I can’t quite seem to grasp why the boy and his mother are here, of all places. How they got in, I’ll never understand. The bar itself is packed, hoardes of over-eager males playing for the attention of uninterested women, and yet they sit in a corner playing chess. I think he’s winning. His tiny eyes are focussed, unblinking as he watches his mother’s hands. The soft sound of the stone pieces hitting the board is lost among the hollers of drunks. His face scrunches up in concentration, and his mother looks up from the game.
Her face lights each time a man passes their stools, only to darken once more when he is gone. Her son pretends not to notice; instead he mumbles his next move to himself. He takes a knight and quietly moves it close to her king.
“Check,” I see him mouth. She’s busy watching the inhabitants of the bar. Out of spite, or perhaps just out of boredom, he moves his queen as well.
“Checkmate.”
The mother turns back quickly with a smile that’s a little too broad, a little too sudden.
“Look at that! Good job!” At least that’s what I imagine she says. Her son just nods, unimpressed by her affection. He sets the pieces back on the board;=, rows of tiny men whose blank faces mock his own surely look. The woman pretends to settle back into the game but her eyes are still wandering. I have to wonder how long it’s been since the son realized that they have been stood up, and how long it will be until his mother realizes the same.
He tentatively moves a pawn but she doesn’t seem to notice. He coughs slightly but this time she does not even feign amusement. Instead she glances impatiently around. Men look her up and down from her perch on the high seat, but she doesn’t pay attention. Her son might, but he looks too young to fully grasp whatever their intentions are. Instead he watches his mother watching the crowd, slowly swinging his legs to pass the time.
There is at least a two foot drop from where his sneakered feet knock against the wooden rail of the stool and sticky barroom floor. I suppose he must have needed help to get up there. Far belong him is a small, red backpack that’s stuffed too full. A sleeve is hanging limp out from behind the zipper.
Just under it is his name. It’s written in poorly scrawled Sharpie pen and each letter looks forced, as though the boy has traced them from a pencil line. The last name is crossed out three times. It reads, “James Peterson? Ivanov? Chamberlin? Hendrick?” Below the name there is a slight tear, a worn patch through which it’s possible to see a flash of color. A comic book, perhaps. It’s got something drawn over it in the same black pen. There’s a small travel tag on the side with the neon letters “U.M.”
Whoever the man they’re waiting for may be, the boy is equally anxious. While he does not make so much of a show, weaving his neck around the room like a goose with its feet nailed to the nest, he flicks his fingers under the table where his mother cannot see. He occasionally drums them along the knees of his tattered jeans to a beat other than the bar’s obnoxious tune.
The mother, on the other hand, is oblivious to his irritation, his fear, his apprehension. She’s applying lipstick for the third time since the chess game began, even though the first layer is still slathered on thick. The tight skirt that keeps creeping up her legs looks expensive, but her shoes show years of shopping second-hand.
No child should see his mother this way, but the boy doesn’t react at all. He reaches out to pack up the chess pieces with a tired look on his face. He can’t reach all the pieces that are lined up close to his mother but she doesn’t offer a hand. Any hint she showed early in the evening of wanting to play with her son has disappeared. He snatches at the air with little success. One of the stone pawns rolls over the board and onto the floor. There’s a quiet crash that forces embarrassed tears to rise in the boy’s eyes and forces his mother to look up from her mirror. He slinks off the chair to join his backpack on the sticky floor.
“Get up,” I think she says, “It’s filthy down there.”
He grabs the piece but doesn’t get back on the stool. Instead, he curls his fingers around the knight and pulls his bag across the floor. Putting it on his back, he turns and runs.
Now it’s simple fact that a little boy running through a bar with his mother shouting after him is bound to draw attention. A woman with a drink in her hand stumbles over to him and asks a question. He shakes his head and points his finger towards the door. The two of them walk out, into the night.
The mother, stunned, looks at the door through which he exited, then down at his half-assembled chess board. She’s like a burglar on a doorstep when the porch lights come on. She throws her makeup into her purse and bolts.
I continue watching for a while after they’ve gone. About ten minutes after the mother leaves, a man walks in. He’s got the same hair as the boy but a glower that a child’s face could never hold. He makes his way through the bar with the same searching look that the mother had. He reaches the table in the dark corner where the chess set lies and sits down on one of the stools.
Someone comes over and tells him what has happened. There are a lot of hand gestures and pointing towards the door. The man’s shoulders slump and he rubs the stubble at the side of his cheek. He doesn’t leave right away, though. He sets up the board, one knight short, and proceeds to silently play both sides of the game. He’s still there, playing boy and mother, when I leave.