a timely change of pace: ACT 1

(Jeff)
This is how it happens. One minute Ross and I are playing pool at the pub down the street, then I blink, only to find myself giving him a cheers from underneath the adjoining bathroom stall on the ferry heading over to Victoria. Now, there has only been a time-lapse of one hour between these two periods, and thinking back to how all of this plays out, I begin to think that I have some fault to claim in the turn of events that Friday night.


(Ross)
I quickly grow bored of pool, as Jeff seems to be making up the rules as he goes along. Now, I fully admit that the Canadian version of pool might well lie worlds apart from game I’m familiar with, or indeed, from the version that every other country around the globe seems to accept as standard, but the way I see it, saying “scratch” after every foul should not negate any further repercussion. He explains to me that whenever he says “scratch,” which is a lot, we would normally take one of his potted balls out of the pocket as a penalty, but we can’t afford to do that here because of the dollar-a-game policy of our local. So, as I sit quietly at the tableside, he knocks my balls left, right and centre, managing more than once to launch a few across the barroom floor, and each time, being careful to exempt himself with his infernal maxim.
The afternoon had been quiet. We did a bit of sightseeing down Stanley Park way, discussing how refreshing it was going to be to write a blog that did not involve enough alcohol to kill a small pony; something that we had thus far been unable to achieve. What better way to end the day than with a friendly game of pool at the local?
The grinning bastard ricochets one of my balls into the black to sink it, and, according to his rules, wins the game. I decide to order another pitcher of beer.
“Scratch!”
Better make it two.


(Jeff)
Ross is playing total gash at pool. But anyways, it’s Ross’s birthday coming up and I’m thinking that it would be a good idea if we head over to Victoria one of these days so he can see the sights. I had suggested this idea months ago and it seemed that Ross was reluctant to take part in this journey. I understand his tendency to resort to logic when propositioned a month ago, but now he is still worrying about money; probably because he doesn’t have any.
“No problem, man. All expenses, paid for,” I promise. “No need even to bring your wallet.”
So after eight games of pool—in which I dominated—it hits me: Why don’t we just get up and go? Ross seems even more reluctant towards the idea, especially at such short notice. It was 7:20 p.m. and the last ferry was leaving three cities away at 9:00 p.m.
“Listen to me! This is what life is about, Ross. No point in thinking about it; that’ll only slow you down. Then what do you have to look forward to? Death, that’s what!”
I was struggling to keep him convinced. I resort to my only strength in persuasion: analogy.
“It’s like… It’s kind of like the Cosby Show, Ross. Theo really wants to go to the Rick Springfield concert, but the Coz won’t let him. Now Ross, the Coz is kind of like your own self-doubts. Theo wants to go to enjoy life, but the Coz doesn’t want him to go because there’ll be copious amounts of alcohol there, and he is worried Theo will get all fucked-up. And what happens, Ross?”
Ross gives me a blank stare. I guess he’s never seen this episode.
“Theo gets fucked up, but he LIVES, goddamn it!”


(Ross)
Perhaps an eternity later, we have laid down our cues and are in deep discussion—or maybe it could be more aptly described as a one-sided conversation—about the Cosby Show.
As he so often does while Jeff and I enjoy a few pints together, Bill Cosby has once again entered the fray. I can’t help but feel he is somewhat early today; his arrival is usually heralded by Jeff’s desperate attempts to stop the room from spinning by clutching onto stools, tables or whatever stationary object lies within reach. Incidentally, this is also the reason that many people think I have a nervous condition, but they learn soon enough why I like to keep in motion. Regardless, here stands the Coz in all his glory, even though Jeff is yet demonstrating partial lucidity. I know there is to follow another valuable moral lesson, the point of which will be totally lost on me because I haven’t seen the show since I was knee-high to a small pony. Jeff knows this only too well and yet never seems to get discouraged. I think he also knows that resorting to the Coz and his wondrous insights is a sure way to get me to agree to anything. After the neverending farce that some disturbed individuals might call pool, followed closely by the introduction to another riveting morality tale, courtesy of Jeff’s idol, I’m up for lying in traffic, as long as it involves a change of scenery.


(Jeff)
Ross is taking his sweet time handing over a beer from his bathroom stall. I guess I shouldn’t hassle him, considering I didn’t have any cash on me for the ferry tickets or the cab ride we had to take to get to the ferry, after missing the bus. I just reach under, grab his bag and help myself. My can explodes everywhere in my stall. Damn, I forgot that we had done a lot of running to get here. The both of us stand up so we can talk over the divide. Some older guy comes in to piss and he sees us standing and talking over two stalls and drinking. We needed a new strategy.


(Ross)
Armed with our brimming paper coke cups recently commandeered from the ferry cafeteria, we perch ourselves on the comfortable lounge seats and have a pleasant chat. Before long, the nervous glances from concerned passengers make us relocate to the blustery decks, where we can continue our argument about the queen as loud as we want.



(Jeff)
Ross says something along the lines of: Scotland has more independence from the English monarchy than Canada does. I don’t know whether he’s right or wrong, but I do know for certain THAT’S what he originally said. Everyone on the ferry has now disembarked and the two of us, each holding a Coke with a perfect head on it, continue to yell at each other, unaware of our trip’s progress.

(Ross)
I reach the stage where I slag off every country that’s not Scotland and Jeff’s telling me to take back what I’m saying about his beloved homeland. Not too sure what I’m saying, but I have no choice but to stand by it at this point; I’m probably right anyways. And so continues the shouting match down the ramp and into the welcoming warmth of Chris’s truck. I don’t know if Chris and Marybeth were looking forward to seeing us, but I can imagine their excitement was considerably doused when they saw us approach.

(Jeff)

We’re speeding along with Chris and Marybeth and I can see that Ross is quite content on settling the argument on something about a “beloved homeland.” I realize I shouldn’t continue this blinded banter any longer because I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore. “You guys are loaded,” Chris chirps up.

(Ross)

For a moment, I think I should be offended at Chris’s assertion that Jeff and I aren’t of sober mind, but I soon forget that as I struggle to remember whether I’d won the homeland argument with Jeff. I think I must’ve because though I don’t know exactly what was said, I definitely remember thinking how I didn’t know what he was talking about anymore. No sooner am I in the truck than I have to get out, as we reach our destination. I’ve somehow managed to accumulate two more empties in the process.

TO BE CONTINUED...