that cross, we bare
Ross:
After stumbling with considerable style over the thresholds of both our apartment and our alcohol tolerance, Jeff and I finally came to rest on our attractive and somewhat soiled beige couch. It is a furniture piece unparalleled in its blandness and was clearly fashioned in the 1980s by a fellow of questionable judgment, its one saving grace being the interesting array of colours only countless years of abuse and spillage can duplicate. But thank the Lord, we’d made it home.
Yes indeed, our job-hunting expedition that began and ended at the Cambie had taken its toll, reducing our language skills to a point near total inarticulacy and quite possibly causing irreparable damage to some higher-brain functions. We now had to rely on our base instincts to tell us what to do next; that same kind of primal impulse that has ensured man’s survival for thousands of years, and that will guarantee his dominance in the world for many years to come. And so, no longer shackled by reason or acumen, and having long ago succumbed to allure of the hunched-over stagger of the Neanderthal, we did what we knew best: Jeff ate; I smoked.
Jeff:
It was bad. I had just finished approximately 17 drumsticks I found in the fridge. It seemed that I had eaten myself blind once again. Usually I call the poison control hotline but I couldn’t find the phone this time. The best option was to lay down on the couch and dream about the finest stomach pump. I had just gotten back from the Cambie with Ross and we were feeling the effects. Just as I started falling in that sweet phase of forgetting my name, I heard a serious call from Ross.
“Jeff, get out here if you want to see something truly freaky.”
Whoa! Our coked-out neighbours were burying some local in his back yard, I figured. Sprinting outside, I began looking where Ross was. Nothing was happening, and he looked really concerned.
“Whaaaaaaaaat?” I asked slowly.
He started his strange tale by reminding me how he couldn’t use his pants’ pockets that night because they were far too tight. Of course, I remembered his incessant complaining about this throughout the night, almost to the point where I was embarrassed to be around him. This wasn’t the only foundation he gave me about the story. He was wearing a coat that was really long, so he couldn’t easily access them if he wanted to. Ok. Well, I didn’t know whether to sympathize with him or just congratulate him on being able to dress himself that morning.
Ross:
I knew I had to be careful how I brought it to Jeff’s attention, and figured building up to it to be the key. Personally, I was too far gone to try to deal with it, and I reckoned tact was the only sure way to shield him from the initial terror and confusion that had beset me.
To make the matters worse, my three months of living in this apartment had taught me the dangers involved in disrupting his eating habits, and that was the kind of lesson you only needed to learn once. True, Jeff would never bite the hand that feeds him, but if that hand were to try to take the food away, he might rip the whole arm right out of the socket, beat you to death with it, and then eat you, it, and whatever he finds in your pockets. He sometimes reminds me of a hyena with baby-soft hands and a strong sense of irony.
The two dozen chicken legs from the fridge wouldn’t keep him occupied for long, but I felt that this couldn’t wait. I called for him to join me outside.
Starting light, I began by telling him about the tightness of my trousers, a story he had seemed to appreciate when I’d mentioned it earlier in the proceedings, but his incessant glancing around the neighbourhood convinced me that I didn’t have his full attention.
I persisted.
I was surprised that when I shared with him the details of my coat being too long for myself or anyone else to have easy access to my trousers, he seemed less impressed with my logical thought and deductive reasoning, than incredulous, though about what, I could only guess. I went in for the kill:
“I found this in my trouser pocket,” I whispered uneasily, and opened my outstretched palm.
Jeff:
“I found this in my pants pocket,” he slurred, almost falling on me.
He opened his hand to a bloody crucifix. I was too far gone to deal with this. I took it from his hand and inspected it.
“I didn’t put it there. This really isn’t mine,” he pleaded.
I sure hoped the hell it wasn’t. Looking closer at it I could see it was a latex cross that had been intricately burned and painted as to look like it was made out of human flesh. Hmmmmmmm. I think I stared and poked it the rest of the night.
Ross was truly worried. I couldn’t blame him either. I would be too. We started going over the possibilities of how it could have gotten in his pocket. Well, we were hanging around a strange crowd that night. But they were a bit too strange to get close enough to Ross where they could slip it in his tight pants. I could see he was worried about some other possibilities about how and why he found it. We both instantly thought back to the earlier ramblings we had that night. The controversial topics we covered. “Who is God? Does he exist? How tall would he be? If he were David Caruso, wouldn’t he be ‘too good for television?’” But I couldn’t see anything truly sacrilegious.
Ross:
He grabbed it off me, and for a moment it looked as though he were contemplating eating it. Part of me wished he would, and then I could consider the matter closed, but realizing that this same part of me was adamant that he should share it with me was a sobering experience. Sobering enough, at least, to make me realize that my intoxication had thus far impaired any real conception of the psychological depths of this little gift left on my person, and that despite my current anguish, things would be a lot worse when I was actually sober. My head began to hurt and I couldn’t remember if I was sober or not, or, for that matter, whether I wanted to be. The perfect time for a smoke.
As we pieced together the events of the night and drew up a list of possible culprits, concentrating on the who and disregarding the why brought me solace. For some reason, David Caruso figured prominently on my list, occupying numbers two and five, but though I couldn’t be certain, I remained unconvinced that he had anything to do with it. After a while, the why seemed neither daunting nor important, and I came to realize that how I let it affect me was the significant factor. If one man’s blessing is another man’s curse, then I’ll put on Jeff’s floral skirt, change my name to Shirley, and try to view things from a different perspective.
Jeff:
I told him I didn’t think it was a curse, sympathizing that he wouldn’t have deserved it if it was. Then again, the guy leaves the fridge door wide open when he’s done in there. Who the fuck does that? Someone I’d surely tell to go to hell. Well, the thing is in our flat because we decided to keep it. Every morning I wake up having forgotten about the thing. Then I nearly soil myself every time I run into it. It is truly creepy. This is a picture of it and if you like it, we’ll sell it for the best bidding price. If you act now, we’ll send complimentary crucifix ginger snaps.
After stumbling with considerable style over the thresholds of both our apartment and our alcohol tolerance, Jeff and I finally came to rest on our attractive and somewhat soiled beige couch. It is a furniture piece unparalleled in its blandness and was clearly fashioned in the 1980s by a fellow of questionable judgment, its one saving grace being the interesting array of colours only countless years of abuse and spillage can duplicate. But thank the Lord, we’d made it home.
Yes indeed, our job-hunting expedition that began and ended at the Cambie had taken its toll, reducing our language skills to a point near total inarticulacy and quite possibly causing irreparable damage to some higher-brain functions. We now had to rely on our base instincts to tell us what to do next; that same kind of primal impulse that has ensured man’s survival for thousands of years, and that will guarantee his dominance in the world for many years to come. And so, no longer shackled by reason or acumen, and having long ago succumbed to allure of the hunched-over stagger of the Neanderthal, we did what we knew best: Jeff ate; I smoked.
Jeff:
It was bad. I had just finished approximately 17 drumsticks I found in the fridge. It seemed that I had eaten myself blind once again. Usually I call the poison control hotline but I couldn’t find the phone this time. The best option was to lay down on the couch and dream about the finest stomach pump. I had just gotten back from the Cambie with Ross and we were feeling the effects. Just as I started falling in that sweet phase of forgetting my name, I heard a serious call from Ross.
“Jeff, get out here if you want to see something truly freaky.”
Whoa! Our coked-out neighbours were burying some local in his back yard, I figured. Sprinting outside, I began looking where Ross was. Nothing was happening, and he looked really concerned.
“Whaaaaaaaaat?” I asked slowly.
He started his strange tale by reminding me how he couldn’t use his pants’ pockets that night because they were far too tight. Of course, I remembered his incessant complaining about this throughout the night, almost to the point where I was embarrassed to be around him. This wasn’t the only foundation he gave me about the story. He was wearing a coat that was really long, so he couldn’t easily access them if he wanted to. Ok. Well, I didn’t know whether to sympathize with him or just congratulate him on being able to dress himself that morning.
Ross:
I knew I had to be careful how I brought it to Jeff’s attention, and figured building up to it to be the key. Personally, I was too far gone to try to deal with it, and I reckoned tact was the only sure way to shield him from the initial terror and confusion that had beset me.
To make the matters worse, my three months of living in this apartment had taught me the dangers involved in disrupting his eating habits, and that was the kind of lesson you only needed to learn once. True, Jeff would never bite the hand that feeds him, but if that hand were to try to take the food away, he might rip the whole arm right out of the socket, beat you to death with it, and then eat you, it, and whatever he finds in your pockets. He sometimes reminds me of a hyena with baby-soft hands and a strong sense of irony.
The two dozen chicken legs from the fridge wouldn’t keep him occupied for long, but I felt that this couldn’t wait. I called for him to join me outside.
Starting light, I began by telling him about the tightness of my trousers, a story he had seemed to appreciate when I’d mentioned it earlier in the proceedings, but his incessant glancing around the neighbourhood convinced me that I didn’t have his full attention.
I persisted.
I was surprised that when I shared with him the details of my coat being too long for myself or anyone else to have easy access to my trousers, he seemed less impressed with my logical thought and deductive reasoning, than incredulous, though about what, I could only guess. I went in for the kill:
“I found this in my trouser pocket,” I whispered uneasily, and opened my outstretched palm.
Jeff:
“I found this in my pants pocket,” he slurred, almost falling on me.
He opened his hand to a bloody crucifix. I was too far gone to deal with this. I took it from his hand and inspected it.
“I didn’t put it there. This really isn’t mine,” he pleaded.
I sure hoped the hell it wasn’t. Looking closer at it I could see it was a latex cross that had been intricately burned and painted as to look like it was made out of human flesh. Hmmmmmmm. I think I stared and poked it the rest of the night.
Ross was truly worried. I couldn’t blame him either. I would be too. We started going over the possibilities of how it could have gotten in his pocket. Well, we were hanging around a strange crowd that night. But they were a bit too strange to get close enough to Ross where they could slip it in his tight pants. I could see he was worried about some other possibilities about how and why he found it. We both instantly thought back to the earlier ramblings we had that night. The controversial topics we covered. “Who is God? Does he exist? How tall would he be? If he were David Caruso, wouldn’t he be ‘too good for television?’” But I couldn’t see anything truly sacrilegious.
Ross:
He grabbed it off me, and for a moment it looked as though he were contemplating eating it. Part of me wished he would, and then I could consider the matter closed, but realizing that this same part of me was adamant that he should share it with me was a sobering experience. Sobering enough, at least, to make me realize that my intoxication had thus far impaired any real conception of the psychological depths of this little gift left on my person, and that despite my current anguish, things would be a lot worse when I was actually sober. My head began to hurt and I couldn’t remember if I was sober or not, or, for that matter, whether I wanted to be. The perfect time for a smoke.
As we pieced together the events of the night and drew up a list of possible culprits, concentrating on the who and disregarding the why brought me solace. For some reason, David Caruso figured prominently on my list, occupying numbers two and five, but though I couldn’t be certain, I remained unconvinced that he had anything to do with it. After a while, the why seemed neither daunting nor important, and I came to realize that how I let it affect me was the significant factor. If one man’s blessing is another man’s curse, then I’ll put on Jeff’s floral skirt, change my name to Shirley, and try to view things from a different perspective.
Jeff:
I told him I didn’t think it was a curse, sympathizing that he wouldn’t have deserved it if it was. Then again, the guy leaves the fridge door wide open when he’s done in there. Who the fuck does that? Someone I’d surely tell to go to hell. Well, the thing is in our flat because we decided to keep it. Every morning I wake up having forgotten about the thing. Then I nearly soil myself every time I run into it. It is truly creepy. This is a picture of it and if you like it, we’ll sell it for the best bidding price. If you act now, we’ll send complimentary crucifix ginger snaps.
posted by jeff and ross | 10:40 AM
3 Comments:
too funny.
it looks to me like a piece of soggy toast, with strawberry jam on top. Are you sure Jeff doesnt want to eat it? Maybe you should toast it, then it wouldnt look so soggy.
(Jeff)
Just to update the situation: I did end up eating it. It did turn out to be delicious even though it became lodged in my small intestine. While the scar on my abdomen will be a constant reminder that not all omens should be consumed like ketchup chips, I’d do it again in a second.
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