Dating : A Game of Chess

The old man had awoken early again and he sat listening to the news on the TV. The newscaster said that it was going to be hot. He heard the newscaster say that people who didn’t have to go outside should stay inside. The air didn’t feel hot to the old man but he knew it was coming. He’d feel the heat, sooner or later.

While the news was announced, the old man opened the cabinet in the kitchen above the coffee maker and removed the plastic baggie where he stored his coffee grounds and then retrieved a spoon from the strainer near the sink. He measured out five fragrant spoonfuls, placing them in a paper filter that he had placed in the little basket that sat in the top of the coffee maker and then he filled the glass carafe with water and poured that into the slotted area on top of the machine. Then he turned it on and stood there waiting until the coffee was done. After it was finished brewing, he took a mug from one of the hooks under the cabinet and placed it on the counter and filled it from the carafe until the coffee was right to the brim of the mug. Then, he replaced the carafe and stooped down to slurp the coffee from the mug. After he did this, he smacked his lips appreciatively and made a sighing sound.

He could hear the newscaster change her tone now. She began to talk about some sort of tragedy where a bunch of people were killed by some lunatic gunman again. He held the coffee cup now in one hand and sipped from it. Then he shook his head.

“Goddamn insanity,” he said aloud. “You can’t even walk into a Goddamn strawberry festival nowadays without some goddamn loon blasting the Hell outta things.”

After he said this, he walked into the small dining room which was adjacent to the kitchen and looked right at the TV. He watched it now and the images on it of the shooting. Someone had taken some footage of the shooting on their cell phone and now, the news program was playing the video. The video showed people running from the shooter. One woman was holding her daughter in her arms and running.

“Seven people were killed,” said the newscaster, “Three of those were children.”

“Son of a bitch,” said the old man.

Then he shut the TV off and walked over to the folding card table that sat directly in front of the window. On either side of the table were metal folding chairs. Each chair had a padded seat that was covered in red vinyl. The vinyl was torn in a few places and the old man had repaired the tears with clear packing tape.

On a shelf near the table the man found a wooden box with hinges and took it down. He placed it on the table and then sat down in one of the chairs. He put his coffee down on the table. A little sloshed over the rim of the cup and landed on the wooden box.

“Son of a bitch,” he said, “Piece of shit mug.”

He stood up, went into the kitchen, where he pulled a stained towel from where it hung on the handle on the stove. He returned to the table and carefully wiped the coffee from the box and where it had spilled on the table in small dots.

“Much better,” he said, “That’s much goddamn better.”

He looked around for a place to put the towel and then decided to spread it out to dry on the windowsill. The window was open. He spread the towel carefully on the windowsill and as he did, he bent down and looked outside through the screen. The air moved over his face and he felt it over his crepey skin.

He could see over the tops of the rose bushes that were growing right next to the house. They were in full bloom and very fragrant. He leaned down more and pressed his nose right against the screen and inhaled deeply.

“That’s nice,” he thought, “There’s still beauty in the world.”

He looked out over the rose bushes and could see someone walking down the sidewalk.

It was the man he knew was coming.

He sat back down in the folding chair and waited, sipping his coffee. His head began to droop down and his chin was about to touch his chest when the doorbell rang. He jerked his head up and rolled his neck from side to side and then walked over to the side door to answer it. He knew who it was but went through the obligatory custom of checking. He did this mostly to give the man a hard time. The old man had made some business dealings with the man years ago, and now the man came every year to check in to see how the old man was doing.

“Who is it?” the old man said through the door.

“It’s me,” said his associate.

“Who the hell is me?” said the old man.

“You know who I am. Now open the door.” His acquaintance’s voice was muffled.

“I’m not going to open this door for some stranger who’s got something to sell me. Or worse,” said the old man.

“I’m not in the mood,” said his friend, “Just open the door Raymond.”

The old man turned the deadbolt and then the knob and opened the door inward. The visiting man stood there for a moment then pushed in past him and walked straight into the kitchen. The old man closed and locked the door and then followed the man.

The old man stood in the kitchen doorway and watched his business partner pour himself a cup of coffee and then add milk. Then the visitor took a delicate sip of the coffee and sighed with a deep contentment.

“That’s some good coffee, my friend,” said the visitor..

“Christ, Harold, make yourself right at home, will ya?” said the old man.

“I will,” said Harold, “What’s yours is mine.”

Harold was a sight to behold. He stood exactly six feet two inches tall and wore a light colored suit that was the color of cream. A red tie was tied around his neck in a full Windsor knot. It was an expensive silk tie and one could tell that just by looking at it. His shoes were understated punched brown derby shoes. They looked newly polished. His hair was neatly parted on the right side and some sort of pomade had been applied to give it sheen and texture. His hair was a steely gray, the color of gunmetal. His face had been neatly and expertly shaved except for his mustache, which he had let grow long but which was neatly parted in the middle and pushed to either side, giving him a sort of built-in comedic expression. He always appeared on the verge of smiling or saying something quite witty. His eyes were the color of a clear summer sky and just as inviting. It was impossible to be angry with such a man, which made him quite dangerous.

Ray was Harold’s opposite. He stood five feet 3 inches tall and wore torn trousers, the color of dirty dishes and unwashed washcloths. A ratty and coffee stained tee-shirt was what he had found that morning so that is what he had pulled over his bulbous head and grotesque nose. He had not bothered yet to place shoes on his feet but if he had they would’ve matched the rest of his ensemble. His hair populated exclusively the sides and back of his head, the top of which appeared to be polished to a pearlescent shine. Hairs jutted from his nostrils and his nose was surrounded by a jowly face covered in a small forest of hair that was hastily shorn with an electric hair trimmer. He appeared to most as a dangerous man and perhaps one capable of the most terrible cruelties. His eyes were a cold gray and bloodshot around the iris. It was easy to be angry with such a man, which had the effect of making him a very easy target.

Harold put his coffee cup down and then removed his jacket and hung it with delicacy on a hook near the door. Then he picked his coffee cup back up and assumed a ceremonial air.

“Shall we commence our little game?” he said with an exaggerated sense of gravity.

“After you, my kind sir,” said the old man. An edge crept into his voice. He bowed slightly and extended both arms with open hands towards the doorway that led to the dining room.

“Why thank you, my good man,” said Harold. He walked carefully with his coffee cup and went directly to the table by the window. He pulled one of the seats out by grasping the back with his free hand and then sat down, putting his cup down next to the hinged wooden box.

The old man walked behind him and went to the table and grabbed his mug.

“I hope you don’t mind if I leave you here for a moment while I go to top off my coffee,” he said.

“Not at all, my good man,” said Harold. He waved his hand theatrically and with largess.

The roses had heated up in the sun a bit and their smell was stronger now. Harold leaned close to the screen and smelled. “There is great beauty in this world,” he thought to himself, “If only one knows how to appreciate it and take it.” He glanced at the dirty towel that was drying on the windowsill. A slight look of bemused disdain crept behind the blue eyes.

The old man returned with a full hot mug of coffee and put it down. He was careful not to spill any.

“So, are we ready to play this goddamn game,” said the old man.

“I do so wish you would not use such crass and vulgar language,” said Harold.

“Ok. Whatever you say,” said the old man.

“I was just admiring your view,” said Harold, extending his arm towards the window with a flourish. He let his eyes drift down towards the drying towel and rest there for a moment. He pulled down the corners of his mouth in an exaggerated disgust.

“Listen, let’s just play the goddamn game, ok. I’m sure you didn’t come to talk about being domestic,” said the old man.

“Being, domestic. No, I wouldn’t want to do that,” said Harold. “So, please tell me, Ray, how have you been?”

The old man was quiet and did not move in his chair for a moment.

Then the old man picked up his mug, sipped the coffee, and put it down carefully. He picked up the wooden box, carefully opened it and placed it on the table. The box revealed the alternating squares of a chessboard. Instead of the usual white and black squares, the board had been designed with red and black squares, each of which had been etched with a different vignette of some warlike battle. Some squares were etched with warriors in full regalia. On others, miniature battle scenes depicted decapitation, the impaling of armored soldiers, and other gruesome tortures.

On either side of the unfolded box, previously hidden, were two small handles. The men looked at each other, then proceeded to pull on the handles, revealing neatly arranged rows of carved soapstone pieces which lay within wooden dividers. The pieces, like the etchings on the squares, were somewhat grotesque and macabre.

The kings and queens wore bizarre grimaces. The bishops held shepherd’s crooks, the top of which appeared like little nooses. The castles were in the form of elephants carrying tremendous globes atop their backs, the weight of which appeared to be buckling each elephant’s legs. The knights rode steeds covered in scaly armor and held swords extended to the side, as if ready for battle. Pawns looked more like serfs than warriors, and wore expressions that made them appear more like the fodder of war than soldiers ready for battle.

The men pulled the pieces out one by one and placed them in their proper places. Harold placed crimson pieces on his side while the old man placed black pieces on his side.

Soon they had finished.

Harold then removed two pawns from either side and held them in his outstretched hands, with his palms facing up.

“This is the only part of the game that’s chance,” he said. There was something spectacular about the way he said it that made the old man look at him with a sudden fear. Harold closed each fist around a piece and then moved his arms behind his chair. Then he moved the pieces from hand to hand for a few moments before closing on them again with his pale fingers. He brought his arms back around to the front and again extended his hands towards Ray.

“Your game,” he said.

The old man hesitated for a moment. He picked up his coffee and sipped it again. Then he glanced at the roses by the window and at the towel that lay on the windowsill drying. The roses smelled wonderful. Some of the petals had begun to open up more and a few had begun to curl a bit around the edges. He looked back to Harold and the red tie and the ridiculous cream shirt and wondered how he kept them so clean. Not a single drop of coffee on those shirts in all the years they had known one another. The, the old man extended and arm and a hand and a finger and pointed to one of the cream shirted man’s hands. Harold opened his bud-like hand, each finger the white petal of a lily, to reveal a red piece.

“Son of a bitch,” said the old man.

He looked at the eyes of the man opposite him. There was something behind Harold’s eyes and the old man couldn’t quite see what it was but he felt it. Harold put the pieces back on the board and then expertly spun the entire chess board on its axis, so that the red pieces now lay in front of Ray.

The men played their game. The heat welled up outside and spilled over the windowsill and bathed the men in its temper. The old man sweated profusely, rivulets streaming down among the forest of hair on his face. The cream shirted man straightened his red tie from time to time, glancing at his watch and appearing quite comfortable. The curiously curved second hand on the watch smoothly cut an arc round and round the milky face. The old man played well but eventually made one blunder and then another and was soon backed into a corner where there was no escape. Resignation moved within him and then appeared on his face. Harold saw this and almost felt sorry for Ray.

“It’s been such a good game,” Harold thought to himself, “It’s been really something extraordinary this time.”

Then he reached up and patted the sides and top of his hair, smoothing it where stray hairs had begun to pop up and he placed the fingers of both hands over his mustache and smoothed that as well. He grabbed the knot of his tie with his thumb and the first two fingers of his right hand and centered it on his neck and then reached out with the same hand and grabbed the black queen by the head. A wave of air poured in through the open window and with it brought the pungent aroma of roses. Harold appeared to be smiling though it was difficult to tell. He moved the queen into place and then the game was over.

“Checkmate,” he said, “It’s been my pleasure to play this game with you, Ray. I must be going now. I’d like to thank you for your hospitality and your friendship. And also for the coffee, of course. You always made the best coffee.”

He glided from his seat as if on silver casters and walked to the side of the table where the old man sat. He placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder. The old man’s shoulders were slumped in defeat.

“It’ll be ok, old boy,” said Harold, “You’re a good man.”

Swiveling on his heels, he strode towards the kitchen and turned off the coffee pot and washed his cup and carefully dried it and then hung it on the little hooks that were under the cabinet so that it would be properly dried. He put the cream jacket back on and let himself out, turning the lock on the door as he left so that the door would be locked. Then, he walked down the sidewalk back to his own place in the world.

Inside the house, the old man sat for a long time. The coffee in his cup was cold by now and he did not drink it. The chess board would need to be put away but there was no rush to do it now. It was nice that Harold had washed his cup, as it would be one less thing to be done when arranging things. The old man appeared to be looking out the open window at the roses now. The temperature had dropped and the air still came in but it was cooler and came over the window sill and over the little towel that was dry and brittle from laying in the sun. The roses no longer smelled as sweet. It was a long time that went by with the old man sitting there. In the fading light the roses appeared to have lost their color. All of the petals had fallen to the ground.