One afternoon above a boulder in Central Park, George Carlin and Samuel Beckett engage in their Scrabble ritual. Both men have developed a fondness for this pastime over the years, as neither one has ever encountered the same game sequence twice (which never fails to amuse them even after having played over a hundred thousand matches).
They’ve contemplated relenting and playing Super Scrabble exclusively, with its 200 tile megafauna approach, but the games are just too long and the tile distribution too ridiculous for anyone with a penchant for brevity. George brought up the idea, always the mold-breaker, but Sam adamantly declined to participate in such tomfoolery.
Their overall record is something pretty close to 62,496-62,487, with a boring number of tie games for good measure. Neither of them necessarily plays to win, though it’s always fun to get the most points possible. This aspect of the game is never lost on Sam and George, and it frequently pops up in conversation, like so:
G: Dammit, Sam, why do we always obsess over having the most?
S: More is better?
G: You know that’s a goddamn lie.
S: Moderation, then.
G: That’s your answer for everything.
The logic has been somewhat pressed out of it over the course of time, since Sam is not one to bandy words about, leading to a finite set of circumstances that could possibly amount from any given conversation between the two of them. Yet, they acquiesce. They’ve agreed for a long time now that Scrabble and chatting is the ultimate leisurely activity for two cats of their ilk.
Sam uses the board to bring him to new heights with absurdism. If nothing amounts to nothing, at least the expected and still somehow always unpredictable nature of Scrabble will prevail with non sequiturs aplenty.
Today is Monday, about 1pm at the ol’ boulder of choice. Sam is tickled by his STOATS/COATS crossover play, even though the point total is somewhat paltry compared to the “optimal move”. Not many people hanging around the boulder yet today, probably a mean case of the Mondays.
George has been having a rough go of it today as far as tile luck is concerned. He’s been burning through letters and really getting no luck from the tile bag at all. So she goes, so she goes. This game saw him jump out to a marginal lead after five turns, but then the luck dropped out of the bottom of whichever vessel generally contains luck particles, more than likely draining through a crack, akin to a dilapidated old barrel.
G: Do you think luck is stored in barrels?
S: I suppose a barrel is as good as anything else. Why?
G: I’m just trying to come up with the most accurate picture of how my luck could be so damn shitty right now. There’s got to be a leak in my luck barrel right now, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to patch it up.
S: Well, better a barrel than a clay pot.
G: That’s your opinion, Jack.
Just then, a forlorn-looking man in his early 30s meanders over to our favorite boulder and climbs atop it after just a moment’s hesitation. He perches and then shortly thereafter lies down on his back, baseball cap shielding his eyes.
G: Interesting action here, Sammy. I’ll bet this kid’s name is Jack.
S: I wonder what he thinks of our barrel/pot hypothesis. Wanna zap him and get some data points? I love points.
G: Not really, I’m feeling lazy today. I can probably figure out why he’s being a whiny baby now–cryptos are going through the roof and he’s been left in the dust again (I can tell it’s not the first time, from the state of his wardrobe).
S: Cryptos again? You always think everything is cryptos.
G: It is, Sam my man. You’ll see.
S: Sure George, whatever you say.
It’s at this precise moment that Samuel plays a 100-point bingo.
S: MINCIER — adj. demonstrating the quality of mincing on a different level or magnitude. That should just about wrap this one up, eh Georgie?
G: Dammit, Sammit! I knew I wasn’t in the running for a comeback, but jeez.
S: I just play the tiles I’m dealt, George.
WHARVED 