Chip Kendrick
WCT: Writer as Lawyer, 
Writer as Detective

	It is a game of split-second reaction times, where any strategy you intend to play 
had better be hard-wired into your spinal reflexes.  If you try to think about a shot, you 
will miss-hit.  It's called Ping-Pong.  There is, however, a variant of the game popular at 
Stanford: one in which the players are only involved in order not to be involved in 
anything else.  It's called procrastination Ping-Pong, and it's a considerably slower game.  
The three of them were playing it on a tired weekday afternoon.
	It is two on one, the teams apparently chosen so that the sum of the energy of the 
players is even.  The single man is the only one actually moving his feet.  Each player 
displays tired eyes and a tired smile with an air that is somehow indifferent to the game 
without being indifferent to the other players.  One of them really has the expression 
down and seems to wear it for a living:  features seemingly pulled flat across a wide face, 
all under a sharp overhang of black hair, like handholds on a cliff.  His every expression 
tries to crawl sideways on his face, lifting above the surface as little as possible.
	Most of the points end in brief laughter, the sharp sounds of the ping pong ball 
like a meter ticking down to the moment.  One of the pair of players on the left side of 
the table leans slightly backward after every point, sometimes laughing as he does so, 
sometimes wearing an expression of mellow surprise.  In a moment, his partner, the 
expert on the uninterested expression, drags a chair from the nearby counter and sits in 
his position at the table.   The lone player drops his energy level appropriately, without 
much disappointment.  After this blatant expression of sheer laziness, jumping for balls 
would now be a sort of low-grade faux-paus.  Now each hit from the single player's side 
is direct and spinless, albeit not much slowed, target politely alternating between the 
seated player and one tilting his torso after each point.  Any chance of a game starting is 
now gone, and so, happily, is the chance that this procrastination will end in a scored 
game featuring winners and losers.
	The sitting player's shots are not adjusted for his new height, and he comments on 
this quietly, tossing his head to get his hair out of his eyes, even though it wasn't there.  
The comment gets laughter and a tilted stance from his partner.  The tilting man freezes 
and frowns slightly while dropping his eyes.  He does not tilt any longer when the points 
end.
	The seated man's shots continue to be too low, and a comment to this effect by 
the lone player draws a laugh from the former tilter and a snort from the seated player.  
Each shot stopped by the net leads to the tilter reaching frantically for the ball as it rolls 
for the edge of the court, then drilling it to table as he gets it under control.
	A shot near the end of the table forces the tilter to swing his paddle along his 
body, putting a fold into his shirt and missing the ball.  The lone player groans softly 
while staring intently at the table as the other standing player retrieves the ball.  
Questions follow, and the lone player mentions an assignment he has due, prompting 
each of the other two to list things they must do.  Just as the lone player braces himself 
on the table with both arms, sighing and possibly intending to end the game, the player 
who has just retrieved the ball fires off a serve.  It goes off the far end of the table 
untouched, barely gestured at by the player it was intended for.
	The seated player laughs and mildly calls the server a fool.  The player who was 
about to quit goes for the ball without laughing, reserving the right to return to being 
tired.  The seated player's teammate flushes slightly and mutters an 'oops.'  This brings a 
smile from the returning single player, who decides to continue the game.  
	Strangely, in the game of procrastination, any mentioned urgency only leads to a 
greater need for delay.  Starting the game leaves no way to end it.