An assignmet for the French speakers.

How Lang Will Fit into My Life
I was nervous. The haze scaled the modern architecture and the clouds covered the moon roughly like crayon on paper, the moon still visible but its brilliance obscured. The cold humidity of the night air smelled of piss and death at too young an age. I was comfortably nervous. It was hours before l’heure bleue, the wind lifting compostables from the gutter and carrying them like ghosts through the town. Doors were shut, streetlights dim, voices (where there were voices) low.
I had mere blocks before home. Most ghettos are shady, but the innercity of this Parisian suburb made Brooklyn look and feel like Chelsea or Burnside out West.
I tried to smile to every roaming couple or transient I passed, no matter how sordid their character seemed, my humble hometown American sensibilities still glimmering under my bearded, burly physique. A crowd of gentleman spoke quietly, but confidently, sounding garbled from yards away. I passed the men, each adorned with dark clothing and looking as if their ambitions matched their dress, and as I passed they spoke to me, all in French, roughly translated as:
“Chic, my man,” the ringleader of this motley gang said.
“Merci,” said I, praying for compliment, anticipating distress. I let not my pace quicken as to alert the men of my fear. My acceleration stagnated with uneasy glances and grins at the men. Quickly, one of the dark men was in front of me, coup d’etating me backwards. I tripped with heavy awkward steps, spilling my café au blanche. One man brushed my coat and helped me up, only to join his compatriots in shoving me to an alley eclipsed by tall piles of garbage and stolen electronics.
I shouted “Aidez-moi!” for help but the wind ignored my calls for help and instead investigating the old, yellow newspapers left on the ground. One of the men of the gang answered, “They m'en fous about you!” I froze.
I was left standing on facing the twilight of streetlight. Behind me was brick and neo-classical tapestry. They shoved me to the ground and gawked with laughing wide sneers. “Give us your goods, you sheep.”
“But I’ve nothing to give,” I said with blood falling through my rust beard and onto my fitted plaid corduroy shirt.
The leader glanced to his friends in disbelief. “He must joke.” They laughed together in thick, annoying chortles. The leader rushed towards me with the gait of a speed-walker. His fist flew like one over a cuckoo’s nest and landed straight on my nose. Tendrils of snot and blood shot onto my Marc Jacob’s t-shirt á la mode. The young suburbans chortled as the French do and the leader, joined by his aide-de-camp, continued to pummel me as was the couture.
I wept and vomited on my side with my arm shielding my face from the beating until suddenly there were no blows and the air was froideur.
“Is your shirt from the most recent collection?” asked the concierge of the group.
“Yes, yes, yes it is,” I managed to stutter through the mouthful of blood.
“It’s very nice,” the leader said. “Yes, it goes well with the pants,” said the scruffiest of the bunch. He nodded his head and smiled.
“When did you start buying Jacobs’ clothing?” one of them asked. I couldn’t tell who was who in the daze of the beating. I felt as if I had papier over my whole body.
I rubbed my eyes and glanced around. The men suddenly looked like adolescents, apologetic, looking at the ground meekly and wringing their hands.
“We’re sorry, sir. We didn’t realize you were wearing nice clothes. We’ll give you all of our money and leave.” And there they did. All was comme il faut.

Lesson I learned at The New School: Dress well. It pays off.
Lesson I didn’t learn at the New School: How to speak French.