Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
We joke all the time, and it’s with a little hop in my step that I climb into my Bugatti and drive out of my nice, respectable neighborhood into one of the rougher areas on the outskirts of Paris, where I find L'orphelinat du Soleil, the Sun Orphanage. Originally a military armory and powder magazine owned by The Sun King, Louis XIV, the orphanage was started by Napoleon III before yet again we decided that royalty was something we were better off without.
Now, it’s one of the largest non-religious children’s homes in Paris, and as I pull up, I think about this ritual. I typically come on Saturday mornings, but with the weekly competitions culminating with Saturday evening fashion shows, I’ve made other arrangements for the next few weeks because the care given here is close to my heart and I wouldn’t dream of skipping my visits. I park, smiling to myself as I see that my five charges are already outside, warming up by kicking a soccer ball around.
There’s tall, blond and lanky Claude, who can jump like a mountain goat yet somehow stumbles over every pebble in his path. Or sometimes even when there’s nothing but air in his way.
There’s Raphael, who’s dark, deep-voiced, and stocky. Though still a teen, he’s often mistaken for a man much older, and he uses that to his advantage. He’s the least capable jumper, but his balance and upper body strength are without equal.
Samuel, the jokester of the group. He uses his sense of humor as a defense mechanism to hide his sensitive soul. He’s been through a lot in his short seventeen years, more than any other boy I’ve worked with, but yet, you’d never know it until something breaks through his armor of humor to the tender heart beneath. The last time that happened, I found him crying over a dead bird that he’d never even seen before.
Then there’s Theodore, our sarcastic counter to Samuel’s more lighthearted humor. He’s just as scarred, but with a darker edge to his humor that is the opposite of his nearly platinum blond hair and good looks.
Finally, there’s the most troubled and oldest of them, Tristan. Tall and grumpy, he trusts almost nobody. Considering the number of times he’s been betrayed by those who had called themselves his family, I understand. I handle him with silk gloves, as carefully as if he were made of dynamite. I’m still trying to find that connection with him that will allow me to help guide him into an adulthood of happiness.
They’re calling out insults to one another as they kick the ball, mostly related to dick size and promiscuity.
They’re good kids who are going to be good men, if given the proper guidance and mentorship. I plan to be that for them. That’s why we started doing parkour together, the running and skills creating an individual transformation based on awareness of what’s around you and what’s inside you. This morning, like the guys, I could use a bit of focus myself too.
I clap my hands loudly, getting their attention. “Are we ready to run?”
Starting slowly, we take off, the boys letting me lead them through the property. I remember doing runs like this even before it was popularly known as parkour, jumping over obstacles, climbing fences and walls, seeing if I could do tricks off the obstacles. Back then, it was simply boys being wild. Now, we treat it much more formally, learning and growing as we go.
We loop the property as I increase the difficulty, stringing together larger jumps and more complex steps as we finish our warmups and leave the grounds to head into the surrounding neighborhood.
“So, how has your week been?” I ask them as I turn over the lead to the boys. It’s one of the tools I’ve used to keep them interested and to build their friendship. They take turns leading, and as the leader, they learn to accept the responsibility.
It’s built them into a unit. Or it’s building them into one, day by day.
“Could be worse,” Samuel says with a little shrug as Tristan leads them down an alleyway, doing alternating wall jumps to avoid the potholes. “You know the home took in five new boys this week?”
“Five?” I repeat, and Samuel nods.
“The people are not doing well,” Claude adds as he vaults a garbage can. “More and more Parisians end up on the streets. Not all of them even reach the home.”
It’s true, and something that pains my heart. I’m a wealthy man, worth millions . . . yet I could be richer than all the models in the world combined and not be able to make enough of a difference. I can’t save them all, but I can try to do right by these young men. And in turn, hopefully, they’ll continue the course and help another child when they are able.