The Paris Parable

An edited and expanded version.

The Paris Parable

A Short, Short Story By Willys Watson

By her mid-teens she had mastered the art of not remembering any of the details of her weekend long alcohol and substance induced binges. Doing so afforded her a selective conscience and the luxury of excuses where she could blame what she did on being stoned or drunk and as such she was not responsible for her countless social improprieties.

And this last weekend was no exception because she refused to, or simply could not, remember her abusive demeanor when she insulted and berated all the donors, media personnel, her best friend forever and whoever else was within her sight during what was supposed to be a weekend long charity fundraiser. Nor could she even come close to recollecting how her long suffering chauffeur finally developed the fortitude to enact his own version of revenge by dumping her on an isolated dirt road ninety miles west of Las Vegas.

When Paris finally started to come out of her self-inflicted stupor she found herself covered in dust and leaning against a large bolder beside the road. Though the clouds of the blackout were lifting she still did not realize she had gone at least three days without food or water. All she instinctively knew was that she was hungry, thirsty and miles from her luxury suite. So she quickly reached into her pocket to grab her cell phone to call for a food delivery. found it wasn’t there and conceded she might have a reason for concern.

As luck would have it, and Paris demanded nothing less in her charmed life, an approaching figure appeared on the near horizon. Though he was grubby looking and hardly her ideal of a knight in shining amour he would have to do under the circumstances.

He was an old prospector, still called by many a desert rat, who offered the young damsel in distress his canteen as he gently lifted her to her feet. Though it was barely three-quarters full and the only water he had to drink himself he was a good man, a kindhearted man who understood she needed it more than he.

"This is all the water I've got, but it should last you until I get to the closest town, which is a days walk from here, to get you a rescue team out here," he explained. "I would take you with me but you seem to weak to walk and my tired, worn out old body can’t carry you that far.

"But look at me and my perfectly slim, well-proportioned petite body. I’m not that heavy a burden, am I?" Paris countered as she displayed her profile for what seemed like the one millionth time.

"I reckon you’re right, but I’m not that strong," he told her as he gently squeezed her perfectly boney arm. "So use the water wisely to make it last 'til help comes."

"Couldn’t we just use your phone to call..." she started to ask.

"Huh?" he wondered. "That ‘ol thing? It’s hanging on my wall in my cabin but hasn’t worked for years because the wind blew the line down. You’ll have to do with the canteen for now."

"I suppose you're right, but what brand is it? Evian? Perrier?" she asked as she accepted the life sustaining gift. "What the hell! Under these circumstances I suppose it really doesn't matter which. I would settle for Crystal Geyser."

"Glad you're keeping your humor through all this," he laughed. Then he turned to head off towards the distant town.

After the old prospector had strolled out of sight Paris studied the aged wool-covered canteen. It was caked with the dust of countless years of life in a barren land. The fact that she had to rely on this grimy container and it's contents made her cringe. Still, she was not foolish, she reassured herself. She would drink the water to survive. She would drink this horrid, lower society tap water, but only on her terms. She was not going to abandon her proper upbringing and etiquette or forsake her social stature for the sake of a few drops of water.

Paris twisted the cap off, letting it fall to the ground. The canteen's mouth seemed as grimy as the rest of the container and she decided she couldn't possibly put her mouth on the dirty thing. She had put her mouth on many things throughout her life, including one incidence it made her an internet legend, but they were always clean things and this one would also have to be clean.

So she poured a little of the precious water into her small, delicate, cupped hand thinking that she could use this to wash away the dust. But her hand had become grimy, too, from her stay in this God forsaken land. Applying the muddied pool of water in her hand to the mouth of the canteen would only make matters worse. So she let the tainted water seep through her fingers as she reached to pull a handkerchief from her pocket.

But the handkerchief was also caked in dust and needed to be rinsed out before she could use it to clean her hands off in order to hold the water she needed to wipe clean the canteen's mouth. It took three good rinses before she was satisfied that the cloth was sanitary enough to wash her hands with. And a little more water to rinse away the remaining dust. Then a little more water to pour into her cupped hand to wipe the canteen's mouth clean. It took a second hand full before Paris was satisfied with her efforts.

Finally, she tilted her head back and lifted the canteen to her parched mouth. But no water poured from the now empty canteen. She cursed God, blaming Him for her misfortune. Then she wept water-less tears as she collapsed to the ground.