poets with their minds in the gutter

Jeff:
The other Monday I thought that I’d get up at the crack of noon and help Ross with his job hunt. Little did I know that the day would entail 15 hours drinking our faces off at the Cambie Inn and lamenting on how we are two whole-hearted lazy pricks. While he did have a valid point I still felt that I just ended up humouring him. He doesn’t realize how many push-ups I can actually do. The night got messy as Ross began to barter his last remaining possessions for poetry from a homeless man. Personally I now regret not paying this one guy who wanted to show us his lamppost climbing abilities for two dollars. I wonder if he could have actually done it.


Ross:
I’d been waiting for it for a while. I didn’t know where it would come from; I didn’t know when it would appear. All I could be certain of was its coming. Like the ninja, it skulked in the shadows of every corner and lurked behind every picket fence, never fully exposing itself, but always there, always a lingering threat.
It was Monday morning when it hit and I was thrust out of my bed with a thump. At least, there would’ve been a thump if my bed were more than just a mattress on the floor. “What’s this rearing its unfamiliar head? Motivation?! Surely not! Just lie back down and whatever it is will soon pass, like a small pony hurdling a picket fence. But wait….It’s relentless….Can’t fight it….” Before I know it, I’m washed, dressed, armed with an arsenal of resumés and ready to get something done. I skip my morning push-ups because I know I lose track of time and could easily do them all day.
And so began this Monday of great promise. I had waited four years for this elusive ninja-type to make his presence felt in some meaningful way, and now I found myself at the receiving end of his ethereal brass knuckles.
“Oh, you want to come after all, Jeff? Sure, why not? The more the merrier.”
Half a day and more pints than you can shake a stick at later, I realise I still have a full-complement of resumés in my backpack and consider the possibility of handing them out to the patrons of the Cambie Inn. After taking a severe beating and quite probably a considerable heckling, the mysterious ninja had thought better than to stick around, instead opting to leave me to my own devices and perhaps never to return. All that remained was for Jeff and I to Cheers each other and be excited about the many things we would be accomplishing the following day. I think tomorrow night, I’ll start my career in lamppost climbing…I hear there’s money to be made.


Jeff:
I knew that I shouldn’t spend any more money that I didn’t have on beer. However, I could see that Ross was now claiming to be some kind of agent or publisher of fine literature because he was proposing some kind of get rich pyramid scheme for this one homeless man – and I really wanted to see where he was going with this. We now have two of his pieces to recite to anyone willing to hear it. We did eventually come up with some constructive plan to help out one of our new friends, whose fresh Caribbean free style combination of song and comedy should be heard by the entire world. We call it the REGGIE FUND. While his talent might not have been truly appreciated in Trinidad, we were blown away by the show we got for merely a quarter – Hell, I don’t think I had a quarter to give him. He did seem pretty infatuated by my cell phone when he found out how cheap I was. If you want to send money for this fund, send it to Ross and Jeff, c/o the City of New Westminster. Anything would help. Even if you can only send loose change, that’ll help. I swear, we won’t embezzle the funds.


Ross:
As the night progressed, Jeff seemed increasingly reluctant to spend any more money on beer. I thought it might sway his view if I gave him a gift, and so decided to trade what little I had on my person to a homeless guy in return for his poems. The guy had talent, too. I made him give me his name and told him we’d be back there at some point, probably in the not too distant future, and I’d see what I could do in the meantime. I think Jeff was impressed that an unemployed and an as yet untested writer/journalist/trapeze artist like myself had in one night managed to skip all the steps in-between and with neither aid nor experience, was attempting to launch my career into the publishing aspect of the industry.
Either way, I think Jeff and I were agreed on the point that someone making an effort to earn the money from passers-by is more deserving of charity than someone who doesn’t. Of course there are those unable to do so, either due to mental or physical ailments, but I don’t think it’s out of order to assert that the vast majority of homeless are capable of making some effort, regardless of how small. I know I try to butter Jeff up before asking him to spot me cash…compliment his nice new jacket or tell him how his floral skirt brings out his eyes…any small gesture that brightens his day and that pays my dues until I can pay him back. And by the way, I’m still in the hole with him, so if anyone wants to donate to the REGGIE FUND, I feel I should warn you that Jeff had no right to talk on my behalf about embezzlement and I promise nothing.

Jeff:
I could see the night going downhill as our thoughts became more and more disjointed. We did have a steady go at coherent debates about every touchy subject under the sun, but as soon as Ross started mentioning ninjas and picket fences I knew that there was the threat of him glassing me if I didn’t admit Chuck Norris could easily destroy the Michelin Man if put against each other in a death match.