The Unwritten Score

The Unwritten Score

         His nose could have been mistaken for a carrot. Not a long carrot, but a baby carrot packed in those free-moving, punctured plastic bags. Yet more distinguishable were his cheeks, slit in as if a wild animal intentionally cut a straight line down the skin by his cheekbone, reaching with a jagged finesse to the jaw. A rugged Pinocchio if I ever saw one. But his name wasn't that beefy: Marty. Marty was a name white collar folk called in for Sunday dinner for tidbits of entertainment, or a round smile. Jared seemed like a more convincing name – but it would have it that this gritty-faced (we haven't gotten into his personality yet) man was named Marty at birth. No – it's not what you think – it isn't Martin. Parents do the darndest things.
         Anyhoo – I bumped into Marty at chess club. I mean, bumped into him. I sat down on one of those rickety, unvarnished wooden chairs, and stared down into his light hazel eyes and pushed on him with my words, "You wanna play a game? I haven't played very much lately ...." I always use that line to give false confidence to my opponent. He shrugged like he wasn't there for chess, but for meeting an old friend that he remembered needing to do business with. My anxious lips pursued the game, "I take that as a yes." I slid my queen pawn up two spaces, initiating my usual: the London System. He replied quicker than I expected, literally tossing his queen pawn two squares ahead. I knew at that moment he didn't care and that I was either facing a very confident chess player or a person that hadn't phased out of the ruffian era of youth.
         Forty-two moves in, I was in what you call, "a comeback situation." I had to either tough it out or break into a bold offensive to take what equilibrium I could. I like to win, so I went for the hero act. The game ended in a draw, with a move around sixty-two or something that could have been a win for Marty. I don't know if he honestly missed it, or he was teasing my brawn. Either way, it was a game I would not forget –mostly because that courageous dunce of a man.
         Two years and six weeks later, I caught sight of the hard-faced slick. We were both on the local bus, going in the direction of a culturally pampered town named Lake Forest Park. That place needs culture – with a blunt name like that. Anyways, Marty and I didn't talk – I didn't try to start anything and neither did he. But before I got off at a bookstore-cafe, he swiveled his face in my visibility and he just took a good stare in my eyes. A smirk grew from his lips, like he'd been cut on the left side of his mouth. My eyes widened, pushing back some sleeping dust. The moment must of only been two seconds, but I could tell what the ol' piranha was thinking. I won that game. And I knew it, as my jaw tightened to the halt of the bus.