The Game

PAUL. The Rook had been at F4 for a month. I'd checked the spam folder daily. You know, in case his e-mail had gotten lost in there. Malcolm never went more than two days without making a move. We'd been playing the game for six years and this... this never happened.

I spent two hours on the phone with a computer from Google, trying to track down Malcolm's phone number. When I finally reached someone -- under the pretense that my own e-mail was malfunctioning -- and a tech savvy geek from Mumbai starts rattling on about cookies, I begin a frantic explanation of the month's events. Or lack thereof.

He makes some imbecilic joke about Malcolm being the second coming of Bobby Fisher and I wonder how this jackass in Bangalore even knows who the fuck Bobby Fisher is, but I don't just wonder it, I say it. Out loud. And before I even realize that I've stopped thinking and started speaking, he hangs up and I've gotten absolutely nowhere.

I don't have the patience to sit on hold for another two hours, so I go directly to the library in search of all Sydney news papers. That's where Mal-kee's from. Syndey, (with a horrendous accent,) Austrayyyyylia, matey. (He laughs at his cleverness.) Anyway. I'm sitting at this tiny little cubicle, going through piles and piles of Australian obituaries.

Hey. You might think that's pessimistic, but you don't know Malcolm. A whiz like Mal-kee isn't just going to up and leave in the middle of a serious match like this one. And that bastard was only one move away from mating me. (Beat.) I've had a lot of time to analyze the board this past month.

And just when I'm about to give up, I find it. Right there. That picture is the one on his Google profile. I see it every time he sends me a move. (bad Aussie accent again,) "Hey, jackass. Knight to 3H. Bishop to 5B. Rook to F4." Carbon-monoxide poisoning. Suicide. Garage. Car. Pawn in right hand.

(Beat.)

Fuck.

(Beat.)

I put away the board last night. They'd been sitting out for a few weeks. I couldn't bare to do it. Hoping it was wrong. A mistake. Waiting for that "ping" the computer makes. Ping. Every time a message comes through. Ping. "Pawn to 4E." And I stood on the stool that rocks too much to stand on and just managed to get the box high up on the shelf. Tucked away. Hidden from view. Under an afghan my mother made one Christmas when I was still married to Susan. Malcolm let me win the week she left me. It was the only time I actually ever beat the prick.

(Beat.)

Carbon Monoxide.

(Beat.)

Shit.

(Beat.)

Checkmate.