Pet Prose: Harry

“Once his grandfather had told him he would grow up to be the greatest chess player in the world. He was teaching Paolo everything he knew about the game. But when he was six, his grandfather had missed a stair and hurt his hip, and his aunt took him away to live with her because she could give him more care than Paolo’s parents could.

Though Paolo owned the chess set his grandfather had given him one Christmas, he had no opponent. Paolo’s mother, whose gift was growing things, held the title of ‘Botanicals Manager’ in the glass conservatory at a fine hotel. She worked all day. His father managed a cleaning crew at an office building downtown and worked at night. Neither played chess.

Paolo put a lot of thought into how to find an opponent, someone better than he was, deliberating on all the lessons in strategy his grandfather had taught him. One Sunday, when both his parents were home, he said, ‘I want to go to work with Papa.’ He knew there were women on his father’s crew who sometimes had to bring their children to work when they had no one to care for them.

His father smiled, thinking Paolo was finally taking an interest in his business, and his mother lifted her hands in the air. ‘It’s summer. Why not?’ she said.

So the first move began, though it wasn’t quite as challenging as chess. He was supposed to stay in the basement of the office tower, in a room with vending machines and tables, but after only a few nights, he learned the habits of the cleaning crew and knew when it was safe to venture out. His next move was to outwit the men in the dark blue security uniforms. It was too easy; they liked their soft chairs behind the lobby desk, and the security cameras were in another basement room he never saw them visit.

He discovered that while there were workers who stayed late into the night on some floors, the top floor was always empty. It was the nicest floor with the best furniture, the deepest carpet, and one Friday night he found what he was looking for in a corner office. The chess set was positioned between two leather chairs at a window. He spent only a moment looking down forty floors at the city below. Then his eyes fixed on the board of black and cream marble. It was the most beautiful set he’d ever seen, and he picked up several pieces, one at a time, testing the cold weight of each in his small hand.

He returned each piece to the board, chose a white pawn, and made the first move of the Budapest Gambit.

The weekend lasted forever, and on Monday night he began to worry that he was never going to be left alone in his basement exile. Finally he was able to dart up two flights of stairs then slide into an elevator. This was always the most dangerous move. He stayed small and still in the corner, hoping no one else would need to go higher in the building. Hoping, too, that no security guard went into the camera room for any reason. Though he never looked toward it, he knew the little eye in the upper panel was watching him.

Finally he was in the corner office. He shivered as he approached the table, and then he smiled, every muscle relaxing, every nerve quieting.

The black knight was in position. The game was on.”

I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.