The Twilight of the Bums (18 page)

We are told that old men confronting their mortality often replay mentally (or even in writing) the great moments of their lives, or they make lists of the things that have given them particular pleasure, for instance, making love, eating gourmet food, tasting expensive French wines, parachuting out of airplanes, reading a good book (especially if it is one they have written themselves), listening to music (classical, jazz, gospel, hip hop, opera, delta blues, heavy metal), having their backs scratched, getting a full body massage, shooting a subpar golf game, sleeping late, playing cards with the grandchildren and of course winning, gazing with the remnants of desire at the gorgeous bodies of the wives of their sons, permitting themselves the wish of outliving their enemies (and even their friends -- if the truth can be told), und so weiter.

We are also told that sometimes old men (though lately more and more women too) confronting their mortality seriously for the first time consider performing one final act, something preposterous they have always wanted to do but never had the courage for.

And so, one day Bum One asks Bum Two (no need to identify which is which, old age being a generic condition): Before you die, what would you like to do that you have never done?

To this Bum Two replies, without so much as reflecting for even a moment: I would like to walk bareass on the Champs Elysées and micturate in public, right in front of the people sitting at a sidewalk café. Bum Two pauses, his face fractured into what could have been interpreted as a smile, and then he asks his friend: And you?

The friend shrugs his shoulders indicating what can be interpreted as indecision, or it could be that he is moved in a special way by his friend's last wish, the one wish he knows his friend will never be granted. Then he sits down, he sits down on the curb of Storkwinkelstrasse, right there in Berlin, the city with no history to speak of.

Bum Two looks concerned too. This wish of mine, he says cautiously, sitting down in the gutter beside his friend, has grieved you, has hurt you. I am so sorry. I had no wish to insult you, at least not today.

Bum One remains silent for awhile and then, looking across the broad street at the imposing Bauhaus facades, he says: It is a beautiful wish, I know what you mean. You wish to turn back the clock to that Sunday morning in July, 1942. Your mama has sent you to the bakery and you are coming back to your apartment with a big loaf of bread, almost as long as you are. As you mount the stairs to the third floor you can hear your sisters laughing (or are they whining?) as your mother shouts something at your father, that good-for-nothing bum who will never amount to anything, and you are climbing a bit faster so as not to miss the excitement.

Bum Two hugs his friend and says: You got all this from a simple leak, a leak I haven't taken yet.

Bum One looks at his friend. They cannot ask more of you, he says, but they do.

Bum Two lifted his old friend up. Come on, he said, digging in his pocket for his traveler's checks, let's go to Ka-De-Ve and buy something expensive for our wives.

The bums have decided to commit suicide. They have reached an existential cul-de-sac. They are fed up with life. Bored silly. There is nothing left for them to do in this world. They have done it all: traveled in all the continents (including both the North and South Poles), made love to hundreds of beautiful women of all races (including their own wives, of course), written books (some published, though most of these out of print now, and some unpublished, but that doesn't matter), parachuted out of airplanes, climbed the highest mountains on this planet, fought wars overseas, gambled in the swankiest casinos of Europe, yes they've done it all, and now they are bored, fed up with life. Even the thrill of receiving their monthly Social Security checks has faded away. This is it. They want out.

You understand, the bums are experienced in suicides -- well, suicides manqués. We know of at least four attempts on their part which resulted in failed acts of felo-de-se. But this time the bums are serious. They will not fail. They have made a suicide pact to go together, and have even written the suicide note on a large piece of cardboard -- two words that say it all:
we apologize
.

In order to determine who would go first they flipped a coin. Bum One won (or should we say, lost?). The old guys decided on this procedure so that at least the death of one of them could be verified by the other, which means, of course, that Bum Two's death will remain unverified until his body is discovered next to his friend's.

And now it is time to act. Bum One is ready to swallow the poison (poison is what has been chosen after other modes of self-destruction were rejected because they are usually too messy) mixed with red wine in a finely etched crystal glass (for this special occasion the bums have selected a 1959 Morgon Grand Cru -- the bums are great connoisseurs of wines) when suddenly his hand hesitates as the glass approaches his mouth. Hey, say, he tells his friend, how do I know that once I have drank this stuff and died you will do the same?

Good question, answers Bum Two, very good question. As you know, I've been inclined to be a coward on many occasions.

Bum One sets the glass down on the table, rubs his chin with his hand for a moment, and then says: Look, why don't we think of a more equitable way of doing this?

Fine with me, replies Bum Two.

And so once again the bums have postponed their death. In fact, after having discussed the matter at length, they reach the conclusion that to put an end to one's life is a form of delusion -- for to leave one's life, one's works unfinished implies the possibility of success -- what is left unlived, untold, may contain the potential truth one always seeks -- those who kill themselves do so with the conviction that they would have reached that truth eventually had they lived to the proper end -- they die in the illusion of hope which in a way keeps the rest of us alive.

The bums reflect:

It is important never to forget the mud-pile in which humanity wallows in pain.

The bums further reflect:

Having entered the era of multiple madnesses, pressed together like the folds of an accordion, humanity is rediscovering the boredom of repetition at the beginning of eternal return.

The bums shake their heads:

Humanity is suffering of the sickness of being because life is but a convulsive xerox copy of death. One tries to cure that by pretending to sooth mankind of beingness, and life of deadness, but nothing is more boring than health.

The bums shrug their shoulders:

The Divine Comedy of life can no longer be written as a future projection of the final collective settlement of accounts.

The bums sit down and put their heads between their hands:

Traveling without destination in endless round trips towards and away from something that has nothing more to do with life, humanity spreads everywhere its paleo-biological anguish.

The bums begin to cry:

This endless bleeding of life into death gives the appearance of life but in fact it is already death.

The bums throw themselves on the floor:

It is just a matter of deploying as much skepticism as possible as humanity oscillates between life and death.

The bums get up and wipe their eyes:

It is not an evolution towards a cure but towards more sickness and pain.

The bums throw their arms up in the air:

Sick humanity must force itself to enter into the repetition of its incurable sickness not by asking for final judgment at the end of civilization but by accepting the end of civilization.

The bums bang their heads against the wall:

The final judgment takes place in permanence in the simulation of non-judgment in neutrality, that is why it is called corruption.

The bums scratch at the wall with their fingernails:

The necessity of postulating the Apocalypse is already the Apocalypse because this postulation goes on forever.

The bums conclude sadly:

The time of settlement is here and now, we are all living-dead separated from each other only by the little plot reserved for us in the great cemetery of the universe.

The bums burst into laughter
.

!! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !!

!! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !!

!! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !! !!

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahaha

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahaha

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahaha

Bum One: hahahahaha
hahahahah

Bum One: hahahahaha
h
oho

Bum One: hahahahaha
hahahah

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahahah

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahahahah

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahahahahah

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahahahahahahh

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahahahahahahah

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah

Bum One: hahahahahahaahaahahahaha

Bum One: hahahahahahaha
hahahahaha

Bum One: hahahahahahaha
h
   
_aaaaaa

Bum One: hahahahahahaha
h
   
^aaaaaa

Bum One: hahahahahahaha
hahahahaha

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahahahaha

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahahahah

Bum One: hahahahahahahahahahaha

Bum One: hahahahah

Bum One: hahahahah

Bum One: hahahahah

Bum One: hahahaha