The Twilight of the Bums (15 page)

Once a month the boys go for a trim and a shave, each time to a new place (men love variety, as we all know). Once a month they defy fate and order the barber to trim what's left on the head and shave the face, a more reliable source of hirsutity. The boys like this for several reasons. First, it is something to do. They need a reason to get out of the house,
to get out of the wives' hair
. Second, they get to refresh their map-reading skills (an important military attainment), and also to read the latest issue of
Sports Illustrated
. Third, they like to create a little scene when they happen upon open, no-appointment shops. When the barber says,
Next!
the boys go into their
before you, Gascoigne
, number, with its various phrases --
age before beauty, horse before cart, spoon before soup
, and so on. Fourth, there is the possibility of getting a shave and trim by a lovely young lady barber who usually wears nothing at all under her white barber smock and whose unencumbered breasts sometimes rub inadvertently against the boys as she leans over to trim the sideburns. Fifth there is barber shop talk. Sixth the telling of the jokes --
did you hear the one about
, etc. Seventh, the sound of barbering -- the snip of the scissors, the hum of the hair dryer, the scrape of the straight razor, the brief groan of the hot lather machine, the whip of the fan blade overhead, the sexy chat of the barbers as they work, the banter, the billingsgate. Eighth, the fall of the hair, the hair on the apron, the hair on the floor, the mundos of hair, the barber's brush brushing the hair off the boys' shoulders. Ninth, the mirror held behind the head. Ten, the hot towel on the face. Eleven, the slap and scent of the cologne as it is applied (especially by feminine hands). Twelve, the pull of the comb through the hair. Thirteen, we almost forgot, the too hot and then slightly too cold water of the shampooing. Fourteen, the last touches and twitterings of the scissors. Fifteen, the snap of the apron as the barber helps one out of the chair. Sixteen, the tip after the assessment of the quality of the work and the exactly appropriate amount of the tip. What have we forgotten? Ah yes, the delicious way that one drifts free of oneself and one's concerns as the barber performs his or her ministrations, yes, great ease, ease and travel, and as in all life, the wish for it to continue, to go on, just for a little while more, a bit more, precisely now as it is ending, how one wants more, no matter how little, down to a hair. Seventeen, the bus trip to the real Chicago hot-dog stand. Eighteen, the proprioceptive experience in the lurching bus, the boys banging into each other and other passengers. And, oh yes, how could we have forgotten the shoeshine performed at the same time as the haircut, not to mention the possibility of a manicure.

♦

T
he

O
ld guys

A
re out on

T
he bay fishing

I
n one of their grand-

S
on's flatboats, a modest

U
nstable affair with a two

H
orse-power trolling motor and

A
pair of collapsible oars in the bow.

I
t is their birthday and they are not feeling

T
oo happy about that -- the years are adding up

A
nd the old guys have enough reasons to be taking

T
hem seriously, to feel the sad toll of the bell vibrating

T
hrough their bones in that special twofold way that bells

V
ibrate, as the poet himself told: Erst in dem Doppelbereich

W
erden die Stimmen ewig und mild sein. Poets are so perceptive.

S
ea bass is the catch they are after today -- the famous trophy fish

O
n the endangered list and thus dangerous to the boys too (boys is

W
hat they are beginning to be called. A very depressing sign, indeed).

A
nyway (it is hard not to digress when telling a fish story), the old guys

A
re not feeling well at all, they are feeling old: the government is sending

T
hem forms, burial societies want to stop by for a chat, Sears has sent them its

M
ature Wisdom catalog of prosthetic appliances, canes, crutches, handles for the bathtub,

M
agnifying-glasses, inflatable rings for the toilet seat, ice-packs for sore body parts, aspirin.

Anyway, heck, the ocean this late afternoon is especially dark, almost black, even though a full May sun is upon

it. From the west, the boys hear the sound of a fast approaching power boat, one of those superfast

cigarette jobbies drug runners use. The glare is such they cannot see it and they commence to worry some, thinking

the speeding boat might run them down. The danger implicit in this moment cheers the old guys up
.

Just then the power boat comes into view, a bevy of lovely women on its bow, who, when they see

the old fishers, take off their bikinis and toss them into the water to give the boys a visual treat
.

Damn, damn. Then they are gone, like all visions of loveliness, zerfliest wie Eitelschaum
,

disappeared in a foamy frothy wake that looks like whale sperm (to some viewers)
.

Gosh, what a story. The old guys are standing up, screaming at the cigarette

boat to turn back, they are all excited, their flatboat, now surrounded on

all sides by the empty bikinis that look like deflated balloons, is

shipping water, wobbling. # One starts to giggle

and tickles his friend,who starts giggling and

tickling him back. Then, it seems from the distance
,

as we recede to the safety of the shore
,

that the two old guys are dueling

with their fishing poles
,

can this be? Do you

see what we see?