Coach Jimmy.

Both before and after arriving in France, I’ve done all kinds of gigs to make a buck and each one seemed stranger than the last. I didn’t think things could get any weirder than the time I worked a falafel stand, shaving lamb meat off of a spit, until I lost that job and found another as a carnie. But even being a carnie got dull when I realized that a guy selling tickets at a desk could just as well be at a movie theater or a bus depot; being at a carnival didn’t make it any more interesting. Then I got laid off and was hired at a zoo to clean cages, making the carnie gig look downright exciting. And then I moved on. And on.

And then I stumbled into my most recent job, which I realize is the freakiest of all.

It all began on an overcast Wednesday a few weeks ago. Buddy and I had a hard day of harmonica-playing on the Metro. Wednesdays are when Metro riders are at their most depressed and therefore their least generous. So I played and played until I was blue in the face, but at the end of the day, didn’t have much to show for it.

Still, I decided to end my day on a high note. I was fortunate enough to currently occupy some of the most enviable digs in all of Paris. My living quarters consist of a camping tent from Decathlon, but the location can’t be beat—just under the Pont Solferino. So as consolation to myself for my own less-than-exemplary Wednesday, I simply went upstairs to the upper part of the bridge, opened a bottle of hobo hooch and enjoyed the sunset from my perch atop the Seine.

As I stood there, I noticed another sunset-watcher a short distance away who appeared not to be doing quite as well as I was at chasing away his mid-week blues. Clearly, chief among his problems was the fact that he had no liquid refreshment with which to chase it all away. So I decided to play the Good Samaritan and offer him some wine, which he accepted readily. In the Gospel of Luke, the real Good Samaritan for some reason poured the wine over the injured man’s physical wounds, but in my case, I thought he’d prefer drinking it.

The recipient of my wine introduced himself as Eric, formerly of Manchester, England, and was so thankful for a little cheap hooch that he opened up and told me his story rather quickly: Eric is the founder, CEO and sole employee of a “life coaching” business in Paris that wasn’t going so well. His business is targeted primarily to expats and local English-speakers in the Paris business community and depends on a dozen coaches who provide their services through his business. The basic problem, it seemed, was that the coaches were less than inspiring and far from insightful, so they generally were not hired for more than one consultation or training session.

As I listened to Eric’s story, I realized that his whole business was premised on the assumption that his coaches could dole out the sort of life lessons that I had forever been hearing—and occasionally directly experiencing—on the rails. In short, his “life coaches” had never actually lived themselves, so how could they ever hope to import any helpful life lessons?

I wanted to help, but didn’t know what to say. As I contemplated Eric’s predicament, I heard myself quietly mutter, “What would Hubcap Charlie do?”

So right there on the bridge, I tried to play the role of my old friend Hubcap Charlie. First, I reassured Eric that it was alright to feel uncertain about where things were going. Quoting Voltaire, I told him that doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd. His ears perked up a bit. And then they got more than an earful.

Falling into a trance of Hubcap Charlie channeling, I spouted off all sorts of random advice—both for Eric and potentially for his coaches or even his clients—including the following tidbits I’d overheard over the years:

It is not of importance where we stand, but in what direction we are moving.

The successful man is the average man, focused.

The difference between stumbling blocks and stepping stones is how you use them.

The best sermons are lived, not preached.

When Eric had heard enough, he told me that not only did he intend to follow most of my nebulous advice, but that he thought that his coaches should be providing exactly that sort of inspiration to his clients. And who better to teach them those lessons that Eric’s new friend Jimmy Trout? Thus began my part-time career as a life-coach-coach. So now, for the foreseeable future—which in my experience is all there is in life, and yet it usually doesn’t last long—when I’m not on the Metro with harmonica in hand, I’m in a conference room at Eric’s office, teaching his life coaches how to coach about life.

Just like Hubcap Charlie would do.