Downtown Chess
Posted on | November 19, 2008 |
San Francisco
5:00 p.m.
It looked like a game of chess in the park to an outsider.
It was a money game.
1 takes $2.
$3 for the second.
“One dollar to the house.”
On one table a short Chinese man laughs with intent, his eyes flash the gaze of a crazed homeless man.
On the one in front of me,
an old man bundled in
sweater,
t-shirt,
coat,
scarf,
hat,
hood over the hat,
and gloves.
He shivers with the Putter*Putter*Putter of an idling Harley-Davidson
motorcycle.
His foot
bounces along to the engine’s
nervous stroke.
“Wanna Play?”
“I’m thinkin’ about it,” I say, dumbly.
“Well, you better not think about it too long,” he says slowly as he looks at his wristwatch. “It’s a short day.”
I am playing chess with the bums.
When I was little and saw Searching for Bobby Fischer, I told people that if nothing else in life, I could move to Central Park and play chess for the rest of time in the street. Ironic that I find myself playing Market and 6th with of group of homeless the day after being fired.
“Hey, over here. Come on.”
My black opponent does not look out from under his hood drawn low.
“Two dollars to the winner.”
I lose in fewer minutes.
“Three dollars for the second.”
“What? How’s that?”
“It’s a series . . . Best of three.”
I lose.
Frustrated that I just played hastily and lost for money that I don’t have, I pay up. It’s fifty cents for each game to the guy running the table–the fat man with a fat pack next to me taking my money.
I pay, but insist on playing the third game in the series.
I make a bad move, but manage to be up a pawn after a few more. I get to thinking I can win this game. Avoiding the opening pitfalls made in the second game, my confidence grew–making my mind lazy. Six months had passed since last playing and my laziness compounded my rustiness.
He forked me and takes my queen, but a quick comeback puts me back in it. Two move later, I concede.
My opponent wants another two dollars. Seeing my bike when I sat down he had said, “Parking’s free.” My ride clearly marks me as a stranger, maybe with money.
“I’m not paying for this one. In my head, it was the last in the series. For him, a new round.
“Alright, $1.50.”
“No, that was the third game.”
“You said let’s play again.”
“I said let’s play the third game. I am not playing you for this.”
I pay the fifty cents to the house and ride away, my wallet and my pride sore.
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