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Chessville
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Fiasco at the Park by P.D. Fawcett (aka The Hawk) For those of you that read the “Great Raccoon Hunt”, the lads are back!!!!! After the fiasco that fateful night in the forest, I made up my mind to avoid Lenny and Gilbert the Gimp, at all costs. It took six months for my hair and eyebrows to grow back. Three months of Martha’s “evil eye” did have an influence also. Lenny has called me several times to go with him to do some raspberry picking, mushroom hunting, etc. So far, I have managed to wiggle my way out by feigning broken legs, yellow jaundice, jungle rot, and a touch of the black plague. My Monday night chess games with Manny the Mangler is all the excitement I can handle. I do yearn for the great outdoors at times, but as soon as I get that “look” in my eye, I hear that all too familiar, “Humph! Remember what happened the last time you went out with those escapees from the asylum, Baldy!” Martha reminds me. Six months with no eyebrows can damage your psyche. If you ever lose your eyebrows, avoid malls, supermarkets and parks at all costs. If you don’t, you will be the object of vicious little children, who will point at you and run screaming like banshees for their mothers who will in turn glare at you and mumble something to the effect of “Pervert!” If you have to go out, do wear a wide brimmed hat pulled down as far as you can. Sitting in my easy chair watching some nonsense on the TV, I suddenly remember, it’s Monday!!! Manny will be here!!! Out of my chair like I was eighteen years old and still nimble, I hobble about because one leg done went to sleep and was totally numb. Dragging my leg behind me and looking like the Mummy on a cheap drunk, I bounce off Martha’s knick-knack shelf. (I'll glue that stuff back together later.) I notice I broke her little hand-painted figurine of St. Paul, Joe, Billy-Bob, or whoever it's supposed to be. Getting nervous, thinking I have committed some sort of sin, I cross myself for a little insurance. Not because I fear any lightning bolts, plague or swarm of locusts, it’s Martha’s wrath I fear more than the great Fire Demon himself. Snatching open the little drawer to my chess table, I grab my chess pieces and get the board all set up. I see I have a few minutes before Manny shows up. It was my turn to provide the table fare, but Manny called on Sunday to say he would be bringing a special dish for us to try out. Hmm, better take two antacid pills. As the door swings open, I hear Manny’s usual, “Hey Hawk, are ya ready for a bashing?” My nostrils detect an odor akin to a hot breeze blowing through a pair of wino’s shoes. “Jeese Manny, what’s that?” “Wilderness stew, tantalizin’, huh! We’ll eat later, let’s play chess,” Manny said, while setting the aromatic Wilderness stew down on the coffee table. “Hey Manny, it looks awful hot, let’s set it outside on the porch to cool a little, OK?” I sneak off to the kitchen for two more antacid pills. Sitting down at the board, I feel a little ashamed. Manny is a good guy who just tries to make people happy. Ashamed? Yes, but, not enough to eat any of that stew that burned the hair out of my nose with just one whiff! I open with my famous Grob Attack again. As Manny ponders, he says, “I hear there is going to be a chess tournament down at the park, next to Big Eddie’s Bait Shop, wanna go?” “I heard there was a fishing tournament at Big Eddie’s on Friday, Manny.” “Both,” replies Manny. “Got an idea Hawk, we can take our poles and do some fishing after the chess tournament!” “Sounds good to me Manny.” “Hey Hawk, ya eyebrows are growing back,” Manny grins, then mumbles “Heard the Gimp and Lenny entered the fishing tournament.” “Lord, think we better go incognito” I say. Halfway through the game, (I’m two pawns up), Martha comes in. “Hi, Manny. Hey guys, some idiot put their garbage on our porch. I tried to give it to the dog next door, but he just sniffed it and howled.” “My Wilderness stew!!!” “Oooops!” Manny gets his pawns back and the game ends in a draw. “Martha, I'm going to walk out with Manny.” I go out with Manny to retrieve his pot from the dog. Dog is still in his doghouse, whimpering. “Hey Hawk, ya want the stew to warm up later?” “Naaaaaaaa, I ate yesterday, Manny.” Hearing a bloodcurdling scream and “Who smashed my knick-knacks!?!” I knew I should have sacrificed somebody. Manny, knowing Martha, drops the stew and hotfoots it down the street. I figure I better hang about outside until I deem it safe. Sitting on the step, I notice bats circling the pot of stew. Not caring for bats, I’ll take my chances inside. I heard bats will land on your head, get tangled up in your hair, lay their eggs and then you’ll go crazy. Eventually I creep back inside and confess to Martha. After much crawling by me and many “Humphs!” by Martha I get off the hook by promising to make her a brand new table for the lounge to atone for my sins. Friday morning. Up at the crack of dawn to get my chess board and fishing gear ready. A man’s fishing gear is a wonder to behold. Fishermen have to be the most gullible people on earth. I am no exception. Look in any fisherman’s tackle box and you will see things not of this earth. Lures are intended to entice fishermen to yank it off the store shelf and plunk down hard earned money, not to lure a fish to snap it up as soon as it hits the water. I have spent hours in the fishing section salivating over this week’s new and improved lure, guaranteed to catch fish as fast as you can sling it back in the water. Lures that rattle, buzz, give off sonic vibrations that will make any fish zero in on it like heat-seeking missile. They catch nothing. Picking out a lure requires stealth and secrecy. A wise fisherman will spy that special lure hanging on the rack, look about to see if the other fishermen are watching you out of the corner of their eyes (and they are, too), snatch it off the rack, tuck it out of sight and run to the checkout with your prize. Checkout girl: “Well, tenth one we’ve sold today!” Opening my tackle box, I notice an odor comparable to Wilderness stew. Last season’s tin of nightcrawlers. Out of the four thousand lures I have, I use two, maybe three at the most. My tackle box is awe inspiring to any who sees it. Two hundred eighty four compartments and a beer holder. A mite heavy and carrying it all day will leave one arm three inches longer than the other. Time to pick up Manny. Pulling up in front of Manny’s, I honk and out he comes. I see Manny is carrying another pot. “More Wilderness stew, Manny? Jeese.” “Naw, worms, Hawk!” “Duck, Hawk!!” screams Manny. Hunkering down I spot Lenny and the Gimp go whizzing by in Lenny’s truck, with that boat that’s as old as the Ark. “Phew, that was close.” “I got a bad feeling, Manny.” Heading down to the park, we have to pass Big Eddie’s Bait Shop. How Manny managed to get his two hundred eighty pound bulk scrunched down to where he could just peep out the window to be on the lookout for Lenny and the Gimp, is beyond me. We spot Lenny and Gimp in front of Big Eddie’s with Big Eddie blocking the door to his refurbished bait shop, yelling at the guys and flailing his arms like a windmill in a hurricane. Big Eddie will never forgive the Gimp for tripping over that stuffed kangaroo and burning the joint down. You could always tell when Big Eddie is mad - he slobbers like a blind dog in a meat-house. Snaking through the rows of cars, we come to a sign that says, “CHESS TOURNAMENT, TURN HERE”. The sign is two feet away from the turn and as I whip the wheel as hard as I can, Manny’s massive frame jolts the door open and out he goes. Hanging on to the door handle, Manny is outstretched and mowing down everything in his path. I manage to slow down just as Manny loses his grip on the handle and rolls into Willie the Wino’s wheelchair. Willie screams as 280 pounds of Jell-O-quivering flesh knocks him and a fifth of “Thunderbird” into a heap. Somehow the wheelchair manages to stay upright and takes off in the direction of Granny Millie. Granny Millie is quite unaware that the blueberry pie she is carrying (and has just won first place at the Country Fair with) is never going to be savored by mortal man. With onlookers standing about with mouths agape, Granny Millie senses something and turns her head in time to see the runaway wheelchair five feet away. Now Granny Millie is ninety three, four foot nine inches, and weights ninety pounds, if she wears her big boots with the sides cut out for her corns. At some point in her life she must have had a course in one of the martial arts. Deftly stepping aside, she lets out some sort of attack yell. “Hiiiiiiiiiii Kuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!” With a roundhouse kick that would make Bruce Lee awestruck, she wallops the wheelchair and sends it careening into Pastor Filbert’s just-paid-off Chevy Suburban. Striding back to where Manny is flopping about like a fish out of water and Willie is sitting up lamenting over his broken fifth of Thunderbird, I get into my car to wait for poor Manny. Granny Millie strides up to Manny who has wiped the dust from his eyes. “I knew it had to be you or that refugee from the booby hatch, where is he?” Figuring I’m next on Granny Millie’s hit list, I open the door and slither out the opposite of Granny Millie. Duck-walking, I slink off into the crowd and hope to avoid detection. Keeping on the lookout for Millie and Lenny and the Gimp, I make my way to the area where the chess tournament is supposed to be. Looking at the board to see who I play, I notice Manny is paired with “Ol Suggers.” Suggers is a nice enough chap, a little eccentric and the county chess champ. As luck would have it, I got paired with his son, Ronnie. Ronnie is as good a chess player as his pop. Ronnie has always been known to have a “eye” for the ladies and has on more than one occasion left the premises of some damsel, dodging a load of No. 6 buckshot from either an irate father or hubby. Sitting down in front of a chessboard, I await the start of the tournament. Even though it’s a chess tournament, it’s a very friendly affair. Everybody’s shootin’ the breeze, exchanging chess stories. Noticing Suggers and Ronnie making their way through the crowd, I wonder where Manny is. The tables are set about one hundred feet from the edge of the lake with me facing the water. I figure if I sit sideways, I might not be recognized if Lenny and the Gimp go by. Suggers and Ronnie take their places while we wait for Manny to show up. “Hey, Hawk, heard ya had a little trouble on your “coon hunt” with Lenny and the Gimp,” snickers Suggers. “Hawk!!! What happened to your eyebrows” says Ronnie, all bug-eyed. “Never mind, Ronnie,” I mumble. “Awww, c’mon, Hawk, tell poor Ronnie about how ya barely escaped with your lives and how the fire demon burn’t your head all up.” “Stuff it, Suggers.” “Hawk, why ya sittin all whopper-jawed?” asked Suggers. “Stuff it, Suggers.” “Hey guys, here comes Manny,” says Ronnie. Manny stumbles up and flops down like a man that has just run a twenty six mile marathon. “Lord, Manny, w-w-what in the world happened to ya?” stutters Ronnie. “Looks like you got locked in a phone booth with a wildcat, look at your head!” Suggers, sniffing, eyes Manny up and down, “You been drinkin?” To get poor Manny off the hook, I look at Suggers and Ronnie. “Granny Millie.” “Oh,” Suggers and Ronnie reply in unison. Striding off to the tables, One-eye Henry shouts, “lets git this here tournament started!” Henry used to be a professional wrestler back in the early 50s. He lost the eye in the championship match with Hammerin’ Hank who Henry says gave him an illegal eye-gouge to keep from getting pinned. After a few minutes into the game with Ronnie, I feel at ease. Chess has a way of making you oblivious to all about you. Waiting for my turn to move, I glance at the other players. Most I know as regulars, but I notice a few new ones. Most striking is a kid about fifteen with spiked hair dyed in a rainbow of colors. Suggers notices the kid also and says, “Psssst, hey Manny, look at that kid. If I pay for it, would ya get your hair done up like that? Look better than you do now after tangling with Granny Millie.” (Chuckles all around.) “Stuff it Suggers.” People are gathering around the tables, kibitzing, choking down foot-long hotdogs and guzzling huge containers of soda pop called “big gulps.” Faintly, coming from some unknown direction, the word “HELP!” comes floating across the breeze. All eyes turn toward the lake. A small dot which is growing bigger by the minute, is making it’s way toward us. A crowd is starting to gather to see what the fuss is all about. Can it be? Yes, dear readers, it’s Lenny and the Gimp. Belching fire and smoke, the “Ark” is heading straight for the beach. We can see the Gimp standing at the bow, ready to bail out as soon as the boat hits dry land. “Outa the way!” yells Lenny. As the boat hits the sandy beach, it seems to pick up speed. With bystanders leaping right and left, to avoid either getting crushed or set afire by the almost airborne boat, the Gimp leaps out and in a perfect swan dive, lands right in the middle of our chess tables. Only one left at the table is the spike-haired kid who seems not to be in the least fazed by all the commotion. He looks at the Gimp who has slid across the tables and stops two feet from “Spike.” “Awesome, dude!” As the ark comes to a stop, Lenny clambers out, burnt to a crisp. “My boat, my boat,” he cries, tears streaming down his blackened cheeks. Manny and I run to Lenny. “What happened, Lenny?” “The Gimp, it was the Gimp,” stutters Lenny. “Gasoline, cigars, fire, the Gimp. It was the Gimp I tell you,” laments Lenny. With the boat now just a smoldering heap, people are starting to drift away shaking their heads in disbelief. The chess tournament breaks up in total confusion, half the boards got knocked over and nobody’s in the mood now anyway. Suggers and Ronnie finally stroll up to the smoking boat and look at each other. “Looks like the work of the Gimp to me,” says Ronnie. “Yup, fire, that’s his mark, remember Big Eddie’s” replies Suggers. The Gimp with head hung down, slowly walks up to Lenny. “I”m sorry, Lenny.” “I know Gimp, I know,” says Lenny. “Lenny, I’ll help ya build another boat and we'll make it bigger and faster and better than ever!” “Ya, we will Gimp.” “Still pals Lenny?” asks Gimp sheepishly. “You got it Gimp, from womb to tomb, as always buddy.” As me, Manny, Suggers and Ronnie watch the Gimp and Lenny walk away with arms over each other’s shoulders, we hear the Gimp say, “I really am sorry, Lenny.” “I know Gimp, it’s OK.” As we walk to our cars, everyone is a little quiet. I think we just saw an example of true friendship. “Suggers, Ronnie, see ya later,” says Hawk “Ya, see you guys later,” replies Suggers. As Manny and I drive home, “Hey Manny!” “Ya, Hawk.” “How about some of that Wilderness stew?” “Well OK Hawk, but it’s really kinda bad.” “No matter, lets try some, Friend.”
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