The French Chiropractor

It was Paris in the spring time and the American tax season. I had to make a trip into Paris from Chantilly to visit an office of Arthur Andersen for tax purposes, no big deal. On a separate and unrelated problem, I’d been having discomfort with my back and hip for a few weeks, it was annoying but not painful; so I wanted to take care of that as well.

Michel Lefrancois knew of a chiropractor (sort of) in Paris and it wasn’t far from La Defense so I decided to make one trip for the two issues. Carola came with me, her signature may also have been required, and we drove into Paris and to La Defense, parked in the public garage and made our way to the AA office. There we signed whatever documents were necessary and went on our way.

Michel had given me directions to the doctor’s office and we had our map of Paris, which was very good, and found our way to it. There may have been a few wrong turns on the way but none serious enough to say we’d lost our way.

I recall the slightest feeling of bladder pressure as we were leaving the office building in La Defense but decided not to pay attention to it. Now as we were driving through the streets of Paris, an exciting experience any time, the pressure was becoming more serious. I was not only looking for the doctor’s street but for a vespasienne as well.

We found the street but not a vespasienne. There were no parking spots on the narrow streets of the neighborhood; I drove around the block to be sure. The pressure was becoming intense. Voila, a parking spot but two streets away. I quickly parked, told Carola to lock the car and bring the keys. I’d pointed out the door to the doctor’s building and told her, fourth floor. I ran down the street to the building.

Inside the R-d-c, I encountered the concierge and verified the doctor’s office location. I began waiting for the elevator but the pressure was becoming unbearable for me. I took to the stairs, two at a time, up four flights to his level. There were four doors; I had to look at each until I found his name. I was dancing by this time, almost ready to burst. I rapped on the door.

He answered it, in his white lab coat, smiling, extending his hand, slowly and politely to graciously greet me. I was panting and yelled at him, “La toilette! Il est une emergencie! Ou est la toilette! Ou est la toilette!” He tried to shake my hand but I yelled even louder. “It’s an emergency!” and grasping my groin I loudly and emphatically asked, “Where’s the goddam toilet!”

He understood, and hurried me into his office and to the toilet door. I made it but it took a heroic effort to hold it in until I had myself clear of my trouser fly. I relieved myself, and what a relief it was, and returned calmly back to his office.

There I smiled and equally politely extended my hand in greeting, a gesture he politely ignored, told him my name and we got down to business. He tried to act as if nothing had happened except he seemed a little wary of my size and if he was causing me any pain.