The Twilight of the Bums Read Online Free

double-checking the pill cups, her freshly laundered white uniform so sweet and clean smelling, oh, oh it’s spring and a window flies open, her uniform embracing and defining her naked womanhood, and so on and so forth, the old guys waken, their handclasp tightening, tears inching down their cragged, manly faces.

THE SKY BOX
    The two bums, the guys we often speak of, the ones who share a birth date and a sock size, and a shadow, are also men, through no fault of their own, of a defined substance in the secondary community in which they live and work. Their wives enjoy their status in this community and have, as wives are wont, ambitions beyond their state. And so it is that at the class AA ballpark one may view, much to the chagrin of the bums, a structure just above the bleachers, where the wives come to entertain their friends and view the games in air-conditioned comfort.
    On the day in question, an interesting game is ongoing, scoreless, bottom of the third. The bums are seated in the proletarian green bleachers directly below the sky box, a gesture to the masses they insisted on. The bums are sitting just behind a youngish woman, an up-and-coming lawyer, they decide, who is studying the game with a total attention that frees them to view with delight her appetizing derrière which bounces with every move and every shout she makes to encourage her favorite players.
    Bottom of the third then. This is what they are doing. But it’s also her fingers, their slimness, and the way the shaped nails sit on them, which attract the bums’ attention. They are having sex fantasies about these lovely slim fingers, which rest composedly on a legal pad, but also her thick bush, a miracle of Levantine black, and the revealed scalp beneath it so healthy, so clean. Those lovely fingers, her healthy hair, and that appetizing derrière, the two bums have lost interest in the game.
    The wives, meanwhile, sit in the circle of easy chairs at the back of the box, chatting with their invited guests, the wives of the police chief, the mayor, the school superintendent, the guest conductor of the local symphony orchestra.
    But now, it’s the seventh inning stretch. The two bums get up to stretch with the rest of the crowd and so does the lady up-coming-lawyer who turns to view the crowd behind her thus facing the two bums. Oh my mamamia! What a set of boobs. Unbelievable. These generous protuberances will no doubt occupy our two bums, along with the rest of the lady’s anatomy, until the end of the game, and will probably prevent them from enjoying the local team’s victory.

CHEZ MONETTE

    One day Monette invited the boys to tea to meet Henri, her newest conquest -- a large man with a thick beard (big and thick enough to store things in, oh say a pipe cleaner kit) and big opinions (quite natural for a pseudofrog).
    This, you are thinking, is indeed an auspicious opening. You wonder why the guys hate Henri so.
    Monette, it should be revealed, did time as the mistress of the bums (not the same sentence, of course -- social bienséance must be preserved).
    Ah, we see, so the bums are still in love with the memory of Monette and resent their reincarnation in Henri.
    Right you are. Henri is standing (he likes to be upright for his major utterances, avec un accent, bien sûr ) near the delicate tea table with its fine Limoges service, a pleasant little stream of steam rising from the pot, a pot deeply glazed, a white crane -- the ancient symbol of longevity -- depicted in the attitude of flight.
    The boys are seated together on what is called a love seat [hey, specify that it is an original Beauvais, whispers my co-author] . You may be sure they detest it.
    (Oh, lest we be accused of not reporting the scene faithfully, we must mention here, especially since it is an important detail, and a nice touch, the record-player, next to the love seat, on which Monette is playing her favorite recording of Mireille Mathieu singing