How an ordinary kitchen sponge became a pet named Stanley
As odd as the concept of the rock-toss game may seem, let me tell you a story about my college friends Mark, Mike, and Sean, who took the art of passing time to a whole new, and utterly bizarre, level.
I met Mike, Mark, and Sean at the same time I met all of my best college friends… through the miracle of the Freshman dorm-living lottery. By the luck of the draw, I was thrown together with Adam, with whom I would live for the next four years (and who I see/talk to even now, on an almost daily basis). Also on my freshman floor that year were Chavez, Vinnie, Tobbe and, of course, Mark, Mike, and Sean (these are characters you will come to know quite well as you tune into this blog).
All these guys represent, for me, the kind of intense friendship that only comes from eating, sleeping, studying, getting arrested, and shitting together in the same room for an entire year. I don’t see these guys very often, but I think about them a lot, and I have a feeling that even if I were to run into them for five minutes on the street in an unfamiliar city, it would be like we’d just moved away from each other the day before. There have been few occasions in my life when I was as upset as the day I graduated and left all those guys behind.
During that fantastic junior year in the Ackerman House (blog 6/8), Mark, Mike, and Sean lived up the block in a dark green house on the same side of the street. While Adam, Chavez, Tobbe, and my interests tended to lean more towards the conventionally destructive (i.e., The Rock-Toss Game), Mark, Mike, and Sean’s interests, quite often, strayed into the downright disgusting. And goddamn if we didn’t love ‘em for it.
An average night for the boys at 907 Ackerman involved activities like The Garbage Toss. The Garbage Toss came into being one cold winter night as the four of us sat around watching Monday Night Football in our underwear. Now, no one in their right mind goes out after dark in a Syracuse winter, unless a warm bar and a couple of tequila shots are included in your ultimate destination. And no college student puts their clothes back on once they’re down to their jammies. However, since garbage was picked up early on Tuesday mornings, we faced a dilemma on this particular Monday night. At halftime, somewhere around ten at night, we realized that we had a kitchen full of garbage bags that stunk to high heaven, and somehow, we had to get them out to the curb before morning.
I don’t remember whose idea it was, but it probably went down something like this. In order to get to the stairs that led down to our first-floor front door, you had to pass the door that led out to our second floor balcony. This door had a glass window in it and, probably, one of us noticed that you could see the spot where the garbage had to be laid to rest, out through that window. “Hey guys”, one of us likely said, “It’s cold as shit out there, why don’t we just toss this crap to the curb from the balcony.”
The first time was likely done out of sheer functionality... it was damn cold, and none of us was wearing the appropriate clothing. But by week three of the NFL season, The Garbage Toss had become a full-fledged athletic event, and something we looked forward to each week. I remember talking "trash" for seven days… “I’m gonna kick yer ass in the Toss this week!” I just couldn’t wait until halftime of Monday Night Football.
The rules were simple. Using whatever form you had developed over the weeks, you had to throw your bag of garbage off the balcony, get it across the 20-foot front lawn and across the sidewalk, to the curb (a total distance of about thirty feet, from a height of at least that). He whose bag landed closest to the telephone pole out front, won (bonus points if your bag did not explode). My only regret is that we never kept stats. I’d love to know who had the most wins when the year was over.
Many of our neighbors got strange notes from the garbage men complaining about exploded bags of garbage. Some of them desperately tried to discover who was responsible for the wisps of soiled whatever that they would often find blowing around the street in the bitter morning wind. No one ever thought to wonder if it could’ve been those four idiots in that second floor apartment at 907, throwing large bags of garbage thirty feet through the air. I mean really, who would suspect anyone of that kind of stupidity? For no reason?
We were never caught.
But, while Adam, Tobbe, Chavez and I were perfecting the “Garbage Toss”, Mark was in the process of creating his own piece of “garbage art” that would eventually put us to shame. While ours was a performance piece, Mark’s art was done primarily for his own enjoyment. I was not present for Stanley’s genesis, but Mark told me the story. It’s been almost ten years, but I’ll try my best to relate it now.
After dinner one night, Mark unwrapped a brand new blue sponge and cleaned the table with it. No one can say for sure what malevolent entity put the idea for what happened next into Mark’s head, but at some point in his clean-up, he decided to put the sponge in a gallon-sized Zip-Loc bag with the evening’s last piece of pizza. The sponge safely ensconced in the bag with the pizza, he put the entire experiment under the sink where prying eyes and sunlight would have no effect.
The next morning, Mark woke up and wandered into the kitchen to make breakfast. The coffee was brewing when he remembered, “Oh yeah! The sponge.” He opened the cabinets, pulled out the bag, and saw… a single blue sponge. The pizza… was gone!
The sponge had eaten the pizza. But even stranger, the sponge seemed not to have been changed by the experience. It still looked like a brand new, if slightly soiled, blue sponge.
Mark named the sponge Stanley and began feeding it every night.
Word of Mark’s new pet began to spread far and wide and soon it was not unusual for a crowd to develop at feeding time. We tried everything, ice cream, cake, pie, pasta, even chicken bones. Whatever we fed Stanley that night, would be gone by nine a.m. the next morning, leaving nothing but a smiling blue sponge where leftovers had been only eight hours before. It really was an amazing phenomenon.
Of course, every great idea has a downside, and Stanley’s rather substantial con, was discovered pretty early in his life… and that would be the smell. The bag had to be opened at feeding time and, while I never caught a whiff of Stanley myself (feedings had become an outdoor affair by the time I became aware of Stanley’s existence), I hear tales of the first time the odor was ever experienced indoors. Apparently, Mark, Mike, and Sean wound up at the bars, in whatever clothes they’d been wearing when the bag was opened. Unable to even take the time to change, they just had to get out. And they claimed the smell hung around for several days afterwards.
Stanley gave us a lot of joy over that year, but eventually, the time came for us to graduate. Mark, Mike, and Sean wound up staying in that house for two years. On Graduation day, Stanley was no longer blue, and didn’t really look much like a sponge anymore. He was still in his original bag, but that bag had been inserted inside a succession of other bags to guard against accidental leakage. Mark had a party on our last night in town. It was the kind of bash where we all wound up throwing our underwear into the trees around his house. Typical “we’re outta here forever” kind o’ shit.
As things wound down that night, I asked Mark what he planned to do with Stanley. Now, every house in Syracuse came furnished with the exact same furniture. A chair, sofa, and love seat made out of cheap fabric, with right angle arm and back rests that were anything but comfortable. Chavez used to joke that all the landlords in the area bought from the same store, “Landlords R Us.” We all hated that furniture. Mark thought about it for a minute and the said.
“I’m moving out tomorrow. I’m gonna turn this couch over, cut a hole in the bottom, punch a small hole in Stanley’s “cage”, and stuff him up inside the couch. It could be months before anyone figures out where the smell is coming from.”
As far as I know, Stanley lives there still… doing his best to provide hours of quality “entertainment” for a whole new generation of college students. Though he probably hasn’t eaten in a while. Poor guy.