I like games. Whether it’s the tactile grace Jenga demands, the mental prowess of Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit, the physical exactness of Beer Pong or Caps, or just plain luck of the draw- there’s something deep down that stirs the soul. And there’s no greater satisfaction than finding your groove and watching that little orange orb plunk time after time into your opponents’ cup as if you could just will it to happen.
I have an obsession with playlists. I am very OCD about my music and am extremely self-demanding about having the right song for the right moment. Just recently, I engaged in a very heated debate with my housemate about the effect of music (a playlist) on one’s gaming performance. There are currently 123 playlists on my IPOD and their titles range from Grazing in the Green Grass to Motown Pre-party to Solemn Burn.
So it was a typical Friday evening. Three of us. Intensely huddled around the coffee table. All of us tenants. All of us Jenga experts. Biggie’s in the background boasting about ”blunts and broads, ménage à trois, sex and expensive cars”…. and there’s an occasional yelp coupled with some ooh’s and aah’s as the Jenga tower begins to look like an abnormally tall, starved Somalian.
All of a sudden as if in slow motion the tower comes crashing down and little wooden planks scatter as if they’d been romping around too much with the domino chain boys. Immediately David and I leap out of our seats like giddy little boys, burst with malicious laughter, and start taunting the loser, Patrik.
The German word ‘schadenfreude ‘ (taking pleasure in other’s pain) comes to mind because not only did Patrik have to face the shame of losing but he knew (we all knew) that behind the shame was something much worse: a vicious shot of cheap fernet. This ain’t no Branca; we’re talking dirty Ottone (which tastes something like a cross between rotten licorice and Worcestershire sauce).
Deadly. Patrik stared down that shot like it was high noon with his guns in the holster, fear and apprehension churning in the stomach. Anything could happen.
Then, in a heartbeat, the glass shot and up and slammed back down on the counter. Patrik then flashed a few facial contortions that announced the commencement of the battle between the cheap fernet and his poor stomach juices. They had no way of preparing for the attack and it was obvious that an immediate expulsion was being attempted.
Alas, a treaty was signed and they managed to temporarily coexist. But Patrik knew (and we all knew) if any more of that devilish fernet were to find a way to join his buddies already aboding in Patrik’s interior- well, that would be the end of Jenga.
The next round it was my turn to face the dark side. (I should’ve known the top was too unstable- it was a Balkan plunge.) David took the following three, poor fellow. And all of a sudden Patrik was living large again.
Tall, lanky, and pushing thirty, long striding Patrik will eat or drink just about anything. Don’t let that Fernet quip fool you; this man has a Homeric stomach and loves the chance to publicy remind people. His British upbringing is also cause for the occasional snide remark about the inferiority of the American culture, language, people- (only) half in jest.
Both hailing from the glorious South, David and I also enjoy a good ”You Won’t!” (a.k.a. double dare) and will sometimes test his abilities to retain large or potent amounts of spicy food and/or booze. So when the final round began and no losing penalty had been made or established, a sinister grin, unnoticed by the other two, briefly took form on my face.
I knew that this might be the one chance fate had granted me, so I mustered up all my fortitude, called for an audible on the playlist, and let the strident sounds of Spoon sail me away to Myzenland. (*editor’s note- could be Zenland or just Zen) Now if only David could hold his own….
As Pump It Up played itself out, I could feel my confidence surging as the tension mounted. With Hot Hot Heat, Justice, and Girl Talk on my side, I could’ve built a tower out of toothpicks.
Then sure enough Providence the Prankster eventually granted me my gift. David held strong and Patrik rushed a load-bearing block down low. Teeter teeter. Wobble wobble. SLAM BOOM CRASH.
Immediately Patrik protested. He tried to claim exemption from the penalty shot since the punishment was never clarified.
”Shit. It’s been Fernet all night and I’ll be an armadillo’s ass if you think you can bullshit your way out of this on a technicality. I’m going to the kitchen. You stay right there mister.” As I pranced off to the kitchen, I managed to snag David’s eye for just a moment, but he fully understood that it was doomsday for Patrik.
This had to be quick. Many a kitchen prank has been pulled in our household and Patrik knew (we all knew) that any additional prep time would reek of suspicion. Quickly, I fumbled through our spices cabinet. Come on! Where are you??
And then I saw her: Firebreathing Death sauce. Imported straight from Mexico, land of the chile picante of all shapes and sizes. I had been mentally rehearsing this moment for ages. Just like you practiced, I told myself. Unscrew lid. Careful not to spill. Watch the eyes.
Shot glass. One drop. Two drops. Fuck it. Fifteen rapid-fire drops. Cheap Fernet. In you go buddy. And yes, the red deadly lay lurking in the murky depths below, imperceptible to the naked eye.
”Oh Patrik, old buddy old pal,” I imagined myself saying (an homage to the 1994 classic Dumb and Dumber ). But now was not the time for phony sarcasm, an obvious indication that something was up. So I feigned some playlist trouble, casually placed the shot in front of the potential victim and ran over to my IPOD. Any eye contact made with Patrik could expose me and my malevolent deed.
The timing had to be perfect: be a witness, but don’t get busted.
And then it happened. Just as I turned around, I saw the hand gripping the glass. Up she went. Down she goes. There are very few words to my knowledge that could accurately describe Patrik’s grimaces of displeasure as the Trojan Horse was slipping and sliding its way down to his stomach.
Similar to our Jenga reaction, and almost eerily parallel to the scene in Dumb and Dumber when Lloyd and Harry get the hitchiker to eat the chili peppers candidly placed on his burger, David and I began roaring uncontrollably with laughter. Some of that hearty, ham on rye laughter.
Schadenfreude. Fucking schadenfreude. Some of the most genuine moments of my life are acheived through schadenfreude. That’s some twisted shit. Is it the American drinking game mentality instilled in my brain chemistry, or does it go even deeper?
Patrik’s stomach proved legendary once again. Who would’ve thought that the dirty fernet and little mexican devils could display such civil behavior?
There was also the unspoken social contract that I had just entered. I had to assume that Patrik had already began stewing a revenge plot and I needed to be alert and aware.
”Hey it’s 2:23am” says David.
”The night’s a puppy”.
”Yeah, let’s ravage it.”
”Someone call the elevator.”
END OF PART I
Chinaski
LPBA Staff
