Short Story Series #2

HOW TO WIN AT CHESS

            Hm, that is a big one if not bigger than that.  How to win something like that time after time?  How?  There should be a possibility of making money there.  Some people do make money there and I want it too.  I know off people that do not anything but play chess and they live very well.  How, again.  Is there a system?  Should be.  In cards, if you want to know what your opponent has, you mark cards.  You use dots, colors, and change patterns on the back of cards.  Some players use misdirection to hide cards in the sleeves, packets and other parts of the clothing.  To do that, you should be good and fast and what if you are not.  If you are caught cheating, bad thing could happen to you and beating is not the worst of it.  You can loose parts of your body and even the head.  They can take you apart part by part.  I shiver just thinking about.  That is not the way to end your day. 

           For a few times, here and there, I tried to mark the chess pieces the opponent had.  It was not difficult.  He goes to get a drink or to the restroom and you mark all pieces.  There is always a chance to do that and, if there is none, you create one by asking for something.  Pawn – one dot; Rook – two dots; Knight – three dots and so on.  All you need is five dots.  My opponent did not see the markings, or saw it and did now show, but I lost anyway.  Why is it?  I marked it well.  Maybe he did notice it.  I bet he did not.  He is not too bright.  This is a tough game to break in but you have to keep trying.  I kept trying changing markings, colors, and ideas.  I tried to mark King with one dot, Queen with two and so on.  It was original and very different.  I bet no one had done it before.  I knew every piece he had; I could see them and, then, I marked them as well.  I knew his pieces better than he did.  I knew his pieces twice while he knew it only once.  I could not miss but still he kept winning.  Was it my fate?  I could not sleep at night, not more then usual eight or ten hours.  I could not eat more than three times a day, not counting a few snacks in between.  My meals were not huge to begin with.  I never ate more than three – four courses at dinner and I still do not.  Now, I could not eat even that much.  I was going out of my mind and I had very little appetite for life.  That is how much it bothered me.  How to win at chess all the time – was on my mind all the time.  It is on my mind even now. 

            Then, I tried to hide pieces.  I had seen it in a movie.  Once, when he stepped out to brink me a cup of coffee, I hided the Queen.  You see, I created the opportunity by asking for coffee.  That was my Queen I hided.  He came back, looked at the board, looked at me, made a move, and said, “Check and Mate.”  That was quick.  Was it my Queen?  Could he know something I did not?  Maybe it was the wrong piece to hide.  Next time, my King was gone.  He came back, looked at the board, looked at me, and said,

           “Where is your King?” 

           “What King?”  I shyly smiled. 

           “Stupid,” he said and went away.

           What just happened?  Did I lose?  Did he win?  Was it a draw?  So, I thought it through again and in much deeper depth.  Maybe I should not hide my pieces like in cards but his.  That was a revelation.  In cards, if a high card like an Ace is gone and only you know that, you have an advantage.  In chess, if something is gone on your side, you have fewer pieces to work with.  That could be your disadvantage.  I felt as I was on something there.  If I hided his pieces and he does not notice that for a while, he has fewer pieces to work with and that could be my advantage.  Next time, I removed one of his Pawns when he went for matches.  All that was back then when we used to smoke to feel better.  Now, we feel better when we do not smoke and feel real great after the open-heart surgery.  That solves more than one issue.  The surgery scar on your chest is a huge fashion statement that works like a magnet for the loose chicks seventy and older.  That scar proves that you had done things and survived.  Well, he did not see the missing Pawn for about two moves and then he said,

            “I had a Pawn there.” 

            “Where?” said I. 

            “There. “  He pointed at a spot. 

            “There?”  I pointed at the spot.  “So, where is it?”  I insisted using the power of my psyche.  It was strong, persuasive, often logical, and sometimes worked but not always to my benefit.  It was my psyche but its loyalty was in question.  I was even ready to show my scar on the chest and I do that only when I am cornered.  I was on the edge.  He slowly counted all pieces he had on and off the board and it were sixteen.  It was the correct number of pieces and numbers never lie.  Well, some numbers could be fuzzy but not all.  Even the government cannot hide it when they are missing a few trillion dollars.  That is how fuzzy it could be.  As I said, numbers do not lie. 

           “They are all here,” he mumbled. 

           “This is chess, my friend.  Pieces cannot just walk away.”  I was happy. 

            Still, I lost the game three moves later.  What did I learn from that?  I think one missing pawn is not enough to secure the victory.  Next time, when opportunity knocked on the chessboard, I removed three Pawns and all from the same flank living the flank wide open.  That is where I should attack and prevail.

             “Where are my Pawns?”  He had an enquiring look.

            “What are you asking?”  I had an enquiring look.

            “Three Pawns from over here.  Where are they?”  His look was hardening but still enquiring.

            “Why are you asking me?  Ask your Pawns.  They are your Pawns and you should know where they are at all times.  That is how Pawns get missing and children too.  Do you know where your children are?”  It was getting a little hot for my taste.  My look was enquiring for the exit.            
            “Sorry, I have to go.  I have a meeting with my Queen and a couple of Bishops.”

             He noticed.  That is not good.  Maybe I removed too many of them.  Maybe it is not quantity but quality.  If I removed his Queen instead, it could fly.  Next time, next time.  There is always next time.  My brain never stopped working.  There should be a better way to cheat at chess.  There are masters and gross-masters.  They cheat.  Don’t they?  Of course, they do, but they do it so well.  They are the greatest.  What do they do I don’t do?  Someone said they play well.  Rubbish.  What do you mean they play well?  You are just moving pieces: up – down, left – right, and sometimes diagonally, if that helps.  You move and they move.  You lose but they win.  Maybe, if you do not watch, they make more moves than you do.  Maybe they make two moves for every one of yours.  Maybe more.  Wow!   That is art.  They are good, fast.  I need to practice.  In the mean time, I can try something else.  I could turn the table around.  Let us play it out.  He is out because you asked him for something.  You turn the board around because you like his position better.  He comes in, sees the board, and says:

            “I was playing Black.”

            “When?”  I sounded surprised.

            “Just now,” he is confused beyond the confusion.

            “Just now?  But you are playing White.”  I pointed at the board with a lot of White pieces on his end. 

            “It was Black when I left to get you some water.”

            “When did you start wearing glasses?”  I felt sorry for my friend.  He was getting old and maybe losing his sight.

            “I don’t wear glasses.”

            “Ah, that is the problem.  You should.  If you wore glasses just now, you would see the White pieces on your side.  Would you like to try mine?”  I was full of best intentions. 

            He finished game playing the White and I lost anyway.  Turning the table did not help and I do not know why.  The whole logic was on my side and there was nothing going for him.  Still, he won.  It could be only luck.  What else?  I never was lucky, not since I lost at something for the first time.  I am still losing at something ever since.  I am a loser.  Blame the society, it made me that way.  There was too much of something or too little of something else.  My life was not balanced the right way and it was not fair, not in the fair way.  Everything I got, I got the hard way.  I had to work hard for every morsel of success and there were not too many of them.  Why the others do not have to do a half as much as I do to gain twice more?  They do not work that hard for their morsels.  This is really unfair.  Really.

             However, wonders never cease.  My sophisticated brain kept going strong working on the problem of winning at chess.  What else was there?  What else I could do to ensure my glory?  Think, think.  What is if I put more pieces on the board right on the beginning of the game?  Then, I could loose pieces the wholesale and still be ahead.  In time, I could tire him chasing my pieces.  There would be so many of them he could not take all.  If fewer pieces on your side leave you in disadvantage, more pieces should give a huge advantage.  That was it.  What pieces would work better?  I think the higher pieces are, the better my position is.  Does it make sense?  Yes, it does and a lot of it.  So, while my opponent was not looking, I added the whole new row.  In chess, they call it the ranks.  I was going for his jugular.  It was like a hot knife on the cold butter.  This brilliant move spelled victory and luck or fate had nothing to do with it.  Now, I had two Kings, two Queens, four Rooks, four Knights, and four Bishops.  It was beautiful, gorgeous, and quite convenient but somehow I had less room to maneuver.  Did I mention, I had the similar chess set at home, so I brought a few pieces with me, in the packet. 

            “What is it?” he even put the cigarette down and that was not normal.  His face expressed shock or something very similar to that.

            “What is?”  I looked around desperately searching for a problem bothering him.  I could not see anything wrong.

            “Why do you have more pieces than I do?”

            “That is the way it supposed to be, I guess.  It was that way when I came in.  Why did you do it?”  I questioned his sanity and the rules of the game.

            “I did not do it,” he was shaking with anger or maybe just a slight chill coming from the window.  The window was open due to our smoking.  It was working like the hole on the top of Teepee.  Smoke could escape when it was not wanted.

            “Then, who?  It was like this when I came in.  Maybe that is the way it supposed to be.”  I was strong, holding my position.

            “Then, why I have fewer pieces than you?”  He was not smoking at the moment but smoke was coming from his ears.

            “How do I know?  Maybe that is the way it supposed to be.”  I am not sure if I finished the sentence but he grabbed the chessboard and hit me over the head.  The board did not break I felt pain.  It entered my head and could not escape.  My brain was on fire and for what. 

            I really did not like how our last game ended.  Who won?  After all, chess was a very dangerous game.  Go figure.  I always took it for a slow motion, impossible to watch game of the brains.  But, there could be so much action there.  Boxing and wrestling move over.  Baseball – just go away.  Football, do not even enter.  Frankly, that was my last chess game ever.  You see, I do not like violence.  Violence of chess does not lead to anything good.  What is in it for the young generations?  Who could be the role model there?  Is that the one, who hit the other with the board, or the one hit with the board?  And, how do you watch the chess game?  You have to be very close to see anything.  The Yankee stadium would not work unless you seat right on the grass and watch it grow.  Yes, this is like to watch grass grow, almost as golf or the square dancing.  No, I rather watch TV and the action on the screen.  Let them being hit by anything.  Let them worry.  By the way, how do you cheat in bowling?

by Boris Zubry

About The Author-

Boris Zubry was born in the Soviet Union in 1951.  After earning a master's degree in mechanical engineering, he renounced Soviet citizenship and left the Soviet Union in 1978. In 1979 he received permission to enter the United States and became a U.S. citizen in 1984. He has worked as an engineer throughout the United States and abroad and currently lives in Princeton, New Jersey. 

Mr. Zubry is also author of: “Miles of Experience” – collection of short stories; “Arrogance of Truth” – collection of satiric short stories and poetry; “Chess Master” – a thriller; “Puska” – a novel, and numerous technical publications. 

Short Story Saturday

SOLD

What you do? No. That’s not hunting.

Sitting in a tree with your hot cocoa, looking down every once in a while to see if the deer piss you sprayed around your site has attracted any other deer yet, hoping they pick up on their own species scent instead of your own. The registration on your gun is from this year. “Just bought it this year,” you’ll tell everyone who so much as sees the gun’s reflection. At this point, the only things worrying you are the overpowering smell of the polish on your gun and the fairylike dot of reflected sunlight on the snow beneath you.

What you do? That’s trapping.

A deer steps into rifle range sniffing around, looking for the deer that matches the scent. You flip open your scope. The deer hears you. Its eight-point head jerks into alert position the way a dog’s head does when its owner’s keys hit the doorknob after a long day at the office. You exhale slowly. The deer resumes foraging for the smell. You click your safety off. At the same time, the deer steps on a twig. The noises cancel each other.

What you do? That takes no skill.

You put your finger on the polished hairpin trigger, made even more sensitive by the thickness of your gloves. The deer finds the smell’s origin. You steady your aim.

What you do? That’s target practice.

The deer inhales for the last time. Then. Bang.

The part where you eat the deer that you just executed never comes. The part where you get to taxidermy said deer yourself, however, can be unlocked if you beat level eight and enter the code from the bottom of that cap that was on a promotional twenty-ounce Mountain Dew bottle.

The joint advertising significantly increases the product’s market.

* * *

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” you say, blinding them, turning on the room’s halogens, “to the new frontier in realistic gaming. Join us in celebration as Wii introduces a new edition of the traditional arcade game ‘Big Buck Hunter.’ It will even be coming with a simulation hunting chair posted on a simulation tree stump. The chair will detect any weight shifts, no matter how slight.”

The crowd of big business prospective hunters for retailers all over the nation “Ooh’s” and “Ahh’s.”

“If you tilt even the minimal amount to your right or left, front or back, the chair will most likely give off the annoying creeeaak that you’ve all heard on one chair or another." The canning of laughter. "If you get up to go to the bathroom, all that’s left on the screen when you get back is a trail of hoof prints," you say, shrugging your shoulders. "Better luck next season.”

After your presentation concludes, you head to the back of the conference room to pack up all of your equipment: projector, briefcase, Gucci brand sport coat, Dolce & Gabanna brand sunglasses.

You see a man in your peripheral and it looks as if his head is glowing. His one hand is pressed up against the wall with widespread fingers. That arm is straightened out over the table supporting the all of his leaning body. One leg is crossed over the other, cowboy boots snugly hugging his feet. Complete with spurs. What you thought was a glowing head is actually an enormous, white, snakeskin cowboy hat peppered with black scales. The scales are glossy and the lights are bright. You almost have to squint to look at the man.

“Put ‘er there, partner,” the man demands with his other hand outstretched. He pushes off against the wall and his gut shifts just enough to relieve his nearly popping shirt buttons.

You offer a confident hand in the assumption that he’s just impressed with either the product that you’re pitching or the presentation itself.

Your bang, bang shoot 'em up impulse fires. “What can I do ya for, hombre?” you ask.

If you can identify with the prospective customer, they’re more likely to buy the product that you’re pushing. They have a drawl? Adopt a faint drawl. They have an interest in football? You love football--even played in high school before you blew out your knee. A good salesman has, at least, a vague knowledge of a wide array of subjects.

He says, “I really liked the reality of your new game,” and tips his sparkling hat at you.

That’s when you pick up his overly applied musk. It reminds you of your grandfather. Conservative lessons never learned try to surface. You get that tip-of-the-tongue feeling. Better luck next season, champ.

“I tell you what,” he says. “I’m the purchasing manager at a Cabela’s franchise. I alone have the power to bring your game into our stock of merchandise. And your boss would like that, wouldn’t he?”

This man is good.

“Listen here. I know you have to do whatever it takes to sell something. And I have to make good investments, with good people." His face dares you to negate that. "I’ll keep our shelves stocked with your product and continue doing business with you fella’s if you go on a hunting trip with me.”

You’ve never been hunting. You’re a city boy with a degree in marketing. It doesn’t matter that you’ve never been hunting. The first thing they teach you in marketing school is customer loyalty. Impress the customer, and they will never look elsewhere for product.

“Sure,” you tell the man, “I’m game for anything.”

"Shoot. Long as you don't scare off my kill, I'll stick to picking' off only ten points and up," he says.

Your face drains to tail-white.

He slaps your back. "That was a joke, slick! You said game."

Another handshake. Don't forget to hold a firm squeeze--half so he knows you’re manly enough for his time, half so the power in his grip doesn’t require a visit with your doctor.

“Great!” He’s still shaking your hand vigorously. Then he stops. “I’ll have my people contact you and set it up. Oh, and don’ forget to dress warm. It get’s mighty cold up nort’ during these winters.”

The man leaves without even giving you his name. You’re a little awestruck, but not enough to panic. You’ve handled situations with which you weren’t familiar before. This will be easy, you tell yourself. You convince yourself, All I have to do is mimic him and I’ll be fine. This will be easy.

      ou finish packing your stuff and head back to your office to have a conference call with some clients in other states.

You have your secretary set up the trip with his secretary.

Fast-forward to next week.

He picks you up in his 1994 four-wheel-drive Bronco. The wheel wells are rusted and the paint is shit brown. The cab smells even stronger of his cheap musk. You can taste the stale cigar smoke. At least he smokes Cohibas. All that’s in the back is a cooler—the contents of which you’re unaware—a few guns, and camouflage hunting clothes. He tells you how the rest is already at the cabin.

The entire car ride up he’s telling you about his past hunting experiences:

“I got an eight-point buck.” Or, “The thing charged me with reckless abandon and I wrestled it to death.” Or, “I had to field dress and eat the bear right there just to wear its skin for warmth.” Or, “That time I almost didn’t make it out alive. Thank God for random fly-by searches.”

Make.

The.

Sale.

There’s no GPS in the car and the snow covered roads are winding. Lucky for you, the UP of Michigan has those vibration strips in the middle of the road so you know when you’ve gone too far. Whereas that used to be a warning sign that you’re about to crash, now it’s become a sign of relief that you’re not crashing. They don’t need them on the sides of the streets up there. No one drives too close to the side. Trees line the side. And if you crash up there, there’s a good chance that no one is going to find you for weeks. Three hours after you’ve left your tire tracks in the snow, it has snowed enough to cover them up again. Chances are that even if someone does pass your crash site, you’ll be buried in fresh powder.

After he’s told you all this, you decide to join him in the car-bar to clam your nerves. Imagine that. You. Nervous. And you make it a point of personal pride to never get nervous.

He tells you how bears aren’t uncommon up there. You know this. You took Hunter’s Safety when you were 15-years-old at the behest of your grandfather. Problem is, you're 43-years-old. Twenty-eight years is a lot of time to forget things that you don't constantly need to know.

The first day up there is spent drunk as can be, shooting into the woods for practice and playing whatever card games you can think of.Your discussions become belligerent after the first bottle of Jack Daniel’s is downed. He shows you his gun. New and shiny. It’s looking the game is more of a prophecy than anything.

Bottoms up.

So this is why hunting is so enjoyable, ‘ey?

You go to open the refrigerator to get another bottle of Jack. The entire thing is filled with liters. You move a few things around to see if there’s anything behind the bottles—only more Jack Daniel’s.

“Just grab the bottle and get back to the table,” he yells. He’s an experienced drinker. The words aren’t even slurred. “If yer lookin’ for food, it’s in the cooler. That’s what we brought it for. The fridge is for booze.”

You say, “Understandable,” and head back with a new bottle.

You both pass out at the table partway through the second bottle.

He’s up at the crack of dawn and knocking on your head like it’s a solid oak door. No help for your hangover. He slams a plate of eggs and bacon down in front of you along with some ibuprofen.

Help has arrived.

“Eat this,” he booms. “You’ll feel better in an hour. Start getting your gear on when you’re finished. We head out in forty-five minutes.”

“How are you even moving?” you question. “The sun’s barely even up.”

His answer? Practice.

It’s your first day out. He sets you up in your tree stand and makes sure you know how to operate the gun. No bitching aloud--that’s the rule you’ve created for yourself to help the sale go smoothly.

He leaves and your thoughts go wild with complaint. You can’t talk to yourself. If you do, the deer won’t come.

Thank God that this guy told you to dress warm. Thank God that he brought you extra equipment from his outfit of Cabela’s because he knew how you wouldn’t know what cold really was until you were actually in it. Hours on end. Without any hope of getting to the cabin, much less getting in until he comes to grab you at the end of the day.

Deer piss is on the ground. You can only think to yourself, What level is this going to be?

You hear a rustle in the bushes beneath you. This could be it, you think to yourself. There haven’t been any gunshots that you’ve heard in the distance. If you get the kill before Cowboy Dan can, the sale is made.  Just the thought of getting the kill and you can hardly contain your excitement. Breath deep—it helps to steady your aim.

The wet, black nose of a deer sticks out from the bush. Steady now, you don’t want to miss. You only get one shot. The bushes rustle in a different spot. It’s probably just a squirrel. You tell yourself to stay focused. You can already smell the iron from the blood as you imagine yourself field dressing it. You imagine the wild yelp of excitement as you drop this defenseless deer with only one shot. After all, it signifies what is probably a promotion.

The snout is there, in front of you, ready for the taking. Aim is steadied and finger is on the trigger, you’re ready for anything. That’s what you tell yourself.

Adrenaline takes hold as the snout pushes out a little farther from the bush. Then the second one. They’re looking for the origin, the deer that left the scent. Those snouts are too dark to be deer snouts.

That’s when it hits you.

The grizzly pokes its enormous head out of the bushes. Just the head is almost as big as your torso. The second one is even bigger. Heart drops. Body freezes. Hunter’s Safety teaches you that bears are expert climbers. Humans are average at best. The bears, they’re fifteen feet from the tree. You, you’re eighteen feet from the ground. That’s thirty-three feet in total. Can you shoot your single shot, bolt-action rifle accurately, reload, and repeat in the five seconds that Hunter’s Safety tells you that it takes a bear to close that distance?

“Taps” says, No. Your wife’s tears and black veil say, No.

That’s level eight.

Tyler Ford is a poet and writer who was was born in Albuquerque, NM. He's currently a first year creative writing student at UW-Milwaukee. This is his second publication- his poem 'MSSNG: the i' has appeared in Z-composition's June 2012 Issue, under the Poetry/Prose section.