Arthur and Bernard never believed a word. But they listened. That was their real entertainment.
Then there was Eugene. Eugene had been a carpenter. Now he was a collector of lost things. Not valuables—lost things. A single glove on a park bench. A button from a stranger’s coat. A grocery list dropped in a parking lot. He kept them in labeled Ziploc bags. His entertainment was narrative. He would take a lost item and invent the tragedy or comedy that led to its abandonment. “Tuesday’s glove,” he’d say, holding up a stained workman’s glove, “belongs to a man named Frank. Frank is fleeing a second marriage. He threw the glove as a decoy so his new wife would think he went left. He went right.” old men gangbang
On Saturday, they had a wildcard event. Last month, they tried to build a birdhouse. It collapsed. They laughed for the first time in years. Yesterday, they went to a casino. Bernard lost forty dollars and called it “tuition in human stupidity.” Arthur won twelve cents on a slot machine and kept the payout slip in his wallet. Eugene got lost in the parking garage for two hours and said it was the most interesting thing that had happened to him all year. Arthur and Bernard never believed a word