A Game of Tactics with a Moron
The moron frog cast a spell on me so well that he might have considered it hilarious, had he had a good sense of humour.
He was a moron because I had him cornered and he didn't seem interested in doing anything about it. He just stood there, facing the tree base, his fours seemingly locked. He'd hopped into the area between two jutting roots of the giant willow, and now he was stuck. Maybe he knew it. I don't know; I couldn't see his face. I was crouched behind him, studying his lumpy backside, fascinated by his puffing cheeks; mesmerized by his incomprehensible lack of movement.
I figured he should be desperate. He should leap, over and over onto the tree base, banging his tiny head each time, yet never fatiguing in his bid to escape certain capture. But he was still, the wily little moron. He was still, and I didn't have a clue why.
Suddenly, it was 1979, in the Dalewood schoolyard. Steve Kerfoot was cocky and pimple-faced, and the consummate athlete. He was in my face, cursing me. I didn't know it, but my touch football team had challenged his to a rumble. Now I was the only team member he could find. I was tall and skinny, with big ears and no courage, and I'd just walked out of the school. He pushed me once, enough to startle me. A small crowd gathered. My voice was shaking as I asked him what he wanted me for. He put his finger in my face, and spit the explanation at me. He was out to get whoever he could find. I begged for mercy. He was remorseless. He pushed me over and over, backing me up each time, until he was sure that he'd succeeded in terrifying me. I was cowering, and was near tears. "Don't mess with me again, you got it?" he shouted. I nodded wildly. A smug look covered his faced. Then he ambled away, scot-free, his teammates lauding him. It was over and I was humiliated.
This frog made me think of what Steve did to me, and that's why I didn't assault him. I felt for him and his compromising situation. My plan was to play him like a game of chess. I'd move only after he'd completed his move. We were immersed in a battle of tactics. It was my cunning versus his instincts and agility. For now, I crouched behind him and watched him, and awaited his next move.
My knees were sore, I needed to stand. But how was I going to stand without his interpreting it as an attack? I'd be humiliated if he got spooked out and leapt away undetected. It would be Steve Kerfoot all over again. Only worse. Now I was twenty-six, strong and brave.
Slowly, I backed up a step and sat down on the ground; and backed right onto a tree root. It grooved too perfectly into the valley between my cheeks, and I winced; but I was careful, and didn't make a sound.
It was 1991, in the examining room of the medical clinic in west end Montreal. In my underwear, I waited for the doctor. Scheduled was my test for lactose intolerance. I had no idea what the test was. He came in and told me I'd have to remove my underwear. Maybe that's why I don't recall anything about the doctor. Faced with the prospect of a test involving my naked flesh, I think it is understandable that I wouldn't recall anything but my apprehension. I watched the doctor as he walked over to his equipment shelf. When he turned around, he had in his hand a cylindrical object. It was long, round, hollow, and plastic, and looked a lot like a turkey baster.
I was starting to change my mind. Maybe the frog wasn't a moron.
He was a moron because I had him cornered and he didn't seem interested in doing anything about it. He just stood there, facing the tree base, his fours seemingly locked. He'd hopped into the area between two jutting roots of the giant willow, and now he was stuck. Maybe he knew it. I don't know; I couldn't see his face. I was crouched behind him, studying his lumpy backside, fascinated by his puffing cheeks; mesmerized by his incomprehensible lack of movement.
I figured he should be desperate. He should leap, over and over onto the tree base, banging his tiny head each time, yet never fatiguing in his bid to escape certain capture. But he was still, the wily little moron. He was still, and I didn't have a clue why.
Suddenly, it was 1979, in the Dalewood schoolyard. Steve Kerfoot was cocky and pimple-faced, and the consummate athlete. He was in my face, cursing me. I didn't know it, but my touch football team had challenged his to a rumble. Now I was the only team member he could find. I was tall and skinny, with big ears and no courage, and I'd just walked out of the school. He pushed me once, enough to startle me. A small crowd gathered. My voice was shaking as I asked him what he wanted me for. He put his finger in my face, and spit the explanation at me. He was out to get whoever he could find. I begged for mercy. He was remorseless. He pushed me over and over, backing me up each time, until he was sure that he'd succeeded in terrifying me. I was cowering, and was near tears. "Don't mess with me again, you got it?" he shouted. I nodded wildly. A smug look covered his faced. Then he ambled away, scot-free, his teammates lauding him. It was over and I was humiliated.
This frog made me think of what Steve did to me, and that's why I didn't assault him. I felt for him and his compromising situation. My plan was to play him like a game of chess. I'd move only after he'd completed his move. We were immersed in a battle of tactics. It was my cunning versus his instincts and agility. For now, I crouched behind him and watched him, and awaited his next move.
My knees were sore, I needed to stand. But how was I going to stand without his interpreting it as an attack? I'd be humiliated if he got spooked out and leapt away undetected. It would be Steve Kerfoot all over again. Only worse. Now I was twenty-six, strong and brave.
Slowly, I backed up a step and sat down on the ground; and backed right onto a tree root. It grooved too perfectly into the valley between my cheeks, and I winced; but I was careful, and didn't make a sound.
It was 1991, in the examining room of the medical clinic in west end Montreal. In my underwear, I waited for the doctor. Scheduled was my test for lactose intolerance. I had no idea what the test was. He came in and told me I'd have to remove my underwear. Maybe that's why I don't recall anything about the doctor. Faced with the prospect of a test involving my naked flesh, I think it is understandable that I wouldn't recall anything but my apprehension. I watched the doctor as he walked over to his equipment shelf. When he turned around, he had in his hand a cylindrical object. It was long, round, hollow, and plastic, and looked a lot like a turkey baster.
I was starting to change my mind. Maybe the frog wasn't a moron.
posted by Erich Schmidt | 11:04 AM
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