The Twilight of the Bums (11 page)

Then the old men climbed out of the car and retraced their steps, back to the place where they had begun [up the hill], walking in file, as before, the fog steady, unchanged, the wind still, things much as they were [earlier, during the descent]. Along the green ribbon of winter wheat glowing between the rails, over the first bridge, then up the steeply cut embankment [the old men puffing a little now] to the deer path winding through some woods.

Then along this path, over the soft wet compacted [dead] leaves, and then, from the valley came the burgeoning blunt sound of diesel engines pulling a heavy load, diesel engines hard at work, that deep powerful throbbing strain of diesel engines [the old men could smell the burning diesel oil]. That first, then that, accompanied by the sound of rolling stock, of steel wheels on the steel tracks.

Impoverished ironies stretch endless as continuously forged steel rails back and forth,
hin und her
, back into time and through time to nothing and beyond that place to nothing more, and to here, here to this empty text [full of silence and intrusions], and then to more, forever
ineinander verkrallt … enfin au piège attrappé
.

One summer day, the bums at their ease on a park bench, their grand-kids scooting about in the sandbox, on the monkey bars, the sun flooding down, they got to talking about their own parents.

Bum 2 enquired, How did your old man die?

Bum 1 answered, In bed, in extreme old age, shouting for his mother.

Ah, yes, yes, I remember now your telling me that, years ago, years ago. I forgot, said Bum 2.

What about your father, asked Bum 1, how did he go?

He was burned alive in a furnace, Bum 2 explained calmly. There are records of this.

Ah, yes, yes, I remember now your telling me this, years ago, years ago. I forgot, said Bum 1.

Loneliness is a natural state, says Old Guy One, I believe in loneliness beyond life, when we feel lonely among our friends it is only a presentiment of our lonely future or an after-taste of our lonely past.

Quite right, replies Old Guy Two, and I would add that since everything except loneliness is parenthetical, a passing perturbation, then loneliness is security.

I'll go further than that, says Old Guy One, hell is a nightmare without loneliness, without calm, without consistency, therefore loneliness is our dream of paradise.

Yes, concludes Old Guy Two, too much distance or too much closeness is loneliness, that is the beauty of loneliness, and that is why loneliness is a natural state.

As established earlier, the old boys share the same birthday (both born under the sign of Taurus, which means that they live on this planet with their feet on the ground and their heads in the clouds). And so on this special day in May, after having consulted their horoscope in the local rag, which required little interpretation on their part since it stated quite appropriately that, quote --
Gift adds to wardrobe, you'll be pleased with body image, popularity will zoom upward, you'll cause people to laugh even through tears
-- the two old boys exchange gifts.

You open yours first, says Old Boy One, obviously pleased with his choice of a gift.

Old Boy Two holds in his hand the long narrow box neatly wrapped and pretends to be guessing what's inside. He's about to unknot the red ribbon when Old Boy One stops him.

Read the card first.

Old Boy Two opens the envelope, reads silently and explodes into laughter [hard to tell from here if the laughter is genuine].

Don't you think it's hilarious? asks Old Boy One.

Very funny, very funny, but I am not ready to give up sex for golf, says Old Boy Two, as he unwraps his gift. Oh what a gorgeous tie, he exclaims, exactly what I needed! He goes to the mirror and holds the tie against his chest. Perfect! And look at this fantastic design, it's a golf club!

Do you really like it, or you're just saying that? says Old Boy One with a look of uncertainty on his face. It's pure silk, you know.

I love it, I just love it, replies Old Boy Two, and it'll go well with my brown suit … now you open yours.

At this point, no further description of the scene is necessary, for by pure coincidence, Old Boy One receives exactly the same card and the same gift he chose for his friend. But such coincidences are not unusual with people born on the same day, under the same sign.

As demonstrated on several occasions in this collection, the two old guys are creatures of culture, and so on this special day, the day of their birth, they receive their presents from their respective wives, but without much excitement, for once again they expect yet another hardbound edition of Anna Karenina or a new recording of Malher's Fifth.

Old Guy One unwraps his gift first, and with a look of astonishment exclaims, Oh look! I got a massaging machine. And look, you don't even need to plug it in. It works on batteries.

Wow! says Two. Lemme see.

What did you get? asks One.

Two's fingers struggle to open his package, a rectangular box.

What is it? inquires One as he stares inside Two's box.

I'm not sure, replies Two puzzling over the contents of his box.

Looks like a toaster. Yes, that's what it is a toaster, explains One to his friend, as he lifts the object out of the box.

You're right, it is a toaster, can you imagine that? Amazing, you get a massaging machine and I get a toaster.

Makes sense to me first we massage each other, and then we toast ourselves. I tell you, those wives of ours really know what's best for us.

Every May the bums gather to celebrate their nativity, which, as decreed by Fate, occurred on the same day.

They burn the accumulation of the year past and of its ashes make a bread, a bitter bread with ashy texture, which they consume ceremoniously, with all those gathered for the occasion, the bums sipping only white vinegar.

Soon thereafter the festivities collapse into normal human sounds of pain, jealousy, joy, hunger, laughter, recrimination, lust, despair, pleasure, snoozing, and the two old men are left alone at the table of honor, its white cloth flapping like a luffed sail in the late afternoon breeze.

The old men look at each other, something they do not often do. They look at each other a long time, as if to imprint the features of the other in the brainpan. They gaze at each other as the kids fall in the swimming pool and a helicopter passes overhead, and as the women come to clear the table. One of the old men raises his hand slightly, as if he intended to say something to the other, but he does not. Whatever the old men are doing is enough, and suffices unto this day. Another year consumed.

The Two Old Farts are discussing their death -- who will inherit what?

Fart One says, I assume that when you die I'll get everything you own, all of it.

Fart Two replies, I suppose the same goes for me -- if you go first, all of yours will be mine.

Of course, adds Fart One, whoever dies first leaves everything to the other: golf clubs, fishing gear and poles, wading boots, rifles and shotguns, motor cars, the little black address book, the certificates of deposit, the …