The Twilight of the Bums (7 page)

Henri is taken aback (he has the look of a musketeer who has just been touché). Bum One enters,
Tell us do, dear Monette, which one it was who touched your sacred source, the font of your essence
.

Henri returns to the plate. After a long drag in and a slow puff out on his pipe,
Do
, he commands,
do it
.

Gosh, poor Monette is on the spot, eh? Do you think she is enjoying this? Perhaps you even think she expected to sit on this hot seat?
[Stop asking the reader to think, it's dangerous.]

Ah
, begins Monette, somewhat shyly, almost in a whisper
[Wow, there's a lot of whispering in this thing]
,
One was gymnastical, but recited the loveliest poetry as he worked me over, something like
un cube sur un cube cela fait deux cubes, deux cubes sur deux cubes cela fait un mur entre toi et moi, et toi tu es là tout gras en train de manger ta soupe
, a poem that Juliette Greco, I recall, performed in one of those existentialist movies set in North Africa with that Brit of a Brit as hero, I forget his name, his face is horribly pocked. Tea?

The men at this moment are experiencing profound regret for having permitted any floor space at all for the question which elicited Monette's response.
[Watch your syntax, still whispering in my ear, you know who.]

Monette pours the tea,
Hmm
, it has a saffronish quality, somewhat unarticulated. The tray of tiny cakes
[make it French pastries]
… the tray of
petits fours
she then nudges toward the men (Henri having repositioned Himself behind the loveseat, next to the record-player -- we told you the record-player would play an important part in this).

But
, continues Monette, softly,
ultimately, I felt like a grip on a horse, you know, one of those hand-grips on stationary horses -- how do you call these horses? -- which gymnasts do their stuff on. Now, as to the next one in question, I have a most curious response, a response I will make as plainly as I can. He was a wonderful lover I am sure no doubt, to be sure, but being with him was like being alone. I speculated, if I may say so, that he loved me profoundly, so utterly, that he quite disappeared within the force-field of my Being, if that doesn't seem too farfetched
.
[Which of the bums do you think she is alluding to?]

Do you suppose, dear Reader, that at least one of Monette's guests is regretting having accepted her invitation to tea?

The men have stiffened considerably, Henri stark in his Gallic uprightness, the boys on the upholstery sinking back, which movement most unfortunately brings them closer (do you understand here the design of the love seat? -- if not, hurry now to an appropriate information source before continuing).

Bum Two interposes,
Gentlemen, how many seconds of consciousness does a person have after the blade of the guillotine has done its work?

The third lover
, Monette now speaking with some confidence, a bit louder, refusing utterly the last question, not about to be chopped off,
now there was the Summun Bonum!

The Summun Bonhomme?
gasps Henri, unwittingly.

The Summun Bonem!
utter the bums on the love seat, as one.

Yes, yes, yes
, says Monette,
yes, yes. The Bonum. The Summun. What more can one say? Cake?

What a delicious moment, eh dear Reader? Can you taste the silence that ensued? Could we extend beyond this point?

[We doubt it.]

For the first time since they moved to Bumsville, more than forty years ago, the bums have been invited to attend the annual fund-raising costume ball to be held the County Museum of Modern Art.

The invitation stressed:
Come dressed as your favorite fantasy
.

For lack of space in this literary effort, we will not describe what the wives of the bums wore for the occasion, we will simply say that they both looked very attractive in their movie star costumes. As for Bum One, he went dressed as a Ku Klux Klan. He had shaped a white sheet into a long hood that came down to his ankles, and in it he had cut two eye holes. It was not bad, though he looked more like a cute little ghost than a mean ugly Klansman.

Bum Two went disguised as a Neo-Nazi Skinhead. He had shaved his head completely, put on huge iron-cross earrings and a chain necklace. He was bare chested, wearing only black leather pants with suspenders, boots that reached up to his knees, and on his fingers rings shaped into human skulls. On his forearms he drew SS tattoos, and on his chest he pasted a large photograph of Adolf Hitler.

The bums were a sensation at the ball. In fact, Neo-Nazi Bum won first prize for his costume (a magnum size bottle of California Champagne), and Ku Klux Klan Bum was awarded second prize (a regular one liter size bottle of New York State Champagne). [We
apologize for the stinginess of the prizes, but Bumsville is at this moment in the midst of an economic crisis.]

Walking home a bit tipsy after the ball (still in their costumes), Bum Two embraced his friend and congratulated him for having won first prize, but he said, with a slight tone of envy: You know, I don't understand how a Neo-Nazi Skinhead can appear more important to the judges of this contest than a Klansman.

Oh, that's obvious, replied the winner, right now the Klan is in decline, whereas Neo-Nazism is on the rise. But you don't have to be a sore loser because of that.

When the bums landed in Warsaw on their tour of East European countries, they took a bus to the edge of town and started thumbing to Krakow about 240 km south, the Mick out in front, the Yid hiding in the brush, in ditches, behind trees, taking cover wherever available.

There are historical reasons for this curious arrangement, this necessary precautionary situation. Tell us, O Fable, when there were no such reasons.