The Twilight of the Bums by Raymond Federman, George Chambers
Authors: Raymond Federman, George Chambers
Ads: Link
Bâs parody of S unaware of Sâs parody of L. Are we boring you? On we rush.
It is night, deep night somewhere in Bohemia, and the bums, still hitchhiking west toward the western foci of civilization and its discontents: Paris or Dachau. Deep night on a stretch of dark deserted road, the bums tossed out there by a busload of Irish Separatists Soccer Club members who mistook Bum 2 for an English lord, kicked them out after a good thrashing with their soccer shin guards. Deep night, the old bums exhausted, hungry, and so thirsty they are passing the business end of a tossed cigarette butt back and forth for the moisture in the tobacco. Rather than wait, they determine to set out on foot, to walk -- surely a town lies ahead, somewhere. The bums struggle along, side by side, hand in hand, lest they lose one another in the complete starless moonless night. Like the heroes of old, on this night, they have no private thoughts.
Perhaps, says one to the other, we are already dead. I was just about to utter that very thought, the other replies.
Soon thereafter the road tends downward and in a distance only defined by their appearance the old men could see a series of lights, perhaps torches, in a single file, moving slowly toward them. About two kilometers ahead, although calculating distance without reference points is -- oh well, this rhetoric already implies its conclusions so why waste time and space, eh?
The rest is quickly narrated. The old guys jump off the road and hide in a ditch. The string of lights draws nearer, now moaning is heard, formless moaning but moaning finding a form in that formlessness, moaning discovering a rhythm of sorts, a shape to contain the implied grief. At 50 meters a mule pulling a small cart is noted in the semi-darkness (for it is not as dark now as before because we have removed the clouds that were hiding the Moon eh! why not). On either side of the cart, torch bearers. Behind, a small group of hooded figures. Everyone moaning, moaning from the pit of the stomach, the way Tibetan Buddhist monks pray. At 20 meters a coffin is revealed atop the cart. Also, inflated rubber tires on the mule cart.
Itâs a night burial, whispers one to the other. Yes, whispers the other back, a big sinner. Only big sinners are buried at night.
Soon enough the burial procession has disappeared from sight and the old men are again on the road in the dark (the Moon is back behind the clouds), stumbling along, holding hands, now certain that a town lies within walkable distance.
One of the bums says to the world and his friend and himself, it doesnât get any better than this. One replies, my thought exactly, his brainpan working furiously to assemble the depressing realizable lyric which Edith Piaf planted there some 50 years ago.
CERTIFICATION OF PURITY
We the undersigned members of the Cervantist Society wish to state for the record that your literary effort NIGHT BURIAL has been cleared of all charges brought before our body pertaining to elements in that effort thought to have been plagiarized from DON QUIXOTE .
A double-blind computer scan, the DNA testing of our profession, betrays no literary influence whatsoever in your piece.
We do wish to observe, however, that the Lehar operetta which Shostakovitch rakes over the coals so in the first movement of his 7th Symphony was the favorite tune of Adolph Hitler, especially in those glory days when the Reich was on the march southwest to its biggest prize: Paris. Thus, in mocking it with such violence, we hear Shostakovitchâs intention to pound old Lehar down the Furherâs throat.
Yours respectfully,
Ramón Hombre Della Pluma
President ex cathedra
THE PEAR
One quiet lazy fall day their black-market contacts all made, their pockets thick with yen and military scrip from various shady deals bargained and settled in the back alleys of Yokohama, the two draftees slipped into their zoot suits (custom made in Hong Kong) and jeeped off in
It is night, deep night somewhere in Bohemia, and the bums, still hitchhiking west toward the western foci of civilization and its discontents: Paris or Dachau. Deep night on a stretch of dark deserted road, the bums tossed out there by a busload of Irish Separatists Soccer Club members who mistook Bum 2 for an English lord, kicked them out after a good thrashing with their soccer shin guards. Deep night, the old bums exhausted, hungry, and so thirsty they are passing the business end of a tossed cigarette butt back and forth for the moisture in the tobacco. Rather than wait, they determine to set out on foot, to walk -- surely a town lies ahead, somewhere. The bums struggle along, side by side, hand in hand, lest they lose one another in the complete starless moonless night. Like the heroes of old, on this night, they have no private thoughts.
Perhaps, says one to the other, we are already dead. I was just about to utter that very thought, the other replies.
Soon thereafter the road tends downward and in a distance only defined by their appearance the old men could see a series of lights, perhaps torches, in a single file, moving slowly toward them. About two kilometers ahead, although calculating distance without reference points is -- oh well, this rhetoric already implies its conclusions so why waste time and space, eh?
The rest is quickly narrated. The old guys jump off the road and hide in a ditch. The string of lights draws nearer, now moaning is heard, formless moaning but moaning finding a form in that formlessness, moaning discovering a rhythm of sorts, a shape to contain the implied grief. At 50 meters a mule pulling a small cart is noted in the semi-darkness (for it is not as dark now as before because we have removed the clouds that were hiding the Moon eh! why not). On either side of the cart, torch bearers. Behind, a small group of hooded figures. Everyone moaning, moaning from the pit of the stomach, the way Tibetan Buddhist monks pray. At 20 meters a coffin is revealed atop the cart. Also, inflated rubber tires on the mule cart.
Itâs a night burial, whispers one to the other. Yes, whispers the other back, a big sinner. Only big sinners are buried at night.
Soon enough the burial procession has disappeared from sight and the old men are again on the road in the dark (the Moon is back behind the clouds), stumbling along, holding hands, now certain that a town lies within walkable distance.
One of the bums says to the world and his friend and himself, it doesnât get any better than this. One replies, my thought exactly, his brainpan working furiously to assemble the depressing realizable lyric which Edith Piaf planted there some 50 years ago.
CERTIFICATION OF PURITY
We the undersigned members of the Cervantist Society wish to state for the record that your literary effort NIGHT BURIAL has been cleared of all charges brought before our body pertaining to elements in that effort thought to have been plagiarized from DON QUIXOTE .
A double-blind computer scan, the DNA testing of our profession, betrays no literary influence whatsoever in your piece.
We do wish to observe, however, that the Lehar operetta which Shostakovitch rakes over the coals so in the first movement of his 7th Symphony was the favorite tune of Adolph Hitler, especially in those glory days when the Reich was on the march southwest to its biggest prize: Paris. Thus, in mocking it with such violence, we hear Shostakovitchâs intention to pound old Lehar down the Furherâs throat.
Yours respectfully,
Ramón Hombre Della Pluma
President ex cathedra
THE PEAR
One quiet lazy fall day their black-market contacts all made, their pockets thick with yen and military scrip from various shady deals bargained and settled in the back alleys of Yokohama, the two draftees slipped into their zoot suits (custom made in Hong Kong) and jeeped off in
Similar Books
