The Twilight of the Bums (13 page)

Early in life the old guys were erased, wiped out from the blackboard of history, screwed free from the heart of motherland.

True. And so they spent their years trying to get back in, seeking nominal recognition, trying to write themselves into existence.

True. But no luck. The Kike and the Mick are mere statistics.

True. So what's all this belated clamor about the disposition of their remains?

Let their bodies and souls (if they have souls) vanish, vanish into the bottomless precipice of history.

The two bums are bums of course but that doesn't mean they have not been exposed to certain approved elements of culture. Thus, for example, if you tested them with a grouping of pictures of buildings from the so-called
Chicago School
they could instantly discriminate a Sullivan from a Wright. Or give them a few bars of a sonata to listen to and they'll tell you without any hesitation if it's Beethoven or Westergaard. That's how cultivated they are. But so what?

Well, of course,
Kultur
doesn't matter much, it's what burns first, and fastest, when dictators take over.

Anyway, on this particular day the Bums find themselves at the new Holocaust Museum in DC, a few days after the final combustion in Waco.

They pay, receive their victim I.D. card, and move along with the crowd up and up to the top of the museum,
der dritte stock
, where the tour starts. They have barely looked at the first photographic display when Bum 1 draws his friend aside and faces him. Are you thinking what I am thinking? he asks.

Bum 2 replies, Guggenheim.

Exactly, nods One, Guggenheim.

2 takes 1 by the hand (old guys often hold hands) and together they rush out of this so-called museum. Down in the street in front of the building they are accosted by a group of protesters shouting:
Six million lies
.

The Bums join in. #1 shouting Guggenheim-Guggenheim. #2 chanting Disneyland-Disneyland. And both offering up the Nazi
seig heil
. The protesters form a circle around the two bums and begin shouting these strange words too, and saluting as well.

One day the two old geezers were fishing off the end of a decrepit boat dock, a new sport for these guys, used as they were in their younger years to power games such as tennis, ping-pong, racquetball, golf, wrestling, parachuting, mountain climbing.

Fishing is for the birds, said the Mick.

Yes, replied the Frog, fishing is for women.

And yet, they sat there on the rotting boards, each leaning on the piling between them.

Across the river and through the trees, said the Frog.

And a river runs through it, added the Mick.

And yet, the spring day was warm, blooming dog flowers lining the bank, and the river ran fast with spring run-off.

You know, said the Frog, I miss my mother.

Me too, said the Mick, I miss my mother, and my father.

Me too, said the Frog.

And so, on this quiet soft day early in spring, the fishing went on, the two friends held their poles faithfully, neither man minding the bait, or the hook, or the occasional tug on the line.

This story the Yid told the Mick one evening as they sat at the dining room table in the Mick's house and reminisced after a rather copious meal.

It's late in the afternoon. The Gestapo will be up shortly. They'll sit with tante Rachel and the rest of the family at the dining room table drinking hot tea from tall glasses with slices of lemon floating in the tea, and they'll nibble little pieces of gâteau. Their uniforms will be black, neat and slick, with Gestapo symbols sewn on the sleeves. Their big black Mercedes-Benz will be parked in front of the house. After they finish the gâteau, they'll unbutton their jackets to show us their SS tattoos, then they'll pull their revolvers out of their black holsters, aim them at us and shoot. The half-empty glasses of tea will shimmer on the table before toppling over and the tea will get mixed with the blood of my family and drip from the table onto the oriental carpet. Me I will observe all this because I will be hiding under the dining room table, and that's why I can tell you this story now, my dear friend, because you see they didn't see me hiding under the table, picking up the crumbs of the gâteau
.

The Mick listened closely as the Yid revealed this story. After a considerable period of silence, it was the Mick's turn to speak. He began:
It is late in the afternoon. The Gestapo will be up shortly …

Af-ter h-ear-ing the n-ews, the bums imme-dia-te-ly book-ed two seats oneway to Düssel-dorf. Tw-o s-eats one-way.

(Wh-en o-ne a-chi-eves a cer-tain a-ge [we don't spe-ci-fy] one is en-abl-ed to act w-ith true spon-ta-nei-ty.)

T-wo ti-ckets first-clas-s to D. O-ne-way.

The old bo-ys l-ike first cla-ss, the big con-so-le chairs, the end-less service, the pret-ty fli-ght at-ten-dant-s flit-ting a-bout them li-ke spar-rows, as if the old men had buck-ets of se-ed to br-oad-cast.

(H-ey, did you get a snif-f of lit. in the last pas-s-age? Wasn-t some-thin-g a lit-tle lift-ed a-bout it?)

The eld-er-lings en-joy the end-less suc-es-sion of fin-e wi-nes in first-class ac-com-mo-dat-ion, the re-al clo-th table-clo-ths and na-p-kins in fir-st class, and esp-ecia-lly tha-t lyr-I-cal sens-e of lo-ss ol-d men fe-el in the presence of wom-en of ju-ice.

(Ah, wo-men o-f ju-I-ce!)

The old buf-fs have not lo-st their brai-ns to-tall-y, ho-we-ver. The-y k-now en-ough to pur-po-se-ly le-ave the-ir seat-belts un-buck-led some-wha-t when the F-A's scur-ry to ad-monish them as 9-11 hea-vy rot-ates at max-i-mum thru-st, the boy-s de-cla-re them-sel-ves hel-p-le-ss to bu-ckl-e up, this is their first fli-gh-t, they only spe-a-k Far-see, and hel-p m-e fir-st the other gu-y is fak-ing it. Ah, the sc-ent of avail-a-ble wome-n, so deli-ci-ous-ly unset-tl-ing. A-h, i-t i-s al-most be-tt-er in reco-l-l-ec-tion.

O-ver the At-lant-ic non-stop, one-way, to Düs-sel-Dorf?

Wa-rum rei-sen die Penner-men-chen zum Düssel-Dorf zu-ruck?

         why tra-vel        bums        to    D          back?

We wi-sh the ta-le to achi-eve crui-sing spe-ed now, we sme-ll mu-le glu-e.

As you wi-sh. The bu-ms, stil-l a lit-tle tip-sy, from the fl-i-ght (you kn-ow the ef-fects of al-cohol at 35-00-0 ft) have pre-sented them-sel-ves at the sec-u-rity ga-te at the test-track of DM (Deutsch-land Mo-tors).

Go fas-ter.

O-K.

Theydemandtoseethedirectortheywanttobehiredasdummies forthenewmodelcrashtests …

N-o-t s-o f-a-s-t.

O-K.

I re-peat. They demand to see the director, they want to be hired …

Hy-phe-na-te.

O-K. I con-ti-nue. As dum-mies for the new mo-del cra-sh test-s, what the x, if they can us-e fre-sh ca-da-vers (wi-th next-of-kin-permiss-ion, of co-ur-se) thin-k of the impro-ve-ment u-sing live sub-jects -- and be-sides, the boys can use the ca-sh, you k-now wh-at it-s li-ke to li-ve on fi-x-ed in-come in time-s of infl-a-tion. An-d wh-o woul-d wan-t to mis-s a ch-an-ce to serv-e der Vater-land und das Deutsch-tum? And, ü-ber al-les, Sie ver-steh-en das the bet-ter the dum-my / the bet-ter the car. Nich-t w-har?

W-ow! To-o fast. What are you guys talking about?

You me-an you w-ant to do the Menge-le th-ing a-gain? (This is con-ta-g-ious.)

But at lea-st Sie vil-l ha-ve the pro-te-c-tkeit of cra-sh helmuts, seat-rest-ungs und air-beutels. Alle-s kl-ar? Cer-tain-ly.

         mei-nen Kind-er.               s-leep    you    we-ll

                    my chil-dren.