7.18.2013

It Doesn't Take Bobby Fischer

For eight dollars, plus tax, I could've been fossilized in a moment ripped from the pages of a long-gone literary hero's hopeful anecdotes. Instead I'm still shaking twenty-three minutes later, but not from nerves-- it's remorse at having been frozen during an opportunity granted by a Power who likes to push pawns off the edge of the board.

I stopped at a convenience store I rarely patronize for a pack of smokes that I didn't need. It was more of a means to break a hundred and avoid a scene at the deli the next morning when the cashier would look at me squarely and say she couldn't make change. Some men learn to be prepared for these catastrophes. Others continue to suffer the same fate. Most never realize they're happening and lead empty lives punctuated by meaningless deaths. I'm lingering somewhere in that equation, though it's not for me to specify. Recordists, you see, are limited to the facts. Allow me to relay them as purely as possible.

I recognized her voice first: that sassy snarl which used to grate my nerves late at night during drunken disputes over nothing. All of me stood still except for my eyes which scanned her presence for the familiar. The tattoo on her foot and a stud in the side of her nose which I could barely see confirmed the uncanny. I was standing behind one of the Great Ones, perhaps the woman who suited me most-- or would have, had I been ready.

Her hair was longer than I'd ever seen it. A flowery dress clung to her figure and was cut short at the knee where two legs protruded gracefully, milky and filled-out like a mother's-- since she is one now, God bless her.

"Declined?" she asked the clerk, equal parts confused and annoyed. The dark-skinned Arab man behind the counter looked my way as she rifled through her purse for another card to swipe. "Sorry," she said over her shoulder with half a glance in my direction. I wasn't sure if she didn't recognize me or was sticking to a strict regimen of damage control, but she said nothing to acknowledge that we'd been together for years back when things were simpler. My feet, sockless in old sneakers, wouldn't budge from the cheap tile floors. I felt new beads of sweat run from my neck down to my shoulders which were bare. A rare fashion sin in the form of a muggy-day Guinea tee and the uncombed, windblown poof adorning my head made me wonder if she mistook me for one of the local rough-and-tumble barrio boys. Part of me prayed it was so. I couldn't be crystallized like this. I'd left my smoking jacket and ascot at home.

Four tall boys of beer dripped condensation on the counter in front of her-- two imported, two domestic-- though the price tags all read the same: $1.99. I thumbed through my wallet and produced a twenty that'd cover both of our purchases, but no words came to my lips. "I've got that," or "Allow me," or "It's the least I can do for all those nights when I should've stopped playing the part so damn well." Any of these would've made up for eight years of slamming back gin and regret. Instead my tail spun as I yanked at the yoke, silent as church on Monday, but churning inside.

My moment passed. I'd missed it forever. The pawn rolled in a wasteful arc there on the cosmic table.

"Here, try this one," she said as she handed the cashier a different card. He rang her up, bagged the beer, and she left before I could congratulate her on doing what I still can't.

One of these days I'll admit that.

No comments: