The Contest (Not What You Think)

Or maybe it is what you think, if you read my 44^th birthday post. Let’s go back to Item 34:

I won a contest in junior high when I fit 22 marshmallows in my mouth.

Now let’s go back before then, to grade school in Herring Cove, N.S., and the altar at St. Paul’s Catholic church. Let’s talk about my good friend, my great friend, and fellow altar boy, Rod.

My great friend. He lived a short drive up the road and we were inseparable. We were in the same class, hung out at recess and lunch. Sometimes Rod would come to my place for lunch since I was a short walk from school.

A shout out to Patricia Reyno for ice cream with chocolate sauce for dessert!

We’d have sleepovers at Rod’s place and take shots on the gravel road in front of his house. Flimsy net, flimsy hockey sticks, orange hockey ball, and Rod — a minor-hockey goalie — filling the net square with those enormous, stupid pads.

“How in the name of God,” I thought as I stickhandled the ball among chunks of gravel, “am I going to get the ball past him?”

I wasn’t. In hindsight, maybe I should have speared him. But that wouldn’t be very becoming of an all-star altar boy.

Make that two all-star altar boys. St. Paul’s was directly across the street from Herring Cove Elementary School, and Rod and I would frequently — no really, frequently — be called upon to leave class and serve on the altar for funeral masses. So it goes.

So we were great friends, at the time.

But time flies. And when the big world of junior high arrives, times change.

Rod and I were placed in different classes. He made new friends, I made new friends. We saw each other less and less, and grew apart. So it goes, for all of us.

But something strange happened. Not only did we grow apart, an unspoken animosity emerged, for reasons I can’t explain.

Were our lives headed in different directions so early in life? Did we have nothing in common outside of swinging incense at funeral masses? And everyone loves ice cream with chocolate sauce, and everyone loved Mrs. Reyno, so that can’t be it.

I don’t know what happened.

But I do know when I was on stage at Herring Cove Junior High stuffing marshmallows in my mouth and I heard Rod’s voice loud and clear cheering for his new friend Andrew instead of me, it hurt.

Nonsensical reaction by me. Rod and I hadn’t been friends for some time, and — full disclosure — if he was up there against one of my new friends, I would have been cheering for my new friend just as loudly as he was cheering for Andrew. Unspoken animosity.

Still.

“Andrew! Andrew!” I heard Rod leading the chant, louder than everyone else. It felt like he wanted me to hear it.

Oh, like that?

Put another marshmallow in. Another one. Ano — gach!—ther one.

“Jim, you’re supposed to put the marshmallows in your mouth, not just pile them on top!” said Mr. Sullivan, one of the marshmallow-stuffing officials sitting behind the contestants on the stage. Also, Rod and Andrew’s homeroom teacher.

How dare you, I thought. How dare you. How dare you accuse me of cheating! I have the biggest mouth at Herring Cove Junior High, and by God I can prove it!

But I think what really pissed me off was that Mr. Sullivan caught on to my strategy.

The Contest ended. Andrew, in front of me, spoke with the marshmallow-stuffing statistician.

“How many did I get?” Andrew asked.

“18.”

Andrew shot his left thumb at me, directly behind him.

“How many did he get?”

“22.”

Andrew whipped his head around and looked me in the eye. I think I saw surprise in those eyes.

“Yes, yes, YES!” I said, clapping. Then I pointed at him with the forefinger of my right hand.

“You don’t know this now, but one day I’m going to write a blog about my life, and I am going to celebrate all the ridiculous, stupid, meaningless, small stuff. And for my 120^th post, I’m going to stay in my Hamilton condo on a Friday art crawl night and listen to Chris Thile play the mandolin and write about how I kicked your smug ass and won the marshmallow-stuffing contest!

“Biggest mouth at Herring Cove Junior High! Aww yeah!”

Drop the mike.

Or …

I didn’t say any of that, instead I sheepishly looked to the stage floor and rubbed the back of my neck with my right hand. Like I used to do when I was on the altar with Rod and we’d be laughing at something.

My next memory of Rod is from high school, when we and other students had to move desks from one classroom to another. I remember passing him in the hallway several times during the move, never acknowledging each other.

Time flies. And waits.*

Now let’s go forward about 25 years to when I was living in London, Ont. Out of the blue, I got an email from a guy named Rod. I’d been living in London for more than a year. He’d been there for at least eight years.

Coffee at Starbucks on Highbury. We were older, fatter, world wearier, happier, not happier, more satisfied, less satisfied, did I mention fatter?

But despite the life experiences we’d had, we were back in grade school. The roots were still there — it’s like we picked it up in Grade 6. We didn’t miss a beat.

Since our reconnection, I’ve moved to Hamilton. I’ve been back to London to visit Rod and his family, and he comes to Hamilton to see me every couple of months. We have great memories to share, and great memories to look forward to. As great friends do.

*I stole this from music writer Bob Blumenthal, from his liner notes to Bud Powell: The Complete Blue Note and Roost Recordings. I bought that box set in Toronto in the summer of ’95, and the minute I read those two short sentences in the liner notes, I thought, “I wish I could write like that.”