In 1989 I was working with a small computer company with offices in a squat, Steelcase-grey building located in the plebian 12th arrondisement of Paris. There was no sense of the style and flair we associate with France. The employees were mostly young computer nerds which was a culture I knew so I felt at home. I was the only American there and my command of French was weak so I often was unsure of what was going on around me.
One day we were told to report to the small conference room. On arriving I saw the table covered with snacks, plastic utensils, and bottles of wine. A birthday party? A celebration for landing a big account? I didn’t know and I couldn’t make out what people were saying.
It turned out that it was the annual arrival of the Beaujolais Nouveau. The atmosphere was relaxed. The boss made a short speech interrupted with jokes from the staff. Most people, including me, were smoking. As was common, there were few ashtrays even though almost everyone was a smoker, so most people just flicked the ashes on the floor and only looked around for one of the few ashtrays when it was time to dispose of the butt. Many butts were just dropped on the concrete floor and ground out with a shoe and left for the janitors to clean up after hours. I still wasn’t used to that but I was trying to fit in so I overcame my scruples smoked without an ashtray.
After about twenty minutes the gathering broke up and a few people stayed behind to clean up. I was one of them and this raised a few eyebrows as people of my rank weren’t expected to help clean up. I didn’t realize it but I had drawn attention to myself that would inflame what came next.
There was a large trash can on wheels with a plastic bag lining. We were making stacks of the plastic cups and plates and carrying these over to the can and dropping them in. For each stack, food was scraped from plates onto the top plate in a stack and then the now emptied plate was added beneath it to the stack. Similarly wine was poured into one cup and the empties were stacked beneath. When the top plate or cup was full, the stack was carried to the can and thrown out and one returned to the table to clean off some more. On one trip to the can I dropped the butt of the cigarette I had just finished into the top cup on the stack I was carrying so it would be extinguished in the liquid and I could safely drop it in the garbage and not have to drop in on the floor and grind it out there.
Instantly the room went silent, everyone stared daggers at me, and then began whispering to each other. I had no idea why but I know a lynch mob forming when I see one. Quickly a friend of mine said, “We have to forgive him. He’s an American and doesn’t know what he did.” This got a laugh and I went along still not knowing what I had done. That was explained to me later.
When I was a Cub Scout we were taught to treat the American flag reverently, like a holy relic. Never let it touch the ground, never fly it in the rain, and when it’s frayed and torn burn it honorably, never just throw it in the trash. For us, it was no longer just a rag on a stick as it might appear to someone not brainwashed by the Cub Scouts.
Wine is similarly protected by a set of taboos in French culture. Even awkward computer nerds who are not oenophiles and who lack most social graces know better than to drop a cigarette butt into a plastic cup of leftover wine from half a dozen guests even at the very moment they are throwing it into a garbage can.
My bad.
