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And there were some overripe figs, and…

August 25, 2008

I’ve had another one of those nights that penultimately climaxed in one utterly bizarre ridiculous moment, one the can be gleefully summed un in a single sentance which can do nothing but beg explanation. So the three of us are standing on top of Carnarvon’s roof drunk as hell and higher than kites, when we realize that the plethora of overripe figs we have make a fantastic splat when thrown with sufficient force. The night started at some empty, trendy bar on Broadway.  Baldur, once a standard member of the cast here, is apparently taking off to Burns Lake to plant trees or somesuch bullshit.  Whatever.  So, given that we’d not gotten drunk together in ages, we opted to run out to the bar for another round of debauchery before he left for longer than it’d take for me to leave town for school. I honestly can’t remember the name, but it was some place his girlfriend selected, which had apparently been packed last time they’d gone, but was utterly deserted while we were there.  No biggie, really, we were stoked on having the place pretty much to ourselves and being utter drunken yobs all evening.  We drank beer and eventually moved on to shots, doing one each of tequila and, subsequently, 151.  …After that miserable evening back at Waterloo, whereupon the combination of a lot of strong beer and a lot of rum overcame my capabilities, I’ve had issues with rum.  I like it, but it takes a lot of work to drink straight.  I’ll have to work on that over the coming year, I suppose…  But back on topic, the 151 was a little rougher than I’d intended.  I just don’t do rum as gracefully as I once did.  I did it far better than the others around us, though. Regardless, we kept drinking, we ate our nachos and caught up on Old Times and the past year.  And, at closing time, we took off on a walking adventure.  Baldur had his last giant blunt for before he left, and we decided for epic symbolism, we’d need to smoke it either at a church or a school, whichever we found first. In the course of our wandering we encountered wildlife, which we shortly chased about the neighbourhood until it sounded like the wildlife had backup coming, at we point we beat a strategic retreat. We found an porto-potty, subsequently overturned.  Lights all around us flickered on, so we dashed off, likely making a strange sight – a punk chick, the kid in the driving cap with a old man pipe, and the guy in the classy polo shirt all dashing like fucking hell from previously caused mayhem.

Our getaway safey established, we slowed down, looking for various other excuses for mayhem.  Seeing a what appeared to be some fallen logs, Baldur and I figured it would be excellent good fun to move this fallen pile to elsewhere.  Upon seizure, though, two things became apparent – it wasn’t going anywhere, and it was 3X as big as we thought it was.  Shortly, a third and more entertaining fact came to light.  There were fruit attached to it.  Figs, to be precise, and rather ripe ones, all above where the owner was capable of reach before the tree came down.  Hundreds of figs.  More than we could efficiently carry or eat; but we tried regardless.

But, well, picking fruit has limited entertainment value and so we wandered hence, subsequently finding ourselves at Carnarvon elementary, at which point, as always happens, the roof beckoned.  After circling school once to assess methods, we chose the surest way up, and ascended as best we could – Baldur first, then myself, and finally the two of us hoisted his girlfriend up.

We explored the roof awhile, finding copious quantities of long-lost balls and water bottles, all of which we cheerfully depositied into the center courtyard which we decided after brief inspection was one giant trap – all of us wanted to go down and play, but had no idea how we’d get back out again after. Somehow, we all agreed that there had to be a Grander Purpose for our figs than merely being tossed into the pit trap in the middle of the school.

Shortly, though, we found it.  As ever, we ended on the topmost part of the school, and lit up the blunt sitting on the edge.  Attempting to open it for consumption while at the same time negotiate taking a hit from the blunt, I dropped a fig.  It hit the ground and nigh-on liquified, spreading a splat-mark far larger than it’s diminuitive size could have let on.

Suddenly, it was raining figs as we attempted to see what increasingly interesting objects we could splatter with fig entrails.  For instance, the window grates left a checkerboard pattern on the window behind them, and throwing figs at the chain-link fence left the area behind the fence littered with a fine mist of fig bits.  The crowning glory, however, was noting that the large arc lamps illuminating the playground at night steamed amusingly and apparently cooked any fig fortunate enough to strike them.

In time, we ran out of drunk, high, and figs, and thus, our evening ended.  Mostly sober and out of ammunition, we parted ways and headed homeward.

Note: I feel compelled to tell you that I write this days after the events took place, but the morning after this story took place, I threw my coat on and found a hard white rubber ball in one pocket and a deliciously ripe fig in the other.  I was delighted to find diversion and breakfast awaiting me in my pockets on my way to work.

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