In Love with the Chess Club

I don’t play chess but I really like the Chess Club. Housed in a store that used to sell mirrors and window glass, the Club’s display windows are full of different wood and stone chess sets for sale as well as faded, curling pamphlets and sun bleached books with wonderfully obscure arcane titles like “Gefonoff’s Thrumble Openings and Counters.” The windows are half frosted but you can see into the place which, like a vampire, only comes alive after dark. The store is around the corner from my building. Having walked by it for years, I don’t think I’ve seen customers inside there during the day more than two or three times. But at night the place is alive and cooking. One room has been set aside for playing the game and on the evenings the club stays open, all the tables are filled. Surrounding them are a wide variety of zealous observers and kibitzers who hang over the players like Snoopy the dog pretending to be a vulture in the PEANUTS cartoon. Some in this audience are rubbing their chins thoughtfully, others have their hands in their pockets, some simply can’t stand still and go up and down on their toes in anxiety as they watch. You get the feeling they’d like to pounce on the board and play both sides at once if given the chance. Everyone’s attention is 100% on the games. All the mental energy focused on those chess boards could boil an egg if you could somehow harness it. Last night was cold and misty. I walked by there around nine and as usual, the room was full. For the first time as I passed, one of the spectators looked up and our eyes met. Then a player moved a piece on the board and my man snapped his eyes away from mine back to more important things.