Writing bits from the past: The chess players

Someday, I’ll finish something.  For now, I’ll post what I’ve got written.  Here’s an excerpt of one of my many unfinished pieces

     “Your move old man,” he said in a confident tone.  He knew full well that he positioned his bishop in place, ready to protect his queen and check-mate his opponent.
     “You sure you wanna do that?”  The old man asked.
     “Don’t give me that ‘are you sure’ shit!  It’s not gonna work on me.  Make your move already.”
     The old man moved.
     “What the . . . how did you . . . How the fuck?!!”
     “Like this,” the old man shows him, moving his knight back, then forth, placing the king in check, ready to take the queen after it moves.  “It’s called a fork.”
     “I know what it’s called,” he mumbled.  “I oughta stick one up your-”
     Every Thursday after work, Tommy stopped by Cortez Park to play chess with Reggie, one of the many senior citizens who have nothing better to do than take walks, feed pigeons, or play chess.  Every Thursday, he waited for the young man with a ready table and set-up chessboard.  This ritual started about a year ago, in one of the strangest ways anybody could meet anybody at any given location.
     Tommy had just about enough.  His overlord of a boss scheduled him for three weekend duties in a row in order to “play catch up on some much needed scrubbing of the books.  His bitch of a girlfriend complained to him about how much of a mess their apartment has gotten because he spent too much time at work and not enough time helping her with the chores, which in her passive-aggressive way really meant that he wasn’t spending enough time with her.  His smother of a mother kept calling him and telling him how he should been someone more successful like a lawyer or a doctor like his brother Rob, who happened to be both a lawyer and a doctor.  His unsupportive friends never understood how he felt, despite the many times they said they knew how he felt, because coming from a bunch of stoners and drunks those statements felt unsurprisingly empty.  So, driving home from work that fateful day he had reached his boiling point.  He drove off the street, into the park, almost taking out some innocent picnickers, parked in the middle of the grass field, bolted out of his car, marched next to a tree, and began to curse it at full volume.

By Errol

In order of importance: Father, Husband, Aspiring writer, Graduate student, U.S. Air Force veteran.

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