They Could Be Kings

There was a guy sitting right there on the bus, dressed in business-gone-casual. That means that it began as business and became casual as he rolled up his sleeves and adjusted his collar. He looked tired, and he sat like he was unemployed. Actually, he was holding an unemployment guide, and he had a hole in the bottom of his shoe, I noticed.

He probably had a rather decent job until recently, I gathered as I watched him. He reminded me of George.

George is tall and loud. He sleeps when he wants, and pokes and prods for fun. One of those people who naturally could put someone on edge by an unexpected glance. George isn't happy. When he sits and watches you, he is like the man on the bus--contemplative. Measuring.

People always say that eye contact is so important to communication, yet there is more to that. Eye contact is communication, from one soul to another. I've seen most people flush; embarrassed at what other people will see. There are a few who don't though, who gaze back steadily, opening themselves to you to gaze upon, hiding nothing. George did that today--as he does often to make people squirm.

I watched his eyes move behind his sunglasses. Lloyd and SB watched, waiting for me, the rookie, to bow to George's will as everyone else had; but I did not. Rookie, yes, but nothing less than George--what did I have to bow to?

George, I thought as I came to my conclusion, George in another life could be a king. He isn't--king of the rampers maybe. And the man on the bus--who knows what kind of life he has been dealt? What kind of situation put him on a bus with holes in the soles of his shoes, when he could be a king?

"George may pick on you, but in his heart, he's really got your back; if there is anyone who will look out for you--you especially--no matter what kind of trouble you've managed to get yourself into, George will take care of you" Kevin explained, as if I was afraid of George.

"I know that" I answered.

Bread and Butter With a Kick

There is something fulfilling about coming home from a hard day's work. Nostalgic even, I suppose.

"How do you like it?" Jallow asked me that first week over my first game of draughts. Draughts, not to be confused with grade-school checkers, is a science. These old men and their games, I thought to myself, watching as Jallow quickly moved over the majority of the board, sweeping a full 75% of my white pieces from the board. "Did you see your mistake? You left yourself completely open. You need to pay attention! Protect yourself. Now, what was your move supposed to be?" he went on, as if he had heard my thoughts.

I pointed and he laughed at my blush.

"Don't worry, if you won me, you would be champion. Many, many people loose to me! Everyone looses, because I always win!" he crowed in his thick foreign accent.

"His name is carved on the board" Lavar pointed out.

"It's not a hard job" Jallow continued, returning to his previous question, absent-mindedly slapping at my hand making another foolish move. I stared at the board. I saw his move, but I didn't want to make it. "Gotta eat!" Jallow urged, taking the piece and slapping it into place, then slapping his own token down and sweeping another two of my tokens I had forgotten about into is palm, out of my play. I had three pieces left.

These old men insist on finishing the game, even after they essentially win in four moves.

I looked up at the monitor and hastily stood.

"You have to go? Go! I don't want you to get in trouble" he said, then just as quickly as his questions floated from subject to subject, his eyes came to rest on Lavar, who had been enjoying the exchange in appreciation of my being new.

I later played against Lavar, as he filled the spot of another newbie who was loosing badly who was called away to attend to a Boeing 737. He sat down, studying the board, then realizing that in one more move his army of black would be reduced to three tokens, he sighed and sat back in the chair, making the inevitable move to spark the bloodbath.

To be honest, he played well with his three pieces.

I cornered him, finally, when suddenly a weathered hand reached over his dreds and slammed the black king down a couple rows over. "Chance! Always take the chance!" he reprimanded Lavar, who was studying the placement of the king. I looked and realized Jallow had simply picked the piece up and slammed it down out of the way of my attack.

"How are you allowed to--" I began to ask.

"When in doubt--cheat!" Jallow pronounced, before pushing Lavar from his seat for another round. I sighed.

I was rescued that time by an airbus. Between you and me, I don't really like the airbusses, but I dislike the Embraeyer, period, so I wont complain. Work is work, a job is a job. Who can afford to not like their bread and butter--not matter how uncomfortable its cargo bin is? And since when was it ever acceptable to not be hungry?

Gotta eat, gotta eat--that's the name of the game. But the real punch on the clock isn't the checkers, it's the sweat. The sore muscles itching for more. Bread and butter with a kick, I decided. None of this bland stuff.

"Want some?" Kevin asked me, passing a spice bottle of some kind of seasoning. "It's got habanero--do you like hot stuff?"

"Not particularly" I admit. That was always John's forte--bread and butter with a kick. Like he couldn't taste it without that physical punch. I guess I see what he meant all those times. Kevin offered me a french fry covered in the mystery dust. I winced as it went down.

"How do you like it?" he asked, watching my facial expressions with withheld laughter.

"I like it" I admitted, punching back. He nodded as Jallow's loud laughter echoed through the room. I fully agreed; when in doubt, cheat.