08.06.2001
"Question number five," James bellowed. The pub went quiet almost instantly. The ten tables with five or so people crowded around each put down their pints and looked up expectantly.
My team and I huddled tightly, and though the heat in the pub was at least fifteen degrees warmer than outside, we didn't care. It was required to safeguard our answers. There were five of us: my friend Sarah, three of her friends, and me. She was English. They were as Scottish as the hills were green. I was the token American.
We were in the fourth round and tied for the lead. The winning team got to take home a case of beer past its freshness date. Nobody cared about the prize through. Not really. Everyone just wanted to win.
For some reason I was viewed as a symbol good fortune. My aunt used to rub her lucky rabbit's foot while playing bingo, and though they refrained, I had an overwhelming sense that, were I so inclined, they might rub the American's head.
"You look like Tobey McGuire," I was told earlier in the evening. They had to repeat it twice before I could understand through the accent. "Are you Irish?"
"No," I replied. "I'm American. We're not anything."
I wanted, more than anything, to tell them that my Grandfather was Scottish and how I'd picked up a Drummond family key chain in a kilt shop off of High St. earlier that day. As though that would some how validate me to them. But I didn't need to. Sarah had vouched for me which, even if she was English, seemed to carry water.
"On the original Monopoly board," James boomed. "What is the last Rail Road on the board?"
The room burst into conversation as the teams discussed the possibilities. Mine looked flustered.
"Oh man," I laughed. "Why don't they just give it away?"
Their faces brightened.
"It's the Short Line!"
Sarah leaned over and beckoned me over with a finger. I scooted my chair over and lowered my head to hear what she had to say.
"The original Monopoly board is the London Monopoly board," she said.
I jerked back, aghast. I could deal with cars driving on the left side of the road but my useless knowledge of the monopoly board going to be for naught? That was a bridge too far. Besides, I thought with anger. It's an American game for Christ's sake!
"So is it King's Cross or Liverpool Street Station," Mary asked. Her pencil was perched eagerly but she looked at me with disappointment.
Shame washed over me. I knew nothing about Cricket much less the countries that were the biggest players of it. I was even worse when it came to important dates in Soccer history, even through they called it football. I wanted to offer my head for a rub to at least justify the pint bought for me but it was seeming too little, too late.
"I have to say King's Cross," said Tommy, who had been quiet up until then. "I think it's King's Cross."
Worked for me. That was the train station I'd left from when I came up earlier in the week. New York only had two stations - a few less than London it would seem and neither of which as big as King's Cross. So if I were to pick one, that would be it. I nodded in silent agreement.
"Hasn't anyone ever played the game," Willy chided. "It's Liverpool Street. I know it is."
"Are you sure," Mary asked.
"I'm sure. Just write it down already."
Mary did.
I knew that Scotland was the birthplace of golf but I was still amused every time I saw the little pencil. They were exactly like the handful I used to carry in my pocket back when I was a caddy at the local course. There was so much that was familiar, yet the little things were different.
If everyone had spoken Swahili it would have been some how easier to accept then left side of the road driving. The "toilet" signs where in the US there would be the word "restroom". And the funny currency that when held up to the light would show the queen's head in a little oval where she hadn't been before. But because everyone spoke English - something I could accept, England being the birthplace of the language and all - and McDonald's was everywhere, the little idiosyncrasies always threw me for a loop. I began to wonder why I let myself be invited to the pub quiz.
"Question number six," James said. "Five answers."
The bar groaned collectively as though the building were sliding off its foundation.
"On the UN Security Council, who are the five constant members?"
With an explosion of conversation, the teams around each table leaned forward to discuss the possible answers. Every team but mine. They passed worried looks back and forth until settling on me. Something they seemed reluctant to do.
"Any thoughts," Mary asked.
"The United States," I started. "Russia, China, the U.K., and France."
Everyone looked impressed. Even Mary smiled and Sarah didn't seem quite so embarrassed. Maybe I'd earned my way into their little group. I was the outsider. The guy with the camera, who earlier in the day had taken a seven-pound double-decker bus trip around the city, was no longer. For that minute I was one of them taking a Thursday night to hang out at the local dive for a few pints and a game.
Mary scribbled the answers and handed that round's sheet to Sarah who in turn whisked it off to James to be scored and have it added to our over all total. I looked sheepishly around at the faces sharing the table with me. They smiled uneasily. In unison, we took sips from our pints and wiped the foam from our lips.
"So," I said trying to break the ice. "I've been told that when anyone asks, I should tell people that I'm Canadian instead of American. What's better to you," I asked. "American or Canadian?"
The three of them communed silently for a moment. Mary replied Canadian, Willy and Tommy thought otherwise. That's a good sign, I figured. I could take some risks.
"Well," I said. "In America, Canadian's are weenies."
The guys laughed, Mary glared, but she glared at them too so I was starting to feel like one of the boys. I didn't want to start an international incident, so I let them come up with the next topic.
"So," Willy asked carefully. "Is New York as dangerous as everyone says?"
Hmm, I thought. Do I tell them the truth or what they want to hear?
"I don't know what people say here, but yeah, it's pretty dangerous," I said. "You heard about the gangs?"
"Yeah," the three said in unison.
"They roam the streets like packs of wild dogs. It's pretty nasty."
"Sarah," Willy called. "You never told us how dangerous the city was while you were there!"
"What," she asked.
I grinned into my beer
"What are you talking about," she asked.
"The roving gangs," Willy said. "How'd you survive?"
"He's pathological," Sarah said. "Don't listen to a word he says."
"What," Willy said, obviously disappointed. I shrugged. They'd watched all the same movies in the 80's that I, but it seemed to them that the city was frozen in time.
"All right everybody," James called out holding up his score sheet. "These are the scores for round four!" We listened intently. "6-to-4 Against!" That was us and we all tensed. "Sixty-four!" High fives went around the table. "Who Framed Jeffery Archer! Fifty-eight."
He rattled off the ten names, two of which were tied with us. The pressure was on. With two rounds left to go, we knew that case of beer had our names on it.