Make The Move

In between the salty seaweed smell of the ocean fights the doughy goodness of fresh bread. The taco stand is busy but Sonny had just arrived before the evening rush. The breeze plays with his bourbon brown which he hates. He waits patiently behind two customers. Given the ocean’s noogie, and the fact he can’t decide which menu item he wants stirs a pot of anxiety within him. The first lady finishes her order by signing the receipt so now he only has one person left. Sonny usually keeps it simple, steak taco with cilantro and onions. But now they are offering a deal on barbacoa tacos, 2 for $5. And not to mention he always gets steak tacos. Why doesn’t he try something else? He lives in San Diego, a cornucopia of taco variations. Yet, Sonny scares himself with the thought that he’s limiting himself. Steak? Steak tacos are like the cheeseburgers of tacos, right? Chicken? But how good can chicken be? God no, he looks at the vegan option. So I guess it’s the barbacoa he finalizes — WAIT — barbacoa? What even is barbacoa? Pig or cow? Does it matter —

“Next!” 

Sonny’s thoughts become concrete. He wants the barbacoa but what if it’s bad? Then he losses $5, $5 which in Sonny’s personal inflation is the equivalent of $50. So steak. Boom decided. Sonny will have the steak tacos. 

“What would you like today?”

Behind the cashier, a nose hypnotizing smell of onions, meat, and spices freezes Sonny. Is that the barbacoa? I should just ask. Why won’t I ask? The thoughts of words that needed to be said are there, Sonny can literally picture them. Yet, nothing comes out of his mouth. 

“Yo!” calls a man with blonde dreadlocks, “You’re holding up the line!”

“Sorry!” Sonny quickly apologizes. Why was that so easy to say? Why is this so stressful! Steak or barbacoa. Barbacoa or chicken — now there’s a carne asada option! No! I know what I want. 

Sonny steps towards the cashier, cheeks flashing a fever warmth. This girl is so pretty he notes. It must be the eyes, brown like Sonny’s hair but much more lively. 

“What can I get for you?”

As though it was the moment in which one falls asleep, that flip to slumber, abrupt blankness seduces Sonny. He opens his mouth but only an awkward croaking sound results. 

“Hey! C’mon man, I wanna go home,” shouts another person. 

“Do you need any help?” offers the beautiful cashier.

Her offer to help in fact does the opposite for Sonny. Several more moments pass by and now the line behind him has turned into a crowd of impatience. 

“—Yeah, seriously dude!”

“—Just pick something!”

“—It’s tacos how complicated can it be!”

Very actually for Sonny. The words, the women, the sweet smells of cooked meat jumbled into a hurricane of chaos. Out. Sonny visualized the o,u, and t. Out. Unlike his time ordering, Sonny throws his head down and races out of the taco stand. Walk. Walk. Don’t stop Sonny he tells himself, don’t stop. Sonny cannot tell for certain, given his chin is locked to his chest, but the boardwalk is busy for the evening. Sunset, people are trying to catch the sunset of course. Not Sonny though. An urge to stay does arise but the sun is millions of miles away. She cannot cure him. He is nothing but a —

“DUMBASS!”

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, “Sir I’m so sorry.”

Sonny completely derails a chess game. The warmth on his cheeks reaches almost a sunburn sensation. He scrabbles pathetically picking up a white bishop, black knight, and several pawns of each color. 

“Just give them to me!”

Sonny drops the pieces in the man’s dirty scared hands and walks away. Home. Sonny heads directly up the hilly Californian streets straight to his apartment. The 20-minute walk that induces a gross hairline sweat never even scratches Sonny’s perception. Like a movie cut from one scene to another, he arrives at his unit. Unlike himself, Cole and Oliver, his roommates, sit comfortably on the couch smoking a blunt. Sonny’s disarray is as present as a nose pimple. 

“How was your day?” asks Cole. 

“Um, I’m here I guess.”

Oliver exhales thick earthy smoke, “C’mon now Sonny what’s up?”

Sonny places his backpack down and drops himself into the armchair, “I…,” flashes of today’s event swell in his forehead, “D-d…,” he takes a breath, “Do you guys ever feel like ‘what the fuck is going on? Why am I in this situation?’”

Oliver passes the blunt to Sonny, “Oh yeah! —”

“Every single day,” emphasizes Cole, “That’s like the whole part of living.”

They’re right agrees Sonny. It’s selfish to think he’s alone in that. There’s not a single person on this planet who has never been lost or felt like a single floorboard in the Pacific. 

“I don’t know guys….”

Oliver tries to cheer Sonny up, “C’mon Son you’re life is not bad. Don’t you have that finance internship this summer in Chicago?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” But Sonny is not sure if he wants a life as a research analyst. Stocks. Bonds. ETFs. It’s not even real. If Sonny had his way, he loved to just wander, be a nomad as one would say. Though it’s not practical at all. 

“Then how do people do it?”

Cole opens his mouth but then looks to Oliver. Oliver opens his mouth, raises a finger but then quickly ties his hair into a bun. No response. 

“Alright,” continues Sonny, “How do you guys do it?”

Oliver looks at Cole who shrugs, biting the lower part of his lip, “Well… trusting yourself is ideal. I mean, I’m from Dyckman ya’know. I knew that as a kid I wanted the west coast. The sun, the girls, San Diego was always my dream. Like winter sucks, everyone is pale, and you gotta get frostbite just get from one place to another….”

“Okay?” Cole is high. 

Sonny passes the blunt over to Cole, “What I’m saying is you, and I mean that like the cosmic you, knows what it wants. So…you gotta listen to it and kind of go with it.”

Sonny looks at Oliver, “Yeah, what Cole said Sonny. Ask yourself what do you want then figure out how to get what you want.”

This just creates more questions for Sonny, “Well then what if I can’t understand this ‘cosmic you?’ Like I have no idea what I want so how can that work?”

Oliver and Cole look at each other again and then back at Sonny. Silence. Sonny shakes his head, not in anger or disgust, but understanding that this is a problem with an abstract solution. They read Sonny’s body language and Oliver finally speaks, “Sonny what happened today?”

“I don’t know what barbacoa is.”

“I believe it’s like a type of pork.”

“No Cole. It’s actually a type of beer. It’s Spanish for barbeque and very popular in Hispanic culture. But wait, Sonny aren’t you Mexican?”

“Yes….”

Oliver eases his tone, “Hey, it’s alright. So what? Today wasn’t your day Sonny.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Cole stands up, “Hold up! The day is not over. It’s barely eight. How about we head over to Rancho and grab some drinks. Let’s change the momentum here.”

“Yeah! C’mon Sonny. So what is right! You lost the first half but there are still two quarters left.”

The idea of tequila and drunk talk loosens the grip Sonny has over himself, “Yeah… yeah I would like that a lot.”

Salt. Take the shot. Suck the lime. That three-step process went about three times for three people in the span of 10 minutes. Oliver excuses himself to go to the bathroom while Cole and Sonny order a round of Coronas. Even though nothing has healed for Sonny, it’s hard to remain mad in a place like this. The night’s darkness complements the bar’s lights and vibrant decorations. The wind from earlier has subsided to random gentle breathes that only the neck can feel. Girls of beautiful blonde hair flirt with guys with beards as thick as their muscles. Like what Cole said earlier, it’s life. Sonny may not be mad but the anxious fragility of himself picks at him like a poison ivy rash. 

Oliver comes back right as the Coronas are served, “Did I miss anything?”

“Nah, you were only gone for a second.”

“A lot can happen in a second. One moment and you never know.”

Cole and Sonny reluctantly nod in the actual truth of Oliver. 

“So how you feeling Sonny?”

“I’m feeling better — what’s that drink?”

“Which —”

“The black one that old guy is drinking.” The man makes vicious eye contact with Sonny who in turn looks the opposite way. Weird how people can sense when someone is watching them. 

“That’s a Guinness,” answers Cole, “Irish drink.”

“But isn’t the theme here Mexican?”

“Yea… yeah your right Sonny. Well, maybe it’s St. Patricks Day.”

“Dude it’s barely February,” scoffs Oliver. 

“Alright calendar boy sorry I’m not Irish.”

“You don’t need to be Irish to know what day it is dumbass.”

“Oh, I’m the dumbass? Who didn’t know New York was a state?”

Oliver threw his hands up in the air, “Okay Mr. Geography. Congratulations on having the least most impressive skill here.  I know New York is a state but I was trying to say…”

Cole and Oliver’s conversation drones out of Sonny’s head. Irish. Ireland. There once was a time in which Sonny debated going to college in Ireland. He saw it as an opportunity to restart. New country, new people, no family, no friends, a chance to maybe redefine himself as the person he wants. He knows he’s lucky to be born in America but it is only one country. Everyone thought it a crazy idea which it was, especially since he’s never been beyond the Colorado River. The talk of finances and logistics ate Sonny up like steak to a dog. San Diego was the best safe option but something about Ireland said something greater. It sounds even stupid to think. 

The warm euphoria of alcohol is most definitely present. An intangible click hisses in Sonny. What does he know?

“Yo, where are you going?”

“I’ll be back I just gotta see something.”

Sonny slides right next to the old man. Like his drink, the man does not fit in. His grey hair is long, matted, and so bushy it blends into his pirate-like beard. Flannel, jeans, and boots, this man looks ready to hike the northern woods of Wisconsin. 

“You come here often?”

Sonny immediately wants to kill himself. That’s the line you choose he thinks to himself.

The man raises one bushy eyebrow, “Er-um yeah. For some reason, it’s the only place that serves my favorite beer.”

“Guinness.”

“Yeah! How’d you know?”

“Just had a feeling,” smiles Sonny.

The man itches his beard and suddenly Sonny learns that this man is no new character. Sonny sees the thick trench scars and dirt-filled fingernails. 

“Oh shit,” Sonny accidentally says out loud.

The man remembers now too, “Oh wait a minute! You fucked up my chess game!”

The burning fever warmth rises back to Sonny’s face, “Sir I’m so sorry! When it happened—”

“Is that why you came over here?”

No, not all, “Yes! I felt really bad. I had no idea what I was doing. There was a long taco line and —”

“Hey kid,” the man breaks his ice-cold face, “Relax. Yeah, of course, I was mad at the time but I just didn’t expect some tall goof to kamikaze my game.”

A relief rubs the back of Sonny’s mind, “Who were you playing with?”

“Myself.”

“Yourself? Isn’t chess a two-person game?”

“It can be but sometimes the best opponent is yourself.”

“Are you that good?”

“No, no,” he laughs, “It has nothing to do with being good. I personally do it to learn — see where I can improve and get a feel for why I do certain moves.”

“So it’s like a class.”

“Sure I guess.”

“How long you’ve been playing chess?”

“Only a couple of years — it’s a recent thing.”

“Why chess?”

Sonny finds himself astonished by this man for absolutely no reason. Chess? That’s a game for nerds. Yet, this guy looks cool. He’s got tattoos. 

“It’s a personal thing.”

“Like traumatic personal?”

“Nah not like that! Just why do you want to know?”

“I’m drunk. Curiosity,” and the fact Sonny is familiar with a game like this. I don’t want to say fate, thinks Sonny. But maybe call it events or sequences or patterns. Whatever. This old man and I have crossed paths again. Sonny imagines a writer in his bedroom typing out this full cycle. It’s goofy to see the parallel between story creation and life. 

The straightforwardness of Sonny breaks any possible tension. The old man chugs his Guinness empty before addressing Sonny, “Let me ask you a question. Have you ever played chess?”

“No, can’t say I have.”

The man reaches down to his sack and pulls out a chessboard. He unfolds it and begins setting up the pieces. Sonny looks around and no one bats an eye at the obscurity of this. When has anyone done this? Has anyone ever done this? Oliver and Cole catch Sonny’s eye and raise their hands in a “what the fuck is going” manner. Sonny shrugs. 

“What?”

“Um-er you bring that everywhere?”

“Why not? It’s portable and fits in my bag perfectly. Never know when a moment like this will happen.”

Sonny finishes his Corona, “Damn right on the last part.”

The bartender is the first person to say something, “New drinking game?”

“In a way,” smiles the old man, “Can I get two more Guinness?”

“Sure thing.”

A ready board and two forearm-length glasses of stout beer form harmoniously. The old man looks right into Sonny, “You ready?”

Now anxiety takes over Sonny. The same feeling of being lost from before rumbles like a used Chevrolet, “I’m sorry but I have no idea how to play. I’ll look stupid to you.”

The old man brushes back his hair, “First we shake hands.”

The man’s hands are hard and firm, “I’ll take black. White goes first.”

Sonny’s arms are strings at this point, “Sir I don’t know I feel —”

The old man cuts him off, “You’re worried about what to do. Hell, I see in your eyes you are worried about what these people are thinking. Chill out.”

No argument there.

Sonny reaches the Guinness and it relaxes him with its heavy coffee-like taste. Oh, that’s good. 

Then Sonny’s doubt slaps him. Oh no, “I’m sorry sir-I assumed you got two because —”

“You need to stop thinking,” the old man is gentle, “You’re right! What? You think I can down two Guinness in one round,” his laugh crackles like firewood, “Maybe when I was your age but those times have passed.”

Now the board. Stop thinking. 

“Pawns only go straight right?”

“And only one space unless it’s the first move. Then you can go two.”

Sonny moves his pawn D2 to D4. 

“Now was that so hard?” the old man moves his D2 pawn to his D4

No, but what about the moves after that. And after that move and after that move. Sonny grasps at the names, pawn, pawn, pawn, pawn, pawn, pawn, pawn, pawn, Rook, Knight, Bishop, Queen, King, Bishop, Knight, Rook —

“Why is this so stressful?” he blurts.

“Stop!” the old man almost yells, “This game is life. Realize that. Life is a game and this game mimics that. So treat it like you should treat anything!”

One move. One move at a time. I don’t know what that move will be but when have I ever. Then it dawns on Sonny like the first and most amazing sunrise. I. I make the move. I am the answer. Listen to it. 

Sip. Move. Sip. Move. The two play that ballet. The old man adds advice here and there but eventually, he stops talking. Sip. Move. Sip. Move. 

“Checkmate.”

Sonny clearly lost but the feel of defeat is nonexistent. He looks into the old man's eyes. Something told Sonny to talk to him and he did. Now this moment, a moment that never ever will be replicated, deciphers his once-troubled code of confusion. A crowd formed and Sonny hears the friendly laughter and cheer of Oliver and Cole. Sonny brought himself to this present, knowingly or not. And it’s in knowing that you cannot ever really know, yourself, life, basically anything, that births the greatest thing in living. Pure intuition. 

“Another round?”

Sonny is already re-setting the board. That's all it ever was and ever is. Making that first move, that decision, and letting I take over.