(Jeff) SCENE 4 : stuck in the middle?
Things have never been better! I feel like I’m actually getting a lot accomplished during the day…I bought a brand new pair of pants. They’re really nice pants!… Then I splurged and bought a new light bulb for the lamp, but only when I got home did I realize it was the wrong kind. While I was a little annoyed, it is no real problem; I’ll just go exchange it for another light bulb… Yup… Things are just great. No wait, things aren’t great, things are amazing. I’m Ross-free and my life is ten times more exciting for it… (cough)… Ok, I admit it. I did end up crossing paths with Ross yesterday, and it wasn’t pretty…
I go outside to settle a nagging suspicion: whether or not I was careless enough to have just thrown out a pork chop with a good portion of meat still left on the bone. Once at the trashcans, I nearly die of shock when I see it. I grab the nearest shovel and start beating what I think is a crossbreed between a barn rat and a rhesus monkey for five straight minutes. Only after I hear its meek plea of, “Please…No more hurting Ross,” do I realize this creature is in fact an old companion. Strange, I had attributed Ross’s sudden disappearance to an impulse for camping in the back yard. He looks terrible considering he has only been gone for one day, however, the irony hits me: This supposed genius has fallen so far from his pedestal without even the slightest push or shove. There is still a side of me that feels guilty. By simply standing here above him, I feel like I’m flaunting the fact that I’m doing well and my solo career is really taking off. I don’t know whether to laugh at him or give him a hug. Eventually, I decide I can’t let him live like this and insist he came back inside. Just after giving him a hand to help him off the ground I catch sight of his makeshift bathroom/corner. “Ross! How much of my soap have you been eating?” I inquire.
Well, Ross is living inside once again and he has already started to drive me insane! I must have forgotten how he constantly needs to prove himself superior in the art of writing. This blog has really gotten to his head! Lately, he’s been referring to himself as “the master of the written word.” This means he refuses to speak to me directly and will only consult me by writing elaborate Post-It notes. For example there’s one above a spill I’m getting around to cleaning up. It says, “Why must I find deviation from my unbeaten path because your appetite exceeds your dexterity?” I think he means to say, “Clean this up now.”
The other morning, the first thing I find is a note stuck on the bathroom mirror that says, “No amount of soap in this world could correct your creator’s inaptitude at mastering a steady hand.” I think that one roughly translates to, “Don’t bother washing your face. You can’t scrub off the ugly.” I stand motionless in the washroom for the next half an hour as I shed a single tear.
I find another that just reads, “Your gluttony perturbs the most desperate of creatures.” I can’t bring myself to blame him for being overzealous on that one. He must have noticed how the condiments seem to dissipate despite there being no food left in the fridge. I bet he has been marking the bottles.
Once he started writing the notes in Latin, I quit reading them.
It’s even embarrassing to hang around this pompous prick in the privacy my own home. The other evening starts out like any other: we’re in the living room watching one of Louis Anderson’s finer achievements (I guess laughter is too low-brow for Ross now because him going into hysterics consists of merely crossing his arms and nodding approvingly). Then the phone rings and Ross picks it up. Instantly I panic because no sooner after Ross’s greeting does he begin screaming into the receiver, “Do you know who I am? Do YOU know who I AM?” over and over. I recognize the fact that this is yet another poor soul who has come to discover the ramifications of calling here with the wrong number. I quickly grab the receiver away from him, hang it up and suggest he stay calm. Instantly, I fear that his eyes might fly out of his skull in sheer rage. For a second it looks like he’s going to say something, but instead he quickly grabs his pen and paper. Furiously he scribbles down his message and throws it at me.
I read the bold lettering, “FUCK OFF!”
The remainder of last night is a mess as we end up partitioning the entire flat between the two of us. While the half of the living room with the couch is on his side, I have scored the side with the TV. I hope he enjoys watching old tapes of me practicing my break-dancing moves because I sure as hell know I do. His anger is only rewarding after the 18th replay with my commentary of, “Oh… Here I go… Oh… BLAZAM!” I’m grateful when he agrees to give me the entire kitchen, but only when I hand over the rights to the entire bathroom. Initially, I think this will prove to be no real sacrifice for me because I plan on sneaking into the bathroom via the window late at night and therefore, avoid having to resort to knocking on the neighbours’ door or provoking the local raccoons. However, this sly practice comes to an abrupt end when I get stuck half way through the window during my first attempted entry.
I wake up this morning to the sound of Ross behind me outside. For this one glorious moment of his, he finally resorts to the pleasures of speaking to me, saying, “Well, well. Will you look at this Winnie the Pooh mother fucker?” Once I hear the sound of him rummaging through the nearby stash of yard tools I feel the relief of knowing that my old friend has found it in his heart to search for the most plausible device to extract me from this wooden trap.
Calling over my shoulder I begin to plead, “Thank god you showed up! I’ve managed to survive off cotton baton and aftershave for the past six hours! Try to find something to pull the frame off! I think I ca—AHHHHHH!” My own blood- curdling cries surprise even me as I realize he is beating me senseless with a steel rake.
Now despite all this ugliness I still feel I should put an end to my unruly complaining. Nothing gets solved this way, so I’ll remain calm, collected and resort to something more productive. I have decided to dedicate an objective column to the end of each of my postings; one where I can simply give the facts and let the readers decide for them selves. I call it, “Things Ross has done to piss me off.”
– Ross stole the TV remote from my side of the room. Now I get a healthy dose of monster truck rallies and Oprah.
– After buying groceries, Ross turned off the power to my fridge. I forgot the fuse box was on his side. Everything spoiled.
- I found a mysterious stain on my rug. My suspicion is that Ross had pissed over the line.
- I found a chocolate bar attached to the end of string on my floor. After following it for several minutes, I stopped when it crossed into Ross’s side of the room. Looking up I saw him standing there with a baseball bat.
- Somehow obtaining my password, Ross logged onto my e-mail account. Posing as me, he sent spam-mail about penis enhancement pills to all my contacts; however, the gist of it wasn’t about selling the product to anyone but asking whether anyone could give me some.
-Out of what I thought was the kindness of his heart, Ross offered me a can of mixed salted nuts. Upon opening the can and looking in the bottom I saw it merely contained a spring snake that remained coiled. Looking up at Ross I could see he was losing all patience. He then resorted to punching me in the head.
- Thinking Ross was trying to make a truce, he gave me a flat of what was supposedly an imported beverage called “Del Rosco’s Brew.” Only after finishing the lot did I check the back of the bottle to see the two main ingredients: horse tranquilizer and bathwater from the YMCA.
- Ross phoned all my friends and relatives and informed them I was dead. While at the funeral Ross’s eulogy simply consisted of, “He sure loved the granny porn…” Perfectly timed, I walked in at that moment, thinking I was meeting Ross to go see a movie. Everyone was staring in disgusted awe. At that moment I wished I were dead.