Dumont wrote quite a few pieces that read much like the fables I remember from childhood. Simple morality tales with unexpected twists, like this one:
The Homeless Man and the Stock Broker
A homeless man was sleeping in the doorway of a church down in the financial district dreaming of better times. He was jarred from his slumber when a man slung twenty-five cents at him hitting him in the head. "Time to wake up, old man, and get to your panhandling," said the man with a laugh as he headed towards the stock exchange in his smart-looking suit.
The next morning the same thing happened. The homeless man was asleep, dreaming of better times when he was hit in the head with a quarter by the sharply-dressed man.
And this went on day after day.
But the business world is very cyclical and many of the workers he recognized had fallen on hard times. He could see it in their faces. Finally one morning the sharply-dressed stock broker didn't walk by and sling a quarter at his head. This time he asked a favor: "Hey old man," he said. "Can you spare any of those quarters I've given you over the years?"
The homeless man looked up from his slumber and gazed into the sharply dressed man's eyes, and in a single motion hit him over the head with a twenty-five pound bag full of quarters, killing him instantly. Blood poured from his head, down the steps of the church and into a nearby drain. All applauded.
Moral: Just put the money is a cup, you schmuck.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Smitty and Lydia, 8/10/77
Another of Dumont's short stories, this one about some characters named Smitty and Lydia.
August 10, 1977
Smitty was having a birthday so Lydia made some hobo cookies from soggy day-old bread and sugar packets left to bake on a flat rock in the hot summer sun. These were better than the last batch because they contained bits of Hersey Bar liberated from a bodega on 67th Street. Lots of sugar too. And they had beer.
"Homeless junky" is one tough gig but Smitty had gotten used to the long hours and low wages. Having a partner like Lydia helped even though deep down they knew that it wouldn't last. They had met in late spring of that year at the Social Club, a title Smitty had given to the soup kitchen they frequented in Hell's Kitchen near 42nd Street. All homeless junky couples seemed to meet there. Stop in for some soup, a place to sit down and wham, someone to hang out with on the street for a couple of weeks.
They say that misery loves company but for the truly miserable, the comfort of company only lasts so long. Eventually the look of misery on your partners face becomes too much, a reflection of yourself that is too painful to bear. And then it's bye bye.
But this was a salad day sitting in Central Park on a summer day with a handful of sweet cookies and a thankful breeze. Smitty felt himself smile earnestly for the first time in months. He was giddy inside. He and Lydia sat out all afternoon making fun of people, laughing and joking, and drinking their beers until the sun went down.
But it wouldn't last. Several weeks later the hard rains of late summer hit. Smitty and Lydia found themselves fighting over a ten dollar bill while soaking wet on Fifth Avenue across from the park. She tried to stab him with a fork... he punched her... and that was that. Smitty spent the next two days in jail and Lydia was gone. Next time he saw her at the soup kitchen she was with Otis. She passed him by without a glance.
August 10, 1977
Smitty was having a birthday so Lydia made some hobo cookies from soggy day-old bread and sugar packets left to bake on a flat rock in the hot summer sun. These were better than the last batch because they contained bits of Hersey Bar liberated from a bodega on 67th Street. Lots of sugar too. And they had beer.
"Homeless junky" is one tough gig but Smitty had gotten used to the long hours and low wages. Having a partner like Lydia helped even though deep down they knew that it wouldn't last. They had met in late spring of that year at the Social Club, a title Smitty had given to the soup kitchen they frequented in Hell's Kitchen near 42nd Street. All homeless junky couples seemed to meet there. Stop in for some soup, a place to sit down and wham, someone to hang out with on the street for a couple of weeks.
They say that misery loves company but for the truly miserable, the comfort of company only lasts so long. Eventually the look of misery on your partners face becomes too much, a reflection of yourself that is too painful to bear. And then it's bye bye.
But this was a salad day sitting in Central Park on a summer day with a handful of sweet cookies and a thankful breeze. Smitty felt himself smile earnestly for the first time in months. He was giddy inside. He and Lydia sat out all afternoon making fun of people, laughing and joking, and drinking their beers until the sun went down.
But it wouldn't last. Several weeks later the hard rains of late summer hit. Smitty and Lydia found themselves fighting over a ten dollar bill while soaking wet on Fifth Avenue across from the park. She tried to stab him with a fork... he punched her... and that was that. Smitty spent the next two days in jail and Lydia was gone. Next time he saw her at the soup kitchen she was with Otis. She passed him by without a glance.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Charlie Dean's Great Fall, October 6, 1981
Wesley claimed to have done every drug under the sun at least once but never talked about any addiction or problems with drugs. However, given the amount of talk about drugs in his stories, I can only assume they played a role in his plight. Certainly alcohol played a prominent role, but that's pretty much par for the course with anyone growing up in the Western world.
In this next piece, Wesley tells the story of a man named Charlie Dean, a drug addict that lived on the Bowery. As with many of Dumont's characters, Charlie Dean comes up from time to time. Whether Charlie Dean was a real person or just a figment of Dumont's imagination remains a mystery.
October 6, 1981
Charlie Dean was a fruit with a taste for the white stuff. I first met him on the Bowery in the summer of '77 at an illegal nightclub in a warehouse on Bowery and Prince or somewheres like that. I had been looking to score for me and my girlfriend, a runaway named Donna from Pittsburgh, PA that I met at the shelter the night before. She was a cute little thing with a desperate loathing of the real world. She wanted to score even worse than I did and waited impatiently outside as a I ventured in looking for Charlie Dean, a man I was certain not to miss.
On this particular night Charlie looked like sausage meat stuffed into a bright pink casing, flitting around with a power-white mustache and a wild-eyed grin. The awful catchy beat of disco music filled every crevice of the room. I had a headache the size of St. Petersburg and was restless to score and be done with the pain and all feelings of angst. The long summer had been hard on my good nature and I needed to feel good if only for a night.
I tapped Charlie on the shoulder and motioned him away from the hideous action taking place on the dance floor. I told him that Manny Gun from the Bowery House had sent me and that he'd have something for me. He looked me up and down with a queer grin and motioned me to a room at the other end of the dance floor. He unlocked the room and we entered what was a seedy little office space with a dirty mattress in the corner.
"Champagne?" he says to me.
"Champagne?" I replied. I was a little confused. I wasn't used to such hospitality when trying to score illegal narcotics. He motioned for me to sit in one of the two folding chairs which I did while accepting his champaign offer.
The queer look got even queerer. "What's on your mind, big boy?" says Charlie.
I told him again that Manny had sent me, told me I could score some white at a reasonable price and that my girlfriend was downstairs and I really couldn't stay long because she was an impatient little minx and difficult to please. I was nervous. I'd been straight for too long and the desperate sweats were creeping up on me. But Charlie took his time.
"How much money you got? By the looks a you, prolly na much, no?"
"I got plenty. Enough for tonight at least."
"How about we make a deal you and me, no?" With his eyes he motioned in a knowing way towards the mattress in the corner.
Almost immediately I had Charlie Dean by the back of his hair and a belt loop. I took him into the club, across the dance floor and down the stairs he went. I followed him to the bottom and fished out a good-sized bag of the good stuff and stuffed some bills in his pocket.
Donna and I had a strange evening that night, another story entirely. But I felt bad about what I had done to Charlie Dean and would apologize later. Thankfully he wasn't hurt that bad, no more than normal. He and I remained friends until he died in early 1991.
In this next piece, Wesley tells the story of a man named Charlie Dean, a drug addict that lived on the Bowery. As with many of Dumont's characters, Charlie Dean comes up from time to time. Whether Charlie Dean was a real person or just a figment of Dumont's imagination remains a mystery.
October 6, 1981
Charlie Dean was a fruit with a taste for the white stuff. I first met him on the Bowery in the summer of '77 at an illegal nightclub in a warehouse on Bowery and Prince or somewheres like that. I had been looking to score for me and my girlfriend, a runaway named Donna from Pittsburgh, PA that I met at the shelter the night before. She was a cute little thing with a desperate loathing of the real world. She wanted to score even worse than I did and waited impatiently outside as a I ventured in looking for Charlie Dean, a man I was certain not to miss.
On this particular night Charlie looked like sausage meat stuffed into a bright pink casing, flitting around with a power-white mustache and a wild-eyed grin. The awful catchy beat of disco music filled every crevice of the room. I had a headache the size of St. Petersburg and was restless to score and be done with the pain and all feelings of angst. The long summer had been hard on my good nature and I needed to feel good if only for a night.
I tapped Charlie on the shoulder and motioned him away from the hideous action taking place on the dance floor. I told him that Manny Gun from the Bowery House had sent me and that he'd have something for me. He looked me up and down with a queer grin and motioned me to a room at the other end of the dance floor. He unlocked the room and we entered what was a seedy little office space with a dirty mattress in the corner.
"Champagne?" he says to me.
"Champagne?" I replied. I was a little confused. I wasn't used to such hospitality when trying to score illegal narcotics. He motioned for me to sit in one of the two folding chairs which I did while accepting his champaign offer.
The queer look got even queerer. "What's on your mind, big boy?" says Charlie.
I told him again that Manny had sent me, told me I could score some white at a reasonable price and that my girlfriend was downstairs and I really couldn't stay long because she was an impatient little minx and difficult to please. I was nervous. I'd been straight for too long and the desperate sweats were creeping up on me. But Charlie took his time.
"How much money you got? By the looks a you, prolly na much, no?"
"I got plenty. Enough for tonight at least."
"How about we make a deal you and me, no?" With his eyes he motioned in a knowing way towards the mattress in the corner.
Almost immediately I had Charlie Dean by the back of his hair and a belt loop. I took him into the club, across the dance floor and down the stairs he went. I followed him to the bottom and fished out a good-sized bag of the good stuff and stuffed some bills in his pocket.
Donna and I had a strange evening that night, another story entirely. But I felt bad about what I had done to Charlie Dean and would apologize later. Thankfully he wasn't hurt that bad, no more than normal. He and I remained friends until he died in early 1991.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
December 5, 1989-Urban Haikus
In general, I’ve found most of Dumont's work to be high energy and positive in nature. Definitely surreal at times and a perhaps little “out there”, but there are some passages that suggest a reasonable amount of melancholy, and emotion you can't blame him for considering his personal and financial struggles. I believe the following two Haikus touch on that melancholic feeling nicely.
December 5, 1989
Need shelter
Just above freezing--
Hope has gone into hiding.
I can smell the rain
Pretty Girl
Pretty girl with dog
Walking down Fifth Avenue
Was that smile for me?
December 5, 1989
Need shelter
Just above freezing--
Hope has gone into hiding.
I can smell the rain
Pretty Girl
Pretty girl with dog
Walking down Fifth Avenue
Was that smile for me?
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