The Twilight of the Bums (17 page)

Anyway (you see here how the elderly love to get lost in anything,
as I ran beneath the indifferent sky
, in a city, in a mall and, as here, in a text), Bum Two went on
clutching a filthy package of fear
with his story, a story, which we can now reveal had one distinct and curious feature … we'll say it plain:

It began in the narrator's adopted language, but soon enough,
dans mes mains
was flowing in the mother tongue of the narrator, a language which he hasn't spoken all that much these last 45 years, although it should be noted that in the course of his narration Bum Two often switched back
a yellow star
to his adopted language and at times even spoke both languages
tomba du sky and frappa my breast
simultaneously.

The story itself, as we say, was perhaps eminently forgettable, a tale of survival, of defeat and victory, a tale of heroism and villainy
et tous les yeux turned away in shame
, a tale of noble wanderings, of sadly proportioned departures and returns, mixed with grand scenes of powerful recognition …

then they grabbed me …
You wonder what's coming next, don't you dear readers? We do too
and locked me dans une boîte
. We're getting worried for the old guys, perhaps they'll even forget this story they are supposedly narrating.

But this, as we say, is pure conjecture. What elements composed the actual story
dragged me
are lost to us, as we have asserted. We press on
cent fois
. But before we do, let us pause here a moment to re-establish the narrative, to summarize
my life began in a closet among
, to draw in a last big breath
merde alors si on se répète
. The two old guys are sitting dry-assed (you like this locution we bet,
over the earth in metaphorical disgrace
, we bet this is likely to be all you can recollect of this tale, so far) on a pre-formed (to whose shape?) plastic park bench …
tiens un banc! Qu'est-ce que ce banc peut bien foutre ici?
… supplied by a local undertaker featuring this week a discount for double interments in their spanking new columbarium
while they threw stones at each other and burned all the stars in a giant furnace
.

One elderling is telling the other a story which for some unusual reason the latter is actually listening to
et les voilà tous exterminés les pauvres diables
attentively, without interruption. The story is a literary masterpiece, we think, but it is lost to memory. All that remains
every day they came
is the knowledge that the tale began in English and soon transformed to French, and even Frenglish,
pour mettre leurs doigts in my mouth et aussi dans mon cul
, even though the content of the tale had a Greek flavor with a touch of Yiddishkeit in it, a tinge of the Aegean and the Middle-Eastern.

(Forgive us, we enjoy so these elaborations, these asides, these excursions and incursions. We are former military persons, which is no doubt culpable here) …
and paint me black and blue
.

Soon then, soon enough
mais à travers un trou
, the narrator either brought his tale to its conclusion or was incapable of drawing more breath to sustain the story, or,
I saw a tree the shape of a feuille
, having throughout the telling experienced no encouraging response from his audience -- much as a preacher will call out for a witness, and one
morning a bird flew into my head
, will gather fuel for the telling, can we get a witness here?
Ah tu parles machin, ils sont tous morts les témoins
, for the
final
hooping
solution
transcendence, lost his confidence, ran out of gas -- can we get a witness too? -- and ended the story, all in one breath …

I loved that bird so much that while my blue-eyed master looked at the sun and was blind I opened the cage and hid my heart dans une plume jaune
… Bum One slid out a bit on the bench, the better to turn to his friend, the better to look at him. He was thoughtful, puzzled.

You know, he said, I have never heard that story before. Not in all the years of our friendship.

Bum Two, now reverted to his step-tongue, did not seem surprised. Obviously not. I just made it up on the spot, he said, from approved material of course, but newly composed for this occasion.

Hmm, replied One, that much I suspected. I was not questioning the tale itself, but the telling of it. Are you aware that during the telling you began in one language and ended in another, and that in fact at one point you even mixed both languages and spoke them simultaneously?

Really? I did that, I mixed Yiddish with Ladino?

Well, I don't know if it was Yiddish or Ladino or Javanese, but some of what I heard did have a Yiddish beat with a touch of music from Ukraine, but that was only the vehicle. What I heard, what I really heard was ghosts, the voices of the dead.

Hey, you OK boy? asked Two, this bench making you morbid?

I'm telling you, I heard, Bum One went on, the voices of the dead, the dead who have no story of their own to tell. They are here with us now. Hey this is too much, said Bum Two turning away from his friend, shaking his head in refusal, this is too much.

And there they left the story, and we leave them, two old dry-assed bums, sitting next to each other on a bench in the park. Now you know why we experienced such resistance as we attempted to tell this story of a story within a story. We beg your indulgence.

Every Saturday morning the bums go to the nearby drugstore to buy lottery tickets. They have been doing this since the first day the lottery became legal in the state where they live, and they will probably continue to do so until they win the big one or until they die or until the lottery becomes illegal (whichever comes first), even though they have never won anything.

They each buy one ticket, always playing the same six numbers. Bum One's numbers are: 5, 15, 19, 28, 42, 47; Bum Two's: 3, 7, 12, 27, 43, 54. Neither of them knows the secret meaning of the other's numbers, and neither has ever asked the other (even though they have bummed together for more years than even they can remember) to reveal that secret, though each has, of course, speculated about their possible meaning.

In the privacy of his mind Bum Two thinks that Bum One's 5 designates the month in which his friend was born, the 15 the day of that month, the 19 and the 28 the year of his birth, the 42 a year of traumatic consequences for his friend, and the 47 a year of great change in his life.

Similarly, Bum One has speculated that the 2 in his friend's set of numbers refers to the two wives Bum Two has had, the 7 to the number of children Bum Two has had with both wives, 12 the number of years he was married to the first wife, 27 the total number of years Bum Two has been married to both wives, 43 the number of times he has been unfaithful to both wives (though Bum One is not certain of this one), and 54 the number of years Bum Two has lived in the same place with or without a wife.

[words of comfort, consolation & advice]

1.     If someone offers you the back of his or her hand -- take it.

2.     To ease the burden during those times of enforced solitude which every human being must endure, repeat this saying three times:
Solo, como el Esparrago
.Be mindful, as you chant this saying of solitude, that while the asparagus spear grows alone, the whole field is shimmering in a lovely bluish late spring haze.

3.     Wisdom tells us that it is better to determine gender after rather than before.

4.     The correct response to trouble is gratitude.

5.     Give until it hurts. (This one is much better in any language other than American).

6.     To decompose is to live, too (here the comma makes the difference).

7.     Always keep your back to the wall.

8.     Man is neither angel nor beast, but when Man tries to be an angel he turns into a beast. [For further elucidation on this one please see ANGELS in this collection.]

9.     Arbeit macht frei. (Only in this language does this saying make a kind of sense.)

10.   The source of the trouble is not in the trouble, just as the key to the treasure is not the treasure. (Whoever said that is full of shit.)

11.   We leave home in joy and return in sadness. (The Bums are not entirely responsible for this one.)

12.   If you have a (   ), be glad. If you don't have a (   ), not to worry. Soon, a (   ) will be yours too.

Bum One is telling his friend with all the appropriate gestures and facial expressions the heroic feats he performed when he was in the war -- the big war.

Bum Two stops his friend and says: You are lying to me. You never did those things.

Bum One is clearly irritated by the interruption: I know, I know, but hear me out anyway.