they saw the flea market sign. He slammed on the brakes, throwing a cloud of dust up from the dirt road their GPS lead them to, and made a quick turn.

“Is it okay?”

“Of course it is!” she said with an excited smile. “Although we really don’t need bait or ice.”

“Very funny,” he said as he pulled into the empty lot.

They got out of the car and couldn’t help but notice the building, a run-down diner on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

“Maybe the sign should say “Horror Movie” or something. Feel like we might be killed?”

“It’s entirely likely,” she said with a pretend-scared face. “Come on, the yard sale must be around back.”

They ignored the rusty screen door hanging from one hinge and passed the diner made of what looked like light blue, chipping paint. The windows were too dirty to see in clearly, but the lights appeared to be on inside and someone was standing at the counter, but not moving.

“This really is like a horror movie,” he said. She nodded as they turned the corner.

Behind the diner there were several little bungalows covering shelves that held countless objects. Thousands of old items were piled everywhere, yet appeared to be organized. One shelf in the far corner of the lot was piled with old glasses, jars and vases. Each bungalow seemed to be organized in some way, although neither of them could figure out the order.

Beyond the eternal yard sale were huge ditches, run-down vehicles, piles of chopped wood accompanied by a colorful beach umbrella and old farming equipment.

“I keep waiting for a creepy, dirty man in overalls and no shirt to come out with some kind of ax he’s just slaughtered today’s special with,” he said.

“I know, right? But I have to photograph this.”

“Obviously.”

As she walked around snapping shot after shot he searched through the piles of stuff. Old wanted posters. Roller skates. Broken typewriters. Vintage statues and figures of every animal that ever existed. He found an owl and held it up for her.

“Hey, check it out! An owl!”

Her head poked out from the next bungalow over, her camera strap around her neck. “Say cheese!” she said as she held it up and snapped a shot. She looked at the screen. “Too dark. Sorry,” she said as she deleted it.

He continued to root through the randomness of the collection, sure he would find something here that he wanted. He always did. A random old toy. A cartoon character drinking glass. Postcards. Photos. Something that would inspire a story. He kept looking as she took shot after shot.

“Make sure you get one of the roller skates,” he yelled.

“Done and done!” her voice called from a hidden part of a bungalow.

He smiled. Their thought patters were always so similar.

He went to the far corner of the lot and surveyed the land around it, the broken down vehicles, the rusty old unrecognizable objects. He wanted to shoot a horror film here. Or write one, at least. Do something. His skin tingled with ideas.

She finally emerged. “Damn, already took two hundred photos. Now I’ll have to upload them tonight when we get there to make some space on this thing!”

This was going to be an inspiring trip.

A Cool Evening After a Storm

As the crickets sang and the cicadas growled, he took a sip of his tea.

“What a lovely night,” he said as he pulled her closer.

“Three days of over one hundred degree heat, and now this. A quick storm and it’s suddenly sixty.”

“Cardigan weather.”

“Hot tea weather.”

She smiled and put her arm around him.

“The moon is full.”

“I noticed.”

She put her head on his shoulder.

“What do you want to do with the rest of our night?’ he asked.

“Dunno. Something wonderful, inspiring, magic, something that I’ll want to tell my friends about, my sisters, my grandchildren.”

“That’s a pretty big order,” he responded with a smile.

He got up and went inside for a minute, and as he came back out Frank started playing from the record player.

She looked up at him, his face barely visible in the light of the full moon, and his contagious smile made her heart jump. He reached his hand out.

“Care to dance?”

A Million Clams

They walked over to the algae-covered jetty as a wave splashed off the rocks and into her face. He laughed.

“Shut up,” she said, wiping the salt water from her eyes. “Wise ass.”

As he went to step over the rocks, he stopped and leaned down to look between them.

“Wow, look at this!”

Between the rocks the ocean had somehow sifted millions of baby clams out of the sand and into deep puddles of shellfish.

“What is it?” she said approaching him.

“It’s clams, millions of clams.”

“The tiny ones we kept seeing along the beach?”

“Yup. Ew, look at them all trying to dig at once.”

She leaned in to see the piles moving almost in unison, little tonguelike appendages sneaking out from between the shells and reaching around searching for sand in which to dig.

“They’re moving together, that’s weird!” she said. He agreed.

They sat on the rocks, mesmerized by the eerie motion of the millions of clams as if one giant body.

That’s when he saw it coming and stood up. She wasn’t as quick. The wave came smashing between the rocks and sprayed her again right in the face.

He laughed.

“Thanks” she said, wiping the water from her face once more.

“Any time,” he said with a sly smile.

The Hipsters Are Gonna Be Pissed

“Did you notice everyone is trying to seem sort of kitsch, retro and hipster these days?” he asked her.

She looked up from her computer. “Kind of. What do you mean?”

“I was looking through Vogue the other day-“

“What were you doing looking at Vogue?”

He blushed a bit. “Huh?”

“Vogue?” she pushed. She just had to know what would possess her boyfriend to pick up the magazine clearly for women.

“Oh, yeah. Marion Cotillard was on the cover.”

“Who?”

“French actress? A Very Long Engagement? Big Fish? Love Me if You Dare? You know her.”

“Oh right…her. Okay so? Hipsters in popular magazines, I believe you were saying?”

“Um…yeah. Sorry, got me off track. The photos of her all look vintage, like the photos you take.”

“Really?”

“Yup.  They’re all taken in antique-looking places. Very similar to what Urban does in their catalog. Clothing looks vintage.”

“I doubt it is.”

“I know, but still. And there’s even one with her holding an old Polaroid camera, like the ones you display in your workroom.”

“Really? I have to see this.”

“Yeah. And she’s standing in front of a bookshelf of really old books.”

“Interesting.”

“So I started picking up more mainstream mags, just looking through at the photos, and they’re the same.”

“Interesting.”

He paused to look up at her.

“You don’t find this a bit odd?”

“Not really. Mainstream always copies the obscure, the new, the hip. They don’t call them hipsters for no reason! It’s just that now mainstream has finally caught on.”

“Well, the hipsters are gonna be pissed.”

“Yes, yes they are.”

A Triumphant Yard-saled Gift

“I found something just for you,” he said, entering the door from a long morning of yard saling.

The smile on his face alone got her really excited.

“What is it?” she replied, trying to feign calmness.

He put down a large bag. “First I have to finish unloading all the stuff I got!”

She jumped up to help. “I hate working Saturday mornings. I miss all the good yard sales.”

They unloaded the car.

A box of old books.

An antique record cabinet.

Yet another Brownie.

A brown bag of children’s books from the 1960s.

An old chair.

Three more bags of random objects. Cookie cutters. Teapot. Stack of records.

“Is it a record?”

“Close!” he said as he rummaged through bag after bag, letting objects fall to the floor as he dug.

“Would you just tell me!”

“NO! It’ll be better to see the look on your face when I just hand them to you.”

“Them?” she said, wondering what it could be. “Does it have to do with The Beatles?” It was her favorite subject.

“Maybe,” he said with a sly smile.

She started hopping up and down a little bit.

“The records are over here,” she pointed, trying to be helpful.

“It’s not a record…”

What could it be? She was so excited.

Finally, he said, “Aha!”

She ran right next to him as he pulled out a stack of cards and handed them to her.

“BEATLES TRADING CARDS!”

She quickly dropped to the floor and started lining them up on the hardwood like a kid opening his first pack of baseball cards.

She was in awe as he walked up and stood next to her. She exclaimed, “I’ve never even seen these in real life before.”

“Me neither,” he said with a triumphant look on his face.

“How much were they?”

“I got them in a whole bag of stuff for five bucks.”

She looked up and smiled. “Thank you.”

“What can I say? I love the girl.”

She smiled, hugged his nearby legs, and returned to displaying the cards out on the floor.

In Public

“This hill is nice.”

“Told you,” he said, taking a sip of his iced tea.

“You were right. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’d say it’s perfect, considering what we came here to do.”

“Yes. Secluded.”

“Naturey.”

“Romantic.”

“We don’t need it to be romantic for this.”

“We don’t need it to be- naturey, did you say?”

“Mhmm,” she said with a smile.
“Okay, then, should we do it?”

She smiled with a certain curtness that only she could muster.

He handed her purse over, and she began rummaging through it.

“I can’t find them.”

“I put them in there, I know I did.”

“You sure?”

“Would I ever, ever forget something like that?”

“You’re right…probably not.”

“Look harder. Hurry!”

She flipped it and dumped everything out, and they both rummaged through the contents.

“Here they are!” he said with a certain amount of triumph in his voice.

She took one and opened it, and he did the same.

“I love playing with bubbles,” she said with a smile and a wink.

A Birthday Apart

He set his alarm for 11:59 P.M. and when it went off dialed her number.

“Hello?” a sleepy voice answered.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered. He could hear the smile in her voice as she answered.

“Thank you! Wow, what is it, exactly midnight?”

“Yup. Since I couldn’t be with you on your birthday, I figured I’d call right away.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have some big secret plan for me, being the big romantic that you are.”

He smiled into the phone as if she could hear or see it.

“Look on page 157 of the book I lent you. I love you. Good night.”

“Good night,” she said as she reached for the book.