As many DFOers/Kommentists/DFOoses/whatevers know, our own Old School Zero is currently training for a cheese eating/surrendering contest by exploring France from the tip of her Eiffel Tower to the taint of her Larzac Valley. ‘Twasn’t shortly after arriving in Paris that he intrepidly snapped this photo:

Since he didn’t get a good look at his face, and the Bears had played in Chicago the night before, and our subject seemed built more like a DFO dead cat hittee/attorney, OSZ was skeptical that this could be his hero touring the same city as he.  Yet he was intrigued and decided he must pursue him through the streets of Paris. What follows is a first person retelling of the events of that fateful day and night, unadulterated to protect anyone, least of all OSZ:

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So there I was, shaking off the jet lag and looking for a place in Paris to buy a baguette and a beret for breakfast. I look up, and BOOM the back of a Jay Cutler jersey is staring right at me. At first I thought there was no way it was him. No KCav with him, no children, the Bears had a game the night before, and the guy wearing the jersey has the build of a 15 year old Asian boy. But then I figured, if there’s even a 2% chance that I’ve spotted Jay Cutler on the streets of Paris, I 100% have to take the chance to check it out and shake his hand or bring him a dead bird or something. But right after I snapped this picture, he hopped into a tiny ass taxi and headed toward the Left Bank. So I grabbed a Vélib’ and started cycling down the rue trying to keep up with his cab. Fortunately traffic stunk like the French people, and it wasn’t difficult to keep up until he pulled up to a book shop and got out.

I didn’t want to be Fek-level creepy, so I decided not to follow him inside. I figured I’d wait until he came out and be like “Hey, Jay, can I break Jimmy Clausen’s kneecaps for you just in case? Just tell me his address and where he leaves the spare key to his house.” And if it wasn’t him, I’d go “Aw, shit, I thought you might be Jay Cutler. How’d you get to be a Bears fan over here anyway? Was 1985 a particularly good year for France?”

Anyway, to kill the time I did a little miming and afterward practiced my Maurice Chevalier accent to impress les filles. Like 15 minutes later, I see the back of the jersey again, this time with a few books under his arm. I couldn’t see the titles, but I definitely saw Jean-Paul Sartre on the spine of one. My target ducks down the street to the left, so I still haven’t seen his face, and he is just booking it, so I’m afraid I’m going to lose him. Fortunately he stopped for a cigarette (odds improving!) and started walking toward Les Berges with me following by about the same distance as a Tim Tebow overthrow.

I tell you, I really wish I had packed more comfortable shoes, because this was a loooooong walk. Every time I started to approach him, he would go up a ramp or start talking to a vendor, blissfully unaware of the fact he was thwarting my every attempt. I must have followed him along the Seine for the better part of two hours before he finally parked that jersey-wrapped body in a chair at a cafe to have another cigarette and watch the sunset while leafing through his newly purchased existential literature selection. He eluded me, both literally and metaphysically Could it be him? Could the man with the reputation for disaffectation, chain smoking, and souring the relationship with his most talented teammates be a closet francophile who loves literature, chain smoking, and sour milk?

Occam’s razor dictated that this was just another dislocated Bears fan not unlike those who left Des Plaines for Denver, Northbrook for New York, Bridgeport for Boston. Why not a transplant from Lombard to the Left Bank?

As we both, unbeknownst to him, sat there contemplating Sartre and the meaning of life, I pondered if perhaps there was another explanation. Maybe this wasn’t a fan, nor the starting quarterback that Chicagoans love to hate and anti-vaxxer models love to love. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was an explanation that defied all logic. Perhaps there was not just one Jay Cutler who was born in Santa Claus, Indiana, led a small town high school to an undefeated record, tore things up at Vanderbilt, went on to be a Pro Bowler in Denver before being traded away to Chicago, acting like a feline and living a glamorous and well-compensated yet seemingly apathetic life. Perhaps there was another. Perhaps I was bearing witness to the existence of…FRENCH JAY CUTLER.

Head asplode.

I needed a minute to compose myself. My jersey-wearing subject wasn’t going anywhere for a while, so I ducked away to pick up a baguette and a beret as the daylight dissipated and dusk grew near. I steadied myself and considered the possibilities. What would I say if it was Jay Cutler 1.0? What if it was Jay deux? Which option was I even rooting for?

Upon my return, I was fortunate to see good old number 6 (or was it six?) settle up his tab with a healthy stack of euro coins and take one last cigarette out from the pack before heading for the door. The sun had completely set, and I knew I had to make my move. I hadn’t bothered to enter the cafe, so I was well positioned outside as he made his way toward the Seine. His head was down, so I needed more than a nod. “Pardonnez-moi…”

And then I paused. I froze for a second, but just long enough for him to look up and make eye contact with me as the flint of his lighter sparked mere inches from his still obscured face and started the burning glow down the end of his cigarette.

“Pardonnez-moi, mais etes-vous Jay Cutler des Ours de Chicago?”

And then, as the lingering rivulets of smoke wisping in front of his dark brooding visage fluttered toward the sky to reveal his expression, he stared at me with devastatingly blank eyes and proclaimed:

“NE SE SOOOOOOOOUCIENT PAAAAAAAAAAS!”