2 Mass-Ave Bums Chew-and-Screw, Almost!

A couple of Mass-Ave bums came into the restaurant on Sunday night. Now, from the onset of their arrival, it was clear that they were a little misplaced; I mean--fuck--they stuck out like sore thumbs. One--who clearly didn’t graduate from Harvard, although his hooded sweatshirt offered otherwise--had a vicious, grizzly red beard that covered half his face. The other--who had a gait presumably altered by alcohol consumption--sported a pair of wonderful, fingerless mittens; both were decked out in jackets that could dub as parachutes. 

As they sat at the table--hunched over in despair--I approached them with a certain neutrality. Hey, bums gotta eat too! Let’s not jump to conclusions, yet! I kindly took their order, which was 2 plates of stuffed sole, and served them the complimentary bread, butter, and mushrooms. After they devoured the 2 pieces of bread, they asked for more, and more, and more. After they had enough yeast in their stomachs to sustain a distillery, I brought them their soles. The food disappeared in seconds as food debris smattered about in the air. Newburg sauce dangled like tinsel in Grizzly Adams’ beard, while a pool of shimmering butter spewed off the other guy’s chin. 

An ecstatic--bordering perverse--look gleamed in each other’s eyes. This could have been attributed to the vitreous effects of alcohol, the pure gluttony just exercised, or, more pertinently, to the idea that was undoubtedly brewing in their heads. 

I placed the bill amongst the remaining scree of breadcrumbs and saliva, and waited nearby, vigilantly monitoring the tailbones of my bums. 

Bummer!

I noticed the only thing green at the table, was the mutated plaque in between the teeth of bum number 1; the only Franklin being waved around was the one belonging to the batter’s glove bum number 2 was wearing around his right hand. 

Red Flags started to erupt as bum number 1--Grizzly Adams--took off, in a manic haste, towards the front door. Then, it hit me: how ironic was it that 2 creatures, such as those, would be feeding on sole--when in fact there was nothing soulful about their actions. Bum number 1 reached his demise as he smacked into the front door in a cataclysmic collision. Just as he fell to the earth, his pants, likewise, fell from his hips to his ankles. Quickly, he recovered just in time to make a run for it. As he did, I could hear him screaming, “I’m gonna get you!!! Sleep with one-eye open!!!” 

Taking Bum number 1’s lead, bum number 2 tried to escape by running for the front door. However, a phalanx of servers--myself included--tripped him up enough to land him directly on his ass. Wow, what a pain in the bum?! He sat there--in a submissive bow of defeat--long enough for the cops to arrive and apprehend him.

This, surely, had to have been some kind of karmic punishment, punishing my inability--my downright refusal--to give spare change to the Mass-Ave Bums; for if I had been contributing to their alms, then maybe they could have afforded a night out on the town. Damn!