Читать книгу Hidden Wheel - Michael T. Fournier - Страница 5
ОглавлениеChapter One
Lou Schwartz: The best player got the best table, closest to the door. All those nice pastry smells whenever someone came or went.
Luna Vallejo: The player at the end table had cars driving by, and the canopy didn’t cover it. Some nights it was hard to see through the fog.
Lewis Brinkman: Parents brought their kids, hoping they had the next Bobby Fischer on their hands.
Ralph O’Keefe: It was usually me, down the end. I had to play those little shits. I hate kids, did I mention that?
Lou Schwartz: I used to give Ralph such a hard time. ‘The Demolisher,’ that’s what I called him.
Luna Vallejo: Ralph was the one who made the kids cry. I think he enjoyed it.
Lou Schwartz: I used to ask him if he liked taking their ice cream, too.
Ralph O’Keefe: Schwartz is a prick. You can tell him. I don’t care.
Sven Gunsen: Movies about chess brought them, one or two a week. Magazine articles, less.
Lewis Brinkman: I don’t watch TV. I always knew they’d be coming when a chess movie was reviewed in the Times.
Ralph O’Keefe: Brinkman didn’t have to deal with any of it. None of the fucking kids. He was the best.
Luna Vallejo: The only one who ever beat Ralph was the girl. And she beat everybody, eventually, using Brinkman’s lessons.
Lou Schwartz: Ralph was so embarrassed to lose to her.
Sven Gunsen: I can’t remember a child ever beating one of us until Rhonda came. Of course I felt bad for Ralph. But he was such a sore loser.
Ralph O’Keefe: An eight-year-old girl beat me at chess. Of course I was mad. It didn’t help that Schwartz was there, making fun of me.
Lou Schwartz: ‘The Demolished,’ I called him.
Luna Vallejo: If [O’Keefe] had a sense of humor about it Schwartz would’ve stopped.
Lou Schwartz: I knew it pissed him off, so I kept at it.
Ralph O’Keefe: She asked me if I wanted to play again. I was livid.
Luna Vallejo: Ralph was caught by surprise that first game, so he slowed the pace. I could’ve told her it was coming.
Sven Gunsen: He didn’t have the natural ability that some of us have. He learned by playing many, many games, rather than having something like we do.
Lou Schwartz: He didn’t have sight.
Ralph O’Keefe: I was always good at counting games—bridge, whist. She started her attack on the fifth. So I started playing defensively on the sixth move of the second game.
Lewis Brinkman: He aligned his pieces into defensive positions early in that game. And the little girl knew what he was doing.
Lou Schwartz: I laughed so hard: “Is that the Grunfeld Defense, mister?”
Ralph O’Keefe: I could’ve killed Schwartz. He doesn’t know when to shut his mouth.
Luna Vallejo: She knew the defense he was using, but couldn’t play through it. No one had ever told her how to attack a defense like that. My game is very strong against defenses. I never had a chance to talk to her about it.
Stan Barrett: When we played at home, I followed the diagrams as best I could—it was the only way I could compete with her. She looked through the library books I brought home and memorized the position maps.
Ralph O’Keefe: She was only eight. She got tired.
Stan Barrett: I never offered her any real competition. I ran from her attacks for as long as I could.
Ralph O’Keefe: Once she started to lose focus I went after her. I wasn’t going to lose agin.
Lou Schwartz: What a jerk, beating up on a little girl like that.
Sven Gunsen: He launched his offensive when her attention waned.
Lou Schwartz: It was brutal. She cried.
Stan Barrett: That was the first time she had ever lost.
Ralph O’Keefe: She wasn’t the first I made cry, I’ll tell you that.
Lewis Brinkman: When she said she wanted to play again through her tears I knew that we had something.
* * *
I got lucky honestly if the cop who gave me a ticket had any idea who I was he woulda hauled me in my shit is everywhere sketchbooks full plus the busted Dovestail shows I was just walking down to the Dingo to get a beer when he made me empty my pockets all he found was the marker I played it like I was new that night was two lampposts the guy bought it like I said he wasn’t a graf cop because if he was he would’ve realized my style dragged me in instead of writing me some ticket for eighty-five bucks I paid in cash the next day1. Not that I minded it could’ve been a lot worse some guys go to jail but if it happens walking down to the Dingo it can happen when I’ve got my gasmask bag full of cans probably will only a matter of time starting to get the biz up off the ground old to be tagging anyway a young man’s game so I was like all right next generation I mean everyone knows that even bad press is good if I got arrested it’d probably bump my street cred you know “local man on vandalism charges” noobs would be like whoa dude is legit but they should know anyway if they don’t fuck them. I’m legit. Seriously fucking legit. The thing is that I had all this paint tons of nozzles what a waste to not use them. I could’ve given it away maybe left it down in the ’yard but it didn’t feel right. I’d make the transition except canvas is expensive I can’t get it under my shirt so big it was like what the hell am I gonna do next until this one night I’m out walking around after the Dingo I passed this construction site black tarps ziptied behind a chainlink made me wonder what was hiding I walked around until I found a hole looked in there was a foundation a bunch of trash nothing hiding except a big pile of wood. This is like a quarter of a mile from Dovestail that new corner gas station. The gate was shut but the chain was so loose I could squeeze through I went in dragged two sheets of plywood under the chain one at a time I was like no problem two sheets but the shit is heavy one and bulky two too wide to get a piece under my arm I looked around for a wheelbarrow but couldn’t find one I tried to balance both pieces on my head like I was some third world woman bringing grain back to the village or whatever. I always wondered how they do that. But they were too heavy I had to leave one piece there put one on my head and started walking down neck killing me suffering for my art right around the corner a shopping cart I thought hey this might work I got the one piece in there at an angle it was fine enough room for another I dragged the second piece back and got it in no problem pushed the cart down the street the front left wheel wouldn’t turn it locked at an angle I had to push the cart to the right to make it go straight. The fastest way back to Dovestail was down the main drag but the fog wasn’t that heavy besides it refracts streetlight worried they’d see me with two pieces of plywood in a busted shopping cart they’d be like this guy is shopping at the midnight lumber store bam! slap some big charge on me search my place find the cans especially the sketchbooks which I burned by the way you’ll never catch me now copper so I took the back way. Nothing wrong with those places. You know some—
Hey.
What?
This is, you know, for a book.
Sorry. What was I talking about?
The back way. With the, you know, shopping cart.
Oh yeah. Sorry. Bernie knew some of those guys. You can edit this, right?
Right.
Bernie knew some of those guys before he started catalogues especially Amy she’s been at that place for years even speaks it a little and the ladies I hear the ladies are fucking dirty two three guys at a time you name it. Crazy dirty. Damn. The blacktop was all chewed up impossible no one ever even bikes down there it wasn’t bad at first pushing my shopping cart those people know how to party man just got done with their shifts almost two in the morning right they’re all yelling playing music ba ba ba ba ba hey! I tried push down the road fucking wheel pothole the wood like a sail for assholes I hear laughing they start yelling stuff I don’t know what they’re saying thing is I don’t need to the words I know they’re calling me a fuckhead or something seriously if I had gone maybe one street behind the pavement would be the same but at least there wouldn’t be porches full of fucking Brazilians on both sides just done with their restaurant shift laughing yelling there’s warehouse on the street behind on one side it wouldn’t be like stereo insults but I don’t care I don’t care I smile it’s dark they can’t see me anyway probably just a silhouette through the fog I wave instead like if I had a hat I’d take it off tip it for them they all laugh some more the shopping cart keeps bucking to the left plywood I hear clapping laughing the music ba ba ba ba ba hey! They’re okay.
* * *
Lynch asked Ben if he wanted to come along. That was how it started. Mostly because it sounded so unbelievable. He could’ve changed his name, if it bothered him, but it didn’t. Not exactly. Getting things done was easier, but only among the gladhanders and turkeynecks in his father’s circle. Regular people had no idea.
Artists had no idea.
Ben’s gym bag, in the trunk, held five thousand dollars.
So they drove in shifts, that first time, slept, and drove some more. It was exactly as Lynch described it: a small line of cars at nine o’clock sharp. Each stopped at a black pickup truck blocking the road. A man in an USF cap stuck his head through the open window.
Open your trunk. Open your glove compartment. Get out of the car.
He recognizes me, Lynch said.
How can you tell?
He didn’t point the rifle at me.
Lynch popped the trunk. They both stepped out. Two frowning men with rifles standing next to the pickup walked over as USF man patted them down. Ben’s heart raced. Lynch had told him over and over again about it, how technically it was sovereign, the cops were paid off, vacuum sealed, the scent and warmth to calm you, completely safe. He smelled rifle oil as sweat trickled down his back.
Fine.
Get back in.
They did. Ben watched one of the riflemen deposit the gym bag in the pickup’s cab. The other lifted a large box from the payload and walked, passenger side, to the rear of Lynch’s car. The open trunk obscured Ben’s vision. He heard a thump and felt the car bounce. Then a slam, and rearview vision returned.
The USF man held a white bag through the window. Ben took it. It was warm to his touch.
Go.
Lynch turned and drove away. The smell of fresh bread filled the car as Ben closed his window. Lynch had been right; it was calming. So much so that he almost forgot about the box in the trunk.
In the years since, the three maintained the same brisk tone, though Ben never again saw their rifles up close.
The boxes varied: IKEA, Target, Bed Bath And Beyond. Scentless, vacuum-sealed, maybe three times a year. Never quantity. Just enough to make connections. The perfect entrance to a new town.
* * *
It had been nine days.
I stood in front of the door with the passcode email printed on a sheet of computer paper. The email instructed me to punch five digits into the doorknob keypad, followed by the pound sign. So I did. I heard a click, and turned the knob.
Drab linoleum on the floor, scuffed, a fire extinguisher bolted to one wall. A brushed steel tank against one wall, plastered with ‘hazardous’ stickers.
I followed the hallway at the end of the room down to a small ledge in front of a sliding window. I whacked the ‘ding for service’ bell sitting on the ledge.
A woman rolled into view.
She pulled down her blue mask—she was Chinese, I think, maybe Korean—and asked if she could help me. I told her my name and appointment time. I was four minutes early.
She handed me a clipboard and pen.
There’s a reception area down the hall, she said. Return this to me when you’re finished.
I walked nine steps past the window, further down the hall. The reception area had a few chairs around a table roughly the size of a Frisbee, littered with sports and men’s lifestyle magazines. A plant that felt fake to my touch2 rested on a square table in the corner. The plant was surrounded with brochures. Good layout—whoever put it together had a nice eye for fonts and colors.
‘When you make it big,’ it read, ‘we make it big.’
The first four and a half questionnaire pages were simple. I answered with checkmarks. No, I was not taking any medication. No to alcohol. No recreational drug use. I didn’t think secondhand smoke from Amy counted. Yes, I attended a four-year college. No history of cancer in my family.
Then to the short answer section: life goals, aspirations.
I paused to consider my answer for ‘life goals.’ Making my living playing drums didn’t seem like it’d work. But it was what I wanted. And the best way to make such a living was to get a kit that didn’t rattle with every snare hit. Which is why I applied.
My life goal, I wrote, is to become a professional percussionist.
The Asian lady was sitting at the window when I return. I handed her the clipboard, questionnaire and pen through the window.
I felt uncomfortable as she scanned my answers. My hand started to shake.
She spun the clipboard towards me and pointed with a fat finger.
This one, she said. I looked down. She was pointing at the alcohol question.
Not even at parties?
I shook my head. Not even at parties, I repeated.
She scanned the rest of my answers. You don’t look like a drummer, she said.
I was wearing one of my pairs of grey workpants, and a white t-shirt I ironed the night before.
Maybe not, I said.
She put the clipboard into a standing file.
Okay. We’ll call you. Probably two weeks.
Don’t I have to—
She laughed. Maybe next time.
* * *
When I saw him pass the window I wanted it right away. I slammed my laptop shut ran outside followed him down State to make sure if he went down to the river it was all mine I thought of showing up at parties everyone looking at me being like whoah Max! but there was chance this guy already got it it was his if he’s not going to the river so I had to find out. I wanted him to walk through the intersection of State and Webster then cross Riverside to the pedestrian path3 and river. It was the first day all year I left home without bringing a jacket or sweatshirt for later the fog lifted made it cold clear sunny wearing my orange reflector vest over a grey buttondown fluorescent yellow strips over my jeans. Since it was getting nice people thought biker which never happened in the winter. So I had to follow the guy. Blogging was important daily bread all that but being outside in the nice weather was good girls wearing shorts and haltertops walking down the sidewalk I would’ve missed some of them if I was still in the coffeehouse staring at a screen. The guy walking away me following him rod bobbing with each step checking out ladies.
Maddie walked up the sidewalk with a thirty rack of cans balanced on one shoulder. She’s great and all but I didn’t wanna lose my man I pushed over to the far side hoped that the thirty rack would block her view of me but it didn’t work because she saw me off to the side was all hey Max wassup. Shit. She put the thirty down on the sidewalk which meant we had to talk for a few minutes which wasn’t so bad but the guy kept walking down the sidewalk I didn’t want to lose him but had to talk to Maddie for a minute. She said she’d been looking for my tags I said I had a run-in with this cop so I’m experimenting with new mediums prior arrests and shit she’s like oh that’s cool I asked if she was still doing courier work yeah she said I see Crank4 a lot she didn’t mention playing with Louis maybe because he was my roommate but probably because he was leaving Pee Valves it was supposed to be a secret he didn’t get along with Eli any more Louis wanted more mathrock down the street the guy almost disappeared he wasn’t walking that fast I thought should be able to catch up she said how’s business I told her good that I was usually at Caffiend during the day drinking coffee blogging lots of clients people walking on the sidewalk I couldn’t see him anymore if I lost him then I’d never know but the look was so good worth a try I thought about showing up at a party everyone being like Max, you look just like that guy over there how my perfect run would be over because I stopped to talk to Maddie. I told her I was late for an appointment she said oh okay I was just headed to practice anyway she smiled said goodbye maybe it’s not a secret practice she said I started back down towards the river but couldn’t help but turn my head backwards to check her out as she was picking up the thirty rack. Awesome ass.
The sidewalk was full of people more than usual it was so nice out faster to walk on the street. I sidewalked between two bumpers out to the road cars looked like they’d hit me I didn’t think they would hoped not I had to pay attention to the people walking to see where he went. I jogged and jogged people must’ve thought I was a jogger at first but I was wearing jeans and a button-up I’d have to be a fucking stupid jogger to jog like that especially on a nice day. I passed parked cars one guy driving by honked his SUV at me normally I’d be like fuck off asshole but I was still looking at the sidewalk and jogged and jogged.
And there he was.
I stopped sweat on my back. I shinned between two parked cars like a hundred feet behind the guy again. I thought maybe he’d take either a left or a right onto Webster which might mean not the river terrible but maybe just a burrito or something I decided to follow him even if he did take a left or a right just to make sure. He didn’t he stopped at the intersection pushed the walk signal button he crossed the street which I thought meant the river I hoped so I wondered where to get a vest and a hat like his. I hung back got a free weekly from the red paperbox chained to a lamppost flipped through didn’t read a word waited for the little white man to light up he did. He crossed the street I did too.
Another block down to the river. The reflectors were for the winter before that it was Velcro but everyone jumped that train they always do with me pants with Velcro flies Velcro shirts especially Velcro shoes went up so much that it priced me out besides, I was there first anyway. Everyone knew it. Everyone knew I was first in Velcro. The reflectors weren’t as good but I needed something else while I was waiting for inspiration to strike. Perfect in a way because the whole thing is accessories with the right hat box vest rod especially anything in the closet worked no overhaul except for ads shirts with ducks on them shit like that. Shorts okay for hot weather and then for the winter pants I wondered about the winter though because if there were all those things on the vest what are they called I can’t remember the hooks might catch the inside of my jacket and tear it all up so I thought I’m going to need two vests summer and winter or move those things lures! lures to my hat. The white man lit when he got to the next intersection and he crossed I waited until it started blinking red before I crossed I didn’t want to get too close then I crossed on the riverwalk really nice the grass mowed I smelled it he walked along the river me behind him. Joggers jogged by I like sportsbras a few gave me strange looks hopefully because I was reflecting not jogging.
He sat down next to a tree and put his rod down on the ground and opened his box and took out something I couldn’t see because I was too far away put something on a hook probably worms or bugs I haven’t fished since I was like eight cast into the river I was so happy he was fishing not just dressing like going fishing it meant I’d be the first guy to get that look and everyone would say Max has done it again. People forget I was first. I was the first fisherman I had it way before any of those other guys stole it from my shoot.
* * *
Ben thought JR’s—thirty years of hamburger patties, cigarette burns on the wall carpeting, poles obstructing sight lines—was better suited to be a venue than The Kensington’s tiny basement, with its pitiful (though box-fresh) PA system and newly paneled walls. Dingier was better, but neither place worked well.
The other option was the Dingo. It had the same gritty authenticity as JR’s, minus the hamburger smell. None of the bar’s patrons—a mix of artists and workers from the remaining mills—could remember the side room ever being used to put on shows.
Establishing that credential would matter in both the short- and long-term.
* * *
Lewis Brinkman: Rhonda was a special case, obviously.
Luna Vallejo: I played at that coffeehouse for years. Never before did I see Brinkman take such an interest in a child. She spent almost no time with me.
Sven Gunsen: Brinkman was very by-the-book. Which is why we were surprised when he started playing with her.
Ralph O’Keefe: I played them all first, usually. What a pervert.
Lou Schwartz: Would a father knowingly put his daughter in a potentially harmful situation? I don’t think so. But look how she turned out.
Lewis Brinkman: I watched her play O’Keefe and Schwartz with great interest. Some of the moves she made early established her endgame. A fascinating mind.
Lou Schwartz: She beat me the first time we played. Then I slowed it down, like O’Keefe did, and beat her.
Luna Vallejo: She didn’t realize that her play had a predictable pattern. I could’ve told her.
Lewis Brinkman: I began to play her every week.
Ralph O’Keefe: The way he looked at her. Jeez.
Lou Schwartz: I never saw it before, the fast track like that. Even Brinkman had to work his way up.
Luna Vallejo: Brinkman had been there since I started playing. There used to be a Japanese man before him, a retired conductor. I never met him, or played with him. Brinkman probably learned a lot from him.
Sven Gunsen: Brinkman told me he had taken the place of Takahashi. A composer.
Lou Schwartz: (Brinkman) was always interested in the ways people saw the board. O’Keefe couldn’t really see. He had a mathematical perspective. And me, I could only see a few moves ahead at a time. That’s probably why everyone thinks she was so special. She had sight.
Lewis Brinkman: Her endgame moves were sophisticated and far-spanning.
Stan Barrett: She told me she could see the now and the later.
Lewis Brinkman: It became obvious to me, as we played, that the depth and breadth of her vision had world-class potential.
Stan Barrett: This was a man who had played a lot of chess.
Luna Vallejo: He had ranking before he retired.
Lou Schwartz: It was all rumor before the internet.
Ralph O’Keefe: I looked him up online. He was a great, great player. One of the hundred best in the world, at one point.
Lewis Brinkman: I don’t like to talk about my past.
Sven Gunsen: A humble man. There were stories underneath his exterior, but he never let those stories surface.
Rhonda Barrett: His wife and daughter were killed in a car accident.
* * *
8:00 AM: Wake up. Push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups. Masturbate (weekends only, upon acceptance).
8:30 AM: Shower, get dressed.
8:45 AM: Breakfast. Coffee (new or reheated), yogurt, granola.
9:00 AM: Journal.
9:30 AM: Work. Pamphlets, newsletters, catalogues.
Noon: Lunch. Hummus, pita, carrots, celery.
12:30 PM: Work. Pamphlets, newsletters, catalogues.
4:00 PM: Bike to practice space.
4:15 PM: Warmups
4:30 PM: Drums.
Band practice days:
4:30 PM: Jam
5:00 PM: New Material
5:30 PM: Set run-through
Non-practice days:
4:30 PM: Rudiments
5:30 PM: Set run-through
6:30 PM: Bike to apartment.
6:50 PM: Dinner. Fish or tofu, rice, steamed vegetables.
7:30 PM: Read. Philosophy, economics, criticism.
9:00 PM: Unscheduled free time: socializing, etc.
Midnight: Bed.
* * *
Everybody had phones whenever I took the bus anyplace people always talking ten different conversations when I’m on the bus I want to read a magazine people talking to each other are okay when I can hear both ends it’s easy to blot them out with phones just the one side makes it worse can’t tell when’s next waiting for the other shoe impossible to read. At Dovestail we always had a landline5 easier that way if you weren’t home people couldn’t get in touch with you besides everyone looked so fucking dumb walking around with phones but I held out. Everyone knows I held out the longest anyway. Then Louis got this girlfriend she called and called all the time like seven in the morning three in the morning six in the morning I asked him to shut the ringer off or maybe get a new girlfriend he got all mad and said she needs me this is after like two months right when Bernie moved out such a great roommate we never had any issues his dad though. Jesus I shouldn’t be talking about this man I’m sorry.
No. Go on.
Are you sure?
Go on.
He was trying to streamline minimalize right when he started reading Ayn Rand playing drums said he wanted to get serious about being effective it was like okay good luck with that Louis he was a great roommate too real quiet which is funny because he always wandered back and forth on the stage stamping his feet like he was trying to bust through. Stomp stomp stomp. Stomp stomp stomp! Hey man what’s wrong you look like something’s bugging you did I say something?
I remember the stomping. Sorry. Keep going.
Anyway he said she needs me I need sleep I said I can’t with the phone ringing all the time he said I love her I said maybe you should love her with the ringer off he got all mad then two days later he got a cell phone I’m not paying for the landline any more he said. I asked him how much it cost he told me it wasn’t that different from having a landline just a few bucks more long distance was free a phone was too. A free phone! So I got my first phone for free a piece of shit that barely worked after I dropped it walking back from the Dingo when everyone else was on like their third or fourth phone so when I got my second one which wasn’t too long ago I got one with a camera in it. I was like whoah there’s a camera in my phone it makes sense when you think about it but in a lot of ways it makes none if I told the guy who was me when I was eighteen there was a camera in his phone he’d say maybe you can put a tape recorder6 in your doorbell or something like that he’d be right.
* * *
The Dingo Concert Series, a name he imagined before he booked a single band there, lasted one show.
Internet searches yielded the Pee Valves, a three piece alternating between feedback-drenched pop and complex songs which Ben thought willfully obtuse, and Stonecipher, a duo consisting of a girl on bass and a skinny bespectacled man in white behind the drums.
The Pee Valves headlined. Their bass player Louis’ pacing stomps shook glasses on tables at the front of room, near the windows. They played all of two songs before a scuffle broke out in the back.
As time passed, the number of people who claimed to have been at the Dingo that evening swelled7: Max Caughin, who introduced himself to Ben before the show, had started the scuffle, planting two hands firmly on the press jockey who dared make fun of Max’s carefully assembled vintage Velcro outfit and heaving with all his might. Said jockey, caught off-guard by the push, fell backwards, arms windmilling, onto the pool table, sending a shower of ‘next game’ quarters and half-empty pint glasses onto the battered woodtile floor. Max smelled like a huffer, but had too much energy. Was he on speed? Pills? Something didn’t add up.
And Stonecipher!
They were terrible.
The drummer never played the beat, not once. And the bass player, the girl, pounded away at her strings with her fist, yelling into the microphone. The room’s sound was awful—he was not asked to return; no big loss from an audience standpoint—so discerning lyrics was difficult. He wasn’t sure there were any, so much as there were utterances sandwiched by growls: “mouthbreather” and “second and long” and “I’m not a people person.” Songs began and ended seemingly on their own accord, with no structure discernable amidst the rumble. He had been mesmerized by the five or six fans in the front, fists raised, banging their heads to nothing.
The duo loaded their gear into the back of a battered Nova parked in the rear lot. He asked if they wanted to smoke.
I’m all set, the drummer in white said.
Day shift tomorrow, the girl said as she hipped her amp into the Nova’s trunk. Thanks, though.
Ben produced a quarter from his khakis and handed it to her, along with fifty dollars.
What’s this?
A sample, he said, of what’s available. And your take of the door.
She opened and sniffed. What is this?
The particular varietal I have today has no name per se, as it is my standard. On occasion, however, gourmet mircobatches become available.
Amy opened the bag and inhaled deeply. This is standard?
Ben nodded.
Is this like a hundred grand an eighth?
Forty-five, Ben said. Eighty for a quarter.
That’s cheap, Amy said.
Quantity, Ben replied. At any rate, thank you for playing the show this evening. I will be in touch regarding future performances. And please, don’t hesitate to contact me.
* * *
(Excerpted from ArtScene magazine/pulsestream 29.6, August 2037. Used with permission.8)
ArtScene: Your early history has been the subject of much scrutiny—
Rhonda Barrett: It certainly has. (laughter)
AS: —but outside the confines of the chess community, I haven’t seen much discussion of your particular vision. 9
RB: The way I saw the board?
AS: Yes. Your mentor, Lewis Brinkman, has discussed your predictive chess ability in interviews, but in the course of doing research for this discussion today, I wasn’t able to find anything from your perspective.
RB: My father brought home a combination checkers/chessboard when I was eight. Of course, I was thoroughly disinterested in checkers. To win, you don’t move the pieces in the back, eliminating your opponent’s ability to be kinged. It took me all of three games to figure it out.
AS: Did you have checkers sight?
RB: No.
AS: You were able to figure it out on your own?
RB: It’s not hard.
AS: Of course. So, moving on, you began to play chess because you didn’t like checkers?
RB: That’s right. I liked the way the pieces looked—horses and castles and queens were far more appealing to me than stacks of same-looking chips.
AS: When did your sight first manifest itself?
RB: My very first game. My father explained how each piece moved, starting with the pawns. From then on, I could see a nexus of possibility attached to each one.
AS: Lewis Brinkman has used that word in past interviews, nexus.
RB: I didn’t have the vocabulary to explain what I was seeing at first, so I described each nexus as a maybe-crash: Maybe the pieces would crash. Maybe not.
AS: That’s not a bad description.
RB: As my father continued to explain all of the pieces and how they moved, each successive piece grew its own nexus.
AS: What did the chessboard look like once you knew how each piece moved?
RB: It was a glowing grid, full of possible trajectories and nexes. When I began to play, with my father, it wasn’t hard for me to keep track of the game because Dad didn’t have skills.
AS: He was not a worthy opponent.
RB: Exactly. He took books out of the library and learned openings, then showed them to me on the board. He was helpful in that way. He did the best he could, and I did learn names and strategies from him. But in a normal game I could beat him easily.
AS: Was he embarrassed?
RB: I don’t remember him ever expressing any [embarrassment].
AS: How long did you play with your father?
RB: He and I worked on openings and endgames until I quit.
AS: Perhaps I should rephrase the question: how much time passed between your first game and introduction to Lewis Brinkman?
RB: Probably three months. I found out later that Dad—my father spent some time at Le Petit Chapeau before he brought me. He wanted to make sure the people could be trusted.
AS: Do you know what made him decide?
RB: There was a woman who played chess there when I started. Luna Vallejo. My father told me he thought people who played chess in front of coffeehouses were either hustlers or homeless. He was surprised that there was a woman there.
AS: Do you think of her as a role model?
RB: Why would I? I beat her.
* * *
Amy was never late.
I agreed to move into Nine Northbrook to increase our efficiency. The little room in the basement packed with musty mattresses and filthy strips of old carpet wasn’t being used (it was supposed to be a kissing booth at one of the parties when Amy first moved in, but the smell killed it). Moving eliminated practice space expenditures and cut my rent thirty-three percent. The only downside I anticipated was living with six other people. I decided the savings would be worth any hassle.
Didier went back to France, and I moved in. Most everyone was on Max time—waiters and bartenders. I was already on my lunchbreak when they woke up, except for Crank who got up at six to bike downtown for early messenger assignments. The house was usually empty when I went downstairs to the basement.
Amy and I were older than everyone who lived there by at least seven years. They weren’t bad people, just young and new to the city. I did my best to stay uninvolved and out of everyone’s way.
The door opened. It was Amy. Black streaks cut halfway down her cheeks. Her eyes were puffy.
I lifted my snare so I could get out from behind my kit.
Don’t get out, she said. I’m fine.
I sat back down. Amy turned on her bass amp.
You think some broad is gonna make me cry?
I shrugged.
It’s work. People were horrible today.
Today?
What else am I going to do? I fucked around as an undergrad, so I can’t go back to school, and even if I could, I can’t afford it, and I don’t even know what to go back to school for. I can start at some other place and work shit shifts and make less money. There’s nothing else for me to do.
I said nothing.
We need to keep practicing and tour.
I nodded. She’s right, I thought. We need to get the first one under our belt.
Can we play now or what?
Sure, I said.
* * *
The two sheets of plywood went fast I cut them into strips in the basement eight one by four mixed spraypaint made a stencil it was going to be the Fogtown Burrito logo but it was hard to cut out wound up this twisted blob I gave away the first eight eight more in the basement. What a waste of plywood. That shit hurt. I don’t know why I didn’t practice convinced myself that it wouldn’t look so bad but it did what an idiot.
I got really bummed wanted to start tagging again didn’t want to get caught wasn’t going to steal more plywood they’d eat me alive in jail my friends all in bands banging away in practice rooms then in front of people clapping yelling. I never got that. Web pages are cool blogs but it’s not the same so the Dingo regulars not really my friends though all at practices but me took the same way home every night mostly to have something to do the long way down by the river mist coming off the water watching fog windows open over the ClearCola building. The bad nights I walked all the way into downtown the financial district miles abandoned mad how else would it end but cops stupid shouldn’t have waited so long to start twentysomething writing on lampposts cans I’m too scared to use years waiting could have been burning for real.
* * *
The mass exodus of Freedom Springs’ businesses left a district of warehouses vacant. In the course of his research, Ben discovered a failed venture into ‘artist housing’ by out-of-town entrepreneurs: the intention, he had read at the library, was to retrofit the former factories as lofts and live/work space. The developers’ initial investment had been funded (and financed) chiefly on speculation, and conversion had fallen with the market. On his walks though the district, he saw decaying scaffolding and abandoned pallets of construction materials. Such obvious signs would work in his favor.
He settled on one of the smallest buildings: a former auto supply storefront. He signed a hastily assemble lease (that, too, he thought, would work in his favor), and began the process of renovation and repair.
* * *
Stan Barrett: Brinkman was a genius.
Sven Gunsen: I’ve met many intelligent men. Brinkman was among the smartest.
Luna Vallejo: He taught her using us and took all the credit.
Ralph O’Keefe: Brinkman knew our strengths and weaknesses. He never told her what they were. Or maybe he did, when they were finished. I wouldn’t be surprised.
Lewis Brinkman: I played her in the style of each opponent.
Lou Schwartz: It was humbling, being dismantled by an eight year-old.
Lewis Brinkman: The first game she won, against O’Keefe, was underestimation. He wasn’t prepared, and her game, at that point, was based solely on overwhelming her opponent.
Ralph O’Keefe: He took her for a while after (the first games). They must’ve talked about chess at least a little, because after a few weeks, she came back and could beat me almost every time.
Lou Schwartz: I took it easy on (O’Keefe) after that because I knew I’d be next. He’s got a temper on him.
Ralph O’Keefe: Bullshit. (Schwartz) told me I’d lose my seat to a eight-year-old. He said I’d be the laughingstock of Freedom Springs’ coffeehouse chess community.
Luna Vallejo: They both make up history to suit their needs. Brinkman told all of us that she would not take a table, ever. She was too young, he said. If he gave her a table, the focus would shift away from him.
Sven Gunsen: Losing to Rhonda made Ralph improve.
Ralph O’Keefe: I got by on numbers until she beat me. There was always a chance I’d lose my table, no matter what (Brinkman) said. So I started studying. I wasn’t gonna let that guy embarrass me like that.
Lou Schwartz: Ralphie got a lot better. It was fear.
Luna Vallejo: Brinkman thought of my style as very predictable. I studied and played side games with Ralph.
Sven Gunsen: Luna was married.
Lou Schwartz: I always wondered if anything happened between those two. Ralphie seemed more relaxed.
Rhonda Barrett: It wasn’t until I was in my teens—until Zaitsev—that I became aware of the interoffice politics of Le Petit Chapeau. By the time I found out I just didn’t care any more. About any of it.
* * *
Bernard,
Thank you for your interest in CentralCryonics. Please call our Freedom Springs office branch Monday through Friday between 9 am and 5 pm to schedule a follow-up appointment. We ask that you maintain the same regimen requested for your first visit.
CentralCryonics
1 Caughin’s passages in this work have been presented as they were discovered. As no audio recordings of his voice exist, we must assume that Bernard Reese, in his transcription of these interview sessions, chose not to punctuate Caughin’s words to preserve a rambling, run-on style of speech.
2 Artificial plants, unironically thought to bring life to a room, were often found in offices and residences during the Early Millenia.
3 Freedom Springs’ pedestrian riverside path is the present-day site of Wilfork Towers.
4 Records show that Crank’s birthname was Francis Hopkins Farrington III. The Farringtons were well-known in real estate and steel circles.
5 Common parlance for pre-portable talk-only telephones.
6 An audio capture device of the sort mentioned in the introduction. The point Caughin seems to be making here is that the unexpected juxtaposition of two seemingly unrelated items is jarring at first, then commonplace after a time.
7 One of ArtScene magazine’s Lara Fox-Turner’s most publicized regrets was that she had not attended the show, which she referred to as “the beginning of Freedom Springs as we know It.”
8 This long interview, with a retired Lara Fox-Turner of ArtScene, is the only existing conversation with Barrett. Prior to the Datastrophe, Barrett, tight-lipped though she was, spoke with other journalists and scholars—Oxford Melberg’s and Amanda Hansons’s respective books contain direct quotes from interview sessions, as does Cheryl Kearns’ “American Charge”—but the source materials have been lost.
9 Barrett’s pre-art chess visions were the subject of speculation for years prior to this interview.
