Short Stories by R. Anthony H. Rock (Jan 2010)

“A Caribbean Christmas Story”

     Christmas occasions itself in many countries across the world in different climbs. This short tale occasions itself under the warmth of the Caribbean Sun, on a quiet island. Christmas is past here as it is done anywhere else, with well wishes, gift giving and good cheers from one and all, but it too, can be marred by the brutal reality.

Not all families have finances to reward each other at Christmas, neither do they have so diverse a selection of gifts, here life is more modest, simpler; where a word and a handshake still have meaning and carry veracity.

Standing on the pathway of a busy street corner, a young lad, fourteen years old; his unkempt hair showing the first tendrils of Dreadlocks, fashionably worn by the members of his peer group. His bright brown eyes sparkle with wonder. Christmas Eve is tonight and there'd be gifts to open on Christmas morning.
His clothes belie an informal upbringing; one could see the repairs in his clothes; well-worn and aged. Sewn and re-sewn, he lazed in that uniform; handed down to him from an older brother, now away at some University in the United States; an Athletic Scholarship or some such; awarded for his prowess in what came naturally; running.

The boy looks around hesitantly. Precautious he took tentative steps toward home. Beside him, the sparkle of Gold flecked khaki paint, pinned striped and lacquered; a bike he had made the final payment on. He would not ride it home, nor would he dare sit on it for any part of the distance; it was the gift for his father on Christmas. 43 weeks, every spare penny and dollar had been saved for this. He would wipe the dust of with a damp cloth; the tires too; it would gleam as the sun beamed through the windows on Christmas.

Earlier he had seen his nemesis, a schoolboy bully, rounding a corner across the street and get into a dilapidated vehicle. The rust barely holding onto the remains of paint, long faded door panels. It had gone that way. Away from him, but that was no consolation. The next turn was a Roundabout and could bring them back in minutes. It would be best to wait in the midst of the crowd, in safety.

At home, his Grandmother and mother prepared the evening meal, with light chatter of the evening's festivities and the morning, yet to come or how much joy would there be at dinner that night. All the favourites were ready; for Anton, there were Saltfish Bakes.

Anton’s next steps brought him to a small vendor’s door, where he stopped and looked around, in every direction; no sign of Victor or his cronies, the way seemed safe; he continued. Stopping next at every corner to observe, the way was clear, walking the bicycle; lifting it over the puddles and filth that were Market Street.

A few more blocks and he would be home, safe. He would hang the bike in the shed, in a dark corner, where his father wouldn’t see it. He walked confidently; his street loomed just ahead and home at the bottom of a low hill. Looking both ways; he lifted the bicycle onto his shoulder and stepped into the street.

A dilapidated Blue car screeched to a halt inches from him. Any contact, the injuries would have been fatal. He stood frozen. Stretching to reach from the window of the car was Victor, a devilish smile broadening across his face. Out of the passenger window he pointed a revolver at Anton. Rooted to the spot, where he’d stepped, stood Anton, bike on his shoulder.

People scurried about their business, getting out of harm's way; cared little of what they saw and less of what would transpire,. Victor stepped from the open car door, slamming it caused Rust and faded Paint chips to rain in the mud.

A few more minutes and he would have been home. Where had he let his guard down?
     “Where ya tink ya going in such a hurry, bwoy?” Victor inquired, waving the gun lazily through the air.
     “Home,” Anton’s reply. His stomach churned, butterflies readying themselves for flight.
     “M’, see you get me a bicycle for Christmas. No need to give it me tomorrow, m’ can take it right now.” Victor smile grew.
     “It’s for my father, not you.” Touched by courage scattered here and there, netting butterflies.
     “M’ say, the bike is mine 'n' m' take it now!” Victor pointed the gun directly between his eyes, Anton stiffened.

The weight on his shoulder eased, as the bike was lifted by the driver. Put in the car; Victor backed away, sat with a grin; as the car sped off. Anton watch only a few second, before giving chase. He closed the gap quickly and was a few steps from the bike sticking out of the trunk, when a horn sounded; he was forced to break off in oncoming traffic. The bus behind turned and followed the car as Anton stepped out of the street.

Anton reached out, caught hold of the bus as it passed; in continued pursuit. If only he could reach a wheel. He could pull it from the trunk. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Victor had the gun, what could he do. The bike and its owner turned the next corner and were gone from sight as the bus continued along its route.

Anton leaped off the bumper, turned towards home. He now travelled twice the distance measured before the encounter. This time, without a bike. Head down, walking slowly, discouraged and alone. People brushed passed, bumped him out of their way, he walked desperate in thought. Deep contemplation took each step. What would he, could he, give his father for Christmas? He had no money to buy another bike or any other gift.

Anton crossed a familiar street and looked up. He was at the Bike Store again. He’d just gotten the bike here; what seems hours ago. The bikes were arranged in rows out front, locked together. Bent over, an attendant assisted to a customer's needs, another purchased was being set free of its chain, then set to one side. The two, client and attendant stepped into the store to conclude their business.

Without thought to consequence, Anton hopped on the bike and pedalled away.

At home safe with no pursuit. He wiped down the frame, the tires, oiled the chain and hung the bike in the corner of the dark shed; closed the door and entered the house.
     “Hi Nan, hi mom, smells good…” he kissed both women, sniffed at pots, savoured the aromas, picked up a Saltfish bake; stuffed it into his mouth, thinking no one had seen him. Granny smiled and slapped his bottom with a wooden spoon.
     “Out of here…enough, wait for Dinner.”

He washed his face and hands, went to the room he shared with his uncle and older brother, which would be tonight. Robert Jr. would be home for Christmas. Had 9 months really passed so quickly? Uncle was out, so he was alone for a time. He went over the events of the last few minutes in his head. He was unsure. Had seen him ride off with the bike and hoped no one had. He could hear his grand-mother singing hymns in the kitchen. Her voice was always soothing to him.

Time passed quickly and dinner time neared. The clatter of dishes and cutlery said the table was being readied for dinner. He could hear voices in the other room; thought his uncle was home, possibly his father; the voiced were indiscernible as the door was closed.

There came a soft knock at the room door.
     “Anton?” That was granny's voice. “Are you in here?”
     “Yes,” Anton replied, and turned from his desk as Granny entered.
     “There is a Policeman here, looking for you…”
     “Me? Why me?” He had been caught, his body began to shiver, up and down the spine.
     “Something about a stolen Bike…”
     “Granny, I stole a bike today.” He relayed the details of the event to his Grandmother, leaving nothing out. The tears rolled down his cheek, as his confessed. She put her arm around him, consoled him.
     “Let me see what I can do…” she wiped his face. “…wait here.”

She left. He could be heard voices in the next room. The door flew open and his father entered, pipe streaming spilt a pleasant aroma into the room. A professor at the local college and well respected in the Province and on the Island.
     “What do you have to say for yourself young man?” The stern look sent streams of terror up and down Anton’s body.
     “Sorry dad…” he trailed off, unable to get the remaining words out.”
   “I had a strange phone call today, which tells me you have been up to no good.” Father grimaced; his name and reputation could be at stake, if this matter wasn’t cleared up soon.
     “What do you have to say for yourself?”

No words escaped Anton’s lips. He collapsed to the bed.

          “Well have you nothing to say?”

The screech of tires heard outside in the street brought a halt to interrogation. There was yelling and a loud bang and then there was screaming and more yelling. All that din outside, but father stood rooted to the spot where he first entered the room. A patient man, he waited for reply.
     “Robert, come out here,” Grandmother yelled. Robert was the first of her 5 children,  Anton’s father; head of the family since Grandfather’s passing the year before. It would remain a tight-knit family as long as Robert was in charge.

At the front of the house, the police had a young boy in handcuffs, while others searched another boy. One officer approached Robert, notepad in hand.
     “Are you the owner of this house?”
     “Yes,” he replied inquisitively. “Why, what has happened here?”
     “We trailed two boys here; found them attempting to breaking into a shed back there. They were described after a Store robbery earlier this afternoon. Some Bikes were stolen and one was found in your shed, another was recovered and we have reason to believe your son is the owner of one of the bikes seized. Can you shed any light on this situation?” The officer was detailed in describing the Bikes.
     “I have no idea what is going on. I have just returned from school.”
     “The Shopkeeper claims your son purchased a Bike earlier.” He pointing out a gold flecked khaki painted, pinned striped and lacquered bicycle leaned against the tree in the front yard.
     “Recovered from that boy, who had a gun.” He pointed.
     “I am still waiting for how this affect us.”
    "Well, one of these boys stole some Bike from a Bike Store this afternoon, just after your son purchased a Bike. Your son was seen on video riding a bike from the Store. Which is bike is difficult to tell from the surveillance video.
     “Yes, the Shopkeeper called me a short while ago. One moment.” He shouted, “Anton!”
     “Yes dad,” Anton said, still wiping tears as he approached.
     “What do you know about these Bikes?” Father’s stern glare fixed Anton to the spot.

Seeing Victor in handcuffs gave Anton courage. He stood up, no longer looking down; he met his father eyes and said.
     “I bought a bike for you for Christmas, to replace the old one you’ve been riding. Yours is old and rusting; I thought you would give the old one to me once you have the new one. I could fix the old one and ride it to school. On my way home, Victor took it from me. I chased them, but couldn't catch them…”

Before he could finish the tale, the officer interrupted.
     “Yes, that was reported as well. We will charge these boys with the Assault with... and Theft of both Bikes. Thank you son; you can have your Bike back.”

Anton beamed, did not take a single step towards the Bike, now just steps away, leaned against the tree. The officer turned, went over to a number of Patrol Cars and spoke with other officers; got in and left. The handle bars and the saddles protruding from their trunks as the vehicles departed.
     “Well Anton,” father said quietly, “Go get that bike and lock it in the shed.” He complied and went to his room, to await father’s decree of Punishment.

Dinner passed without incident in joviality and humour. Everyone at the table enjoyed the meal and the reunion of family, Robert Jr. was home, uncle sang and mother and granny had prepared a meal fit for the most excellent of Christmas Eve.

The joyful morning arrived, noisily with the crow of a rooster in the distance. The birds sang sweetly through an open window as the clatter of dishes and cutlery heard in the kitchen, descried Breakfast was being prepared.

Anton wash his face, brushed his teeth and dressed quickly, wanting to be the ready to open presents. He could smell the sweet aromas coming from the kitchen as he opened the door. It stirred his brother; he arrived late that evening.
     “You up already?” his brother whispered.
     “Hurry; there are presents to open…” Anton smiled, “…me first.”

Breakfast was spent much like dinner the night before, with joy and laughter. As Granny sang she readied herself for Church. Some presents were opened. There were gifts for all, exchanged, but for Anton, there was nothing from Dad. As he opened the last of the gifts Anton hugged and kissed each person. His father sat in his chair smoking his pipe, satisfied with the morning’s events. Anton looked at his father.
     “Merry Christmas dad,” kissed him on the cheek, turned to walk away.
     “Where do you think you’re going?” Father said smugly, taking the pipe from his lips. “I have something for you.”
     “Getting ready for Church. I'm going with Granny,” Anton said.
     “Come with me, we have to discuss last night…” Father rose and the two of them exited the room. As they approached the shed, father tossed Anton his keys, “Go ahead open it.”

Apprehension fought against anticipation; a stalemate. Had father had given Anton the old bike? He would not need to walk to school anymore. He unlocked the shed, threw wide the door. There stood two New Bikes of differing size; one for Father, one for Son.

     “Thank you dad. It is more than I wanted. Thank you very, very much.” Anton beamed. There in the shed, was the very bike he had stolen from the bike store.

       “Your Grandmother told me the Story last night. I am proud that you told the Truth. The Spirit of Christmas is not in giving or getting Gifts, but in the sharing of Truth. Granny told me how long you saved to buy a bike; I thought it best you have one of your own, so we can ride; together. Merry Christmas son.”

© copyright R Anthony H. Rock

Checkmate!

 

Checkmate!

(A Short Story based on True Events)

Ankle deep in browning slush; moving side to side to keep warm, hearing that squish and suction as the cold brown ooze covered my shoes. A leather coat wrapped tightly around me; cold winter wind howled fiercely its warnings, tore at my exposed face. The street corner was all but deserted; a drunk or was it two passed; begged change, I had none to give, so they moved on. I flapped my arm, a strange bird, stretching wings, never taking flight; shook chilled fingers prepared to play a nonexistent instrument, but replayed the game again. I had to play the game in my mind, he was not at his familiar post.

Today, student would defeat the master, it is inevitable. Every night with few exceptions, I had ventured to that corner, regardless; whether it was cold or windy, wet or sunny; fog or blizzard. I knew "he" would come; he always came, there were no exceptions. He would come; wheeled basket in tow. Here, he would set up several boards and sets of pieces. I'd watched him play; one, two, several games at once. He would win them all!

In a cold dark alley, an old man lay, curled on the ground, beneath wrinkled cardboard, his blankets against the elements. Beside him stood a wheeled bundle buggy; his belongings; his life and experience filtered, reduced down to a few bags and small boxes, all neatly stacked. A cold sleep, kept him grounded this night or was he ill? On the winter hardened concrete he lay, shivering, seeking that small area of respite in the back of his mind, where the elements could not reach him.

The wind increased, howled more fiercely, a layer of his shelter lifted then dropped back into place. He instinctively squeezed them tighter, a more foetal position. Slowly warmth trickled down his back, drew a small smirk across his face, he dreamed on. He sank deeper in that dark warmth, falling endlessly into darker corridors. Sleep. Eyes moved, back and forth, searching; seeking.

Checked my watch, now 11:00 pm, danced in place, warm the blood; play the game again. I was destined to beat him; maybe this time. No longer would I be one of the casualties. I had been an apprentice, his assistant, his pupil. He was reluctant to take me on at first, but I was persistent and respectful. That respect would always exist between us, even if I defeat him. Three years, almost; hours of countless instruction, game after game, unending; all under the master's tutelage. I would win tonight! Masters never loose and never teach all they knew. The constant battles fought and always lost.

I remember that first night; my late teens, hanging around after the bars had closed. Friends and I had taken off for the weekend. School was tedious, boring, we needed to let loose. We stumbled around a street corner, chess pieces bounded across the pavement. The old man in the worn woven red and black sweater, screamed. His accent, European, was barely recognizable.

We apologized; he stacked two milk crates, reset the board and pieces, and walked off, his mind already engaged in another game. Friends laughed and walked on, left me standing there. I'd see them at school tomorrow. I stayed, watched that old man, he walked in and out, between several stacks of crates, multi coloured, all setup for chess. At that instance, he was weaving through three games, three opponents, varying in age and skill.

He'd pause a moment, made his move, then on to the next game and so on. I watched, amazed. He won them all. Each challenger paid a dollar and he reset the boards. Six boards, all told with more crates for seats. I took a seat, waited to be noticed. On his approach, he laid down the rules and set a clock on the board.

I had all the time I needed to make my moves he would take three minutes. Three minutes was all he needed to defeat me. A single game, winner would gain a dollar from their opponent. I agreed and set my pieces in motion. I moved; he moved and so on till few pieces remained. Concentration takes time when pieces are few and prised, he walked away. Barely second had passed, I checked the clock. How could this be? I studied him, snaking through the crates, starting a game, ending a game, all with a flourish.

He stuffed another dollar in his pocket. He smelled; his beard was filled with crumbs; a meal long past. His hair hadn't seen a comb in some time and his clothes were in tatters; torn, and stained. He made a few more moves and all was done, I reluctantly gave him a dollar and he moved on after resetting the board. The chill on the breeze brought past to present. I'd returned several nights each week, to learn more from "this old man."

In a darkened hall, a single table accompanied two chairs; spotlighted by a single bright beam, its source unknown was not unusual for this sort of game. The table surface alternating squares reflected little of the glare. He'd like that; he would be able to concentrate. A game clock precisely placed to his right, just at the proper distance for quick reflex motion. The time set, 3 minutes, no more, no less. The sixteen pieces glowed, yet didn’t reflect the light.

Fingers moved instinctively, the pawn, an opening move. Felt for weight; unaccustomed to so elaborate a piece, replaced it on the board. The piece was intricately carved ivory, without the encumbrance of volume; smooth, unmarred, not a scratch; flawless. These were well kept pieces. A light bloomed off in the near distance, a figure entered, crossed the room; all other lights diminished. Silence, no footfalls, no heel click of shoe contacting ground; nothing could be heard. He sat opposed.

"The board was set. Begin the Game."

The old man placed a hand on the pawn he’d examined, slid it forward two squares and tapped the gold pin, start the tic; tic; tic, of the clock. In deafening silence, it mimicked the beats of his heart. 20 moves planned ahead at least, a grandmaster's master; he'd be victorious, surely. Many games had been played; against the best strategies, his worst could defeat them.

Never the thought that he would not emerged victorious. Besting the world's greatest players, there was no recognition or acclaim for his prowess. He could compose several victories, vanquishing opponents together or at one time. Playing the best they could, they were banished in less than three minutes. All...

Given all day to divine a winning stratagem to best this master, there came futility; he always triumphed; was always victorious. This opponent countered with unexpected moves; a rare gambit, yet accounted for with contingency. He played in rare form, he tap the clock pin. The two exchanged pieces, at times retreating; other times advancing. Both played aggressively, this savage, brutal game. His hand moved, lighting, from piece to pin, then the opponents, hand would flash.

Pawns moved forward cautiously, knights parried, lances at the ready. Bishops protected with angular attacks; while castles protected the King. The Queen dashed about, cutting a swath of destruction across the board. Pieces would fall, some unprotected, some not. Others were held in reserve; offence as defence or defence as offence, none knew.

The game advanced and withdrew time and time again. Each in turn, pressed forward. Strategies planned well in advance were executed and in turn countered. Advance, withdraw, advance, withdraw; the count of pieces in the board thinned. Fewer pieces on the board meant a greater chance for error.

"On went the game."

I moved from side to side, drumming, wiggled cold toes, ankle deep in the slush. I could go for coffee, warm up. The thought was banished in a clatter of teeth. I returned to the game in my head; setting aside the feeling of my toes. I made the next moves, confident, precise, in anticipation of his next move. I'd practiced within his time limit, focused on those three minutes. Each placement precise, he played into my hands. I would have him soon, I would be victorious.

"CHECK!"

The word rang out; hung in air, driven silent by the bang of the clock pin. Tic and Toc grew louder. The opponent looked up; no visible face within that darkened cowl, no eyes to belie intent; no countenance to evoke emotion; just the silhouette.

Emptiness darker than any background swallowed any light that drew near from the playing surface. It seemed an eternity had passed, the clock ticked; time marched slowly past, the game had reached climax. Victory or vanquished; the finale would be chosen in the next few moments. Heart beats quickened, he made the next move.

A smile, it snaked across my face; I had him now. The master was about to be defeated, I had played honourably, valiantly, courageously. I'd built those highways and bi-ways, he'd taught me. My pieces moved about freely. A few more moves would herald my first victory. The master always won.

"If you await his move, to make yours, he's already won. Think ahead; play the game in your head, out think your opponent there. If you've planned far enough ahead, victory will be at hand. Never second guess yourself; the first option is usually the correct one, other possibilities may prove fatal to your plans." I still hear his voice ringing in my ears.

The opponent raised a black robed hand, it absorbed the light. He'd not noticed that before, when the game was in earnest. He was so deep in concentration and planning ahead. The "Check" resonated still; hung in the air, still. Surrounded in the throbs of the clock, seconds moved as minutes. That hand moved the next piece. That robed hand glided closer to him. He watched the board and his positioned pieces. Little, but the black robe could be seen. What was he up to? He waited for the shadow to recede, watched it fade.

 "CHECKMATE!"

The word peeled loudly; a bell, it roared. He had been assured of this victory. The word circled his mind. Victory had been snatched from him in the last moment. There sat the King with a vulnerable flank. There the opponent's Queen stood two squares away and no protection for the King. He bowed, graciously. Beaten by a grandmaster, He lifted the clock. Wondered, how long had they played.

Shock and surprise marred his kind, elderly face. The clock had no face; on opposing points, two bold words; "Life" and "Death", on its front and a metronome arm had moved back and forth betwixt them. The arm had stopped now; stationary. He looked up at his opponent, smiled, his warm smile. Warmth flowed through him.

I hung my head, shamed; I had not seen it coming. The game should have been mine. I started to play it again in my head. Each move again, precise, I had made no mistakes. Where was my error? Where was the weakness?

In a cold dark alley, an old man lays still upon the pavement. A smile etched his face. His long grey beard stiff, solid with ice or had rigor had set there too. His hair fragile to touch broke in places. He had never been late for an important game. He would play any opponent and he always wins. He had never been beaten.

I looked at my watch again, 1:32 am. Time hadn't moved quickly, crawling by in this freezing cold. I would wait another 20 minutes, then take the 2 hr trip home. The Master was never late, never for an important game. I was his best students; our games would go, on and on. I was allowed to play for free, when others paid for the privilege to lose at his hand. Few were worthy of his teachings and many would ask, only to be refused. Inside, I was not worthy; he'd wasted his time and talent on me.

The following morning, school as usual. Another day, followed by "the Chess Club", and then home to dinner. My father sat watching the News. The voice on the television droned on, as I entered. The night’s news erupted reverie. From a report from a local scene, the voice droned, “…homeless old man had been found frozen, had died during the night. He was sometimes seen on the corner of Yonge and Gould Streets in Toronto, Ontario. The old hermit was known to play chess frequently in the downtown area. Anyone knowing of or the whereabouts of next of kin please contact...."

The words trailed off in the distance as I staggered up the stairs. Sadness fought terror for control of emotion. A slipped step brought clarity. I had waited for him, almost 3 hrs; well passed 2:30 am. Caught the very last bus home; played that game over and over in my head. I'd waited and he never arrived. I would never be able play him again. I would never beat him. The master had never lost a game.

I still go down to that corner from time to time. There stands a monolith, engraved. It designates the corner, a chess corner. There is no mention of the old man; no mention that he'd played everyday for more than four years. No mention that he'd broken the Guinness record for playing chess. Too few even recall him playing or his existence.

Playing chess was the way he made his living. How many would challenge? How many would pay? They all paid his price. He taught me the game. He was the best the world had, played the world’s best and won. He knew their game better than they did. He played everyday and night for over four years; unrecognized by the media; not heralded in any record books for his feats. He was just a lonely old homeless man, who vanquished everyone.

“The kill as you go, gambit, on a chessboard.” I will miss him, more than anyone will know; chess was life to him. The passion for the game was given me by the CHESSMASTER, "Joe Smoley."

The Municipal Government placed cement Chess-boards there, which were moved in the spring of 2002. Joe died during the 80's, and those cement tables and seats went up three or four years later. A small placard acclaims and designations to some unknown person.

I would stop, play a game or two, but never will there be the challenge. The challenge I had with Joe. The games are boring and simple. Those who play now don't remember that corner the way I do. Many of them are drug dealers, street people, addicts or just hanging around. None of them are worthy of a good game.

The Chess Board Tables have been moved to the front of a Church on Queen Street. There, a lot of unsavoury people that hang out. It doesn't look like they will get much use there either. Sorry Joe, they won’t learn the game the way you played it. I'll miss you. The master never lost a game.

In fond Memory of "Joe Smoley;" the greatest Canadian Chess player, I've ever known; shunned by the greatest city in Canada. He and I played the best games.

"THE KILL AS YOU GO, GAMBIT"

Written by R. Anthony H. Rock, On November 14^th 1999.

Revised on May 12th 2003. 

This Original Short Story won 2^nd Prize in the Ve'havta / Na Me Res. Street People Short Story Contest.

© copyright R Anthony H. Rock