…chess is a game what is kind of like checkers only you play it sort of different…
Monroe D. Underwood
I parked a few doors east of 3008 Palmer Avenue at ten forty-five that night.
I smoked cigarettes and listened to Alte Kameraden on my tape player.
I watched the front door like a hawk.
A scrawny guy came out a few minutes before midnight.
He headed east.
When he had gone a half-block I got out and followed.
He walked over to California Avenue.
He went into a little tavern under the elevated line.
He nodded to the bartender.
He bought a schooner of beer.
He sat at a table in a corner.
I took a seat at the bar.
I ordered a double Jack Daniels.
I studied the scrawny guy.
He looked like a cross between a chicken-killing weasel and a weasel-killing chicken.
He kept glancing toward the door like he was expecting somebody.
He was.
In a few minutes a big shaggy-haired guy came in.
He wore thick mad-scientist glasses and he carried an attaché case.
He sat at the table with the scrawny guy.
He took a pint of Comrade Terrorist vodka from his coat pocket.
He drank half of it in one gulp.
He opened the attaché case and took out a chess set.
By closing time they had played seven games.
The scrawny guy destroyed the big shaggy-haired guy seven times.
He launched his attack from a king’s knight’s gambit.
He was a slashing and merciless surgeon at the chessboard.
When they were finished the scrawny guy took a small piece of paper from his wallet.
He handed it to the big shaggy-haired guy.
He said maybe this one bit too difficult for you.
The big shaggy-haired guy glanced at it.
He laughed a cruel raspy laugh.
He slipped the paper into his pocket.
He took his chess set and went out.
I finished my severalth double Jack Daniels and followed the scrawny guy.
He walked directly back to 3008 Palmer Avenue.
He walked a lot more directly back to 3008 Palmer Avenue than I did.
I couldn’t find my car.
I finally found the damn thing.
It was right where I had left it.
It wouldn’t start.
I cussed it out.
It still wouldn’t start.
The battery was dead.
I went looking for a phone.
I found a telephone booth up on Fullerton Avenue.
I called Betsy.
Betsy said where the hell are you?
I said I am in a telephone booth.
Betsy said I understand that.
She said but where the hell is the telephone booth?
I said on Fullerton Avenue.
Betsy said Chance Fullerton Avenue is ten miles long.
I said I am across the street from a Shell gas station.
Betsy said what does it say on the Shell gas station sign?
I said it says Shell.
Betsy said oh Jesus.
I said there is another sign.
Betsy said well thank the good Lord.
She said what does it say?
I said it says tuneups.
I said it also says brakes.
Betsy swore.
She said how did you get there?
I said I walked.
Betsy said where the hell is your automobile?
I said at 3008 Palmer Avenue.
I said it won’t start.
I said the battery is dead.
I said I left the goddam lights on.
I said come and get me.
Betsy said you are smashed.
I said well sweetheart it all comes under the heading of another night’s work for the gool ole Unitensnates of America Gol Bess her.
I sang “Gol Bess America.”
Betsy said keep singing and I’ll find you.
I was still singing when Betsy got there.
Betsy rolled a window down.
She said hang up the phone and come out of that booth.
I couldn’t find the door.
Betsy got out and opened it for me.
I said that goddam thing is a death trap.
I said a man could starve to death in there.
Betsy said I have cables in the trunk.
She said do you want a jump?
I said you are certainly a very pragmasticated broad.
Betsy said I am talking about getting your car started you drunken ass.
I said why do we not just proclasnitate until tomorrow?
I said nobody is going to steal it.
I said it won’t start.
I said the battery is dead.
Betsy said I’ll bet you left the lights on.
On the way home I sang “You’re a Gran Ole Frag.”
I have an excellent voice for patriotic numbers.
I told Betsy this.
I didn’t mince words.
I said Betsy I have an excellnet voice for paritomic munders.
Betsy didn’t say anything.