Some old friends from high school sent me a message on Facebook : what about a drink on Sunday night to catch up and see each other again?

A kind of “Christmas spirit” is still floating in the air tonight, which apparently didn’t inspire all my former classmates, since only three of us showed up at the rendez vous. Le Boulevard was reformed last year, in a clumsy attempt to transform the old bikers’ pub in something closer to a lounge. High red stools replace now the patinated wooden furniture in what used to be our headquarters every single Friday evening after school. The layout of the place isn’t the only thing that went through some changes over the years; quite predictably, it first took some time to catch up with David’s and Claire’s lives. After two hours of chit-chat, we got to discuss more intensively David’s experience as a teacher, considering his responsibility in regard to his students, and power relationships. This led us now to French literature, arguing on the importance – or not – of knowing the life of the author and the context surrounding him or her while analysing a piece of text. That is of course a good occasion for me to express my opinion as an artist; I claim, as a personal example, that I would consider my work as autonomous, even though I realise it from and for a particular geographical, historical and cultural context. But of course, I am aware that a piece of art gets its own life afterwards – blabla…
This is the exact moment when Ludovic’s roaming of the bar ends at our table. I know his name, since he interrupted this highly intellectual Sunday evening conversation by introducing himself to David like this: “Hey man! How are you? Don’t you remember me? I’m Ludovic. We used to attend the local football championship together 10 years ago!
- No, sorry, I don’t remember. Are you sure that I am the right person?
- Of course! I was 10, you were 14 or something.
- …
- You party hard, right?
- Not usually, no.”
Slightly embarrassing, but somehow quite amusing for Claire and I, to see our old friend trying to get rid of this drunk and – by the way – very ugly youngster. After some more attempts from Ludovic to convince David of a common bound as football fans, I want to help my friend by going back to our conversation and thus discourage the guy in his alcoholic trip : “We were actually talking about French literature. Do you like Zola?”
- You! You are… you are an artist! I can see it, ha! You are an ARTIST!” he screams. He leans on the black table, rests his chin on his hand palm, looks me in the eyes with a very provocative and almost feminine way :
- “I know that you are an artist. I am with a group of guys that know how to recognise them. Ha!
- Wow. You are very lucky. So what? Does it disturb you somehow?” I replied. I also  have a quick glance at his friends at the bar. Don’t look very friendly. I am not very muscled. David is. But they are five of them.

- “I know people like you”. He pads my nose with his finger and adds : “You disgust me, you fucking artist!” I lean back. He steps back. I can feel my face getting red and my heart pounding in my chest. I am shaking with rage. David looks at me. Claire looks at me. All the other customers stare at me. Ludovic too. As an ultimate provocation, he spits on the ground, then turns his back and flows out to the next table.
I am left alone with a terrible stomach ache, and the fear of walking the streets of my hometown, now that everybody knows I am an artist…