"Somewhere off in the deep woods, you know between evergreen coated

mountains and a river, a train of thought was violently derailed; the
cars scattered, strewn about like a game of pyrotechnic Pick up
Sticks." I said with a slight grin.
    All this mayhem caused by one word, or grunt rather, from this
indomitable behemoth of an opponent that sat before me. I look back
down at my legions, trying desperately to regain whatever inkling of
control I had once possessed. All ten of my fingers squirming at a
furvirous pace; it was of no use at this point to try and conceal my
blatant nervousness.
    Again the noise came; I think it meant hurry up. I could faintly hear
the soles of his heavily worn wing tips tapping impatiently at the
Burmese marble slab at which we were  seated. Searching for another few
moments more of coveted contemplation, I took a glance up at the face
of the beast.
    He just peered out at me from behind his facial hair. His eyes look
squinted and black under the mass of eyebrow hair he had accumulated
over the years. The beard on this mans face starts, or ends rather,
just a centimeter or so from the eye sockets, where it is blended with
the runaway eyebrows. The combination eye, nose and throat hair hung in
a very unkempt, but fascinating manner to about the belt line, where it
tapers off into a point of sorts. On the reverse side, the labyrinth of
black hair dangled un-tethered down to and beyond the belt line and
looked as though something were being concealed inside. One time I had
asked for a reason, an explanation for the tangled mop of hair
follicles; he told me he wanted to be able to "tuck it into his
pockets." If it was intended to be a joke, the humor was totally lost
upon me.
    "Rook B-five."
     Immediately came his coarse response, "Bishop C-three."
    Again in a state of dismay, my eyes darting about rapidly at an R.E.M
sleep speed. The precision of his movements is baffling, and disturbing
for every time I speak it seems to cost me someone. Searching the
cavernous interior of my cranium for the list of scenarios appropriate
to my current circumstance is almost always a struggle. Today it seems
a bit more difficult because of my opponents sheer strategic prowess.
The man must have something along the lines of a photographic memory,
the evidence of my theory is displayed openly in his ability to be
prepared seemingly before I have decided on what it is that I am going
to do.
    One of the sidewalk meat-merchants just beyond the perimeter of the
woods knows this man as Larry; "Hairy Larry with the desert camouflage
jacket." The last name, which is stitched onto his right lapel is now
far less than legible, but resembles the word "Flint."  I have to
assume that this is not Larry's jacket because if my last name were
Flint, "in like Flint" would be my favorite thing to say; and said
often it would be. The black denim pants that cling desperately to
Larry's hips, look as though they only leave his body periodically,
perhaps just 3 times a year. Underneath the zipper sheath, and just
inside the pockets the material is still as dark and fresh as the day
of manufacturing; which leads me to believe that they have never once
been washed. On his knees and up towards the spot where the "gluts" and
thighs meet are holes; through which can be seen small portions of
Larry's skin that are considerably less coated with nappy tangles.
        The corners of his eyes long ago became the epicenter from which
shoot the deep laugh lines that tell me volumes about experiences he
may have had. Larry's two deep hazel eyes, most often kept behind the
protective shelter of his mighty eyebrow hair dart about rapidly,
sometimes making him look nervous or demented; but to me they look
frightened and timid. Larry is the sort of man you see struggling down
the sidewalk with an awkward pace and assume is about to snap; but in
all actuality, he is more likely to start crying.
    I can only imagine how difficult it is to try and make meaningful eye
contact if you were six foot one; and covered with a thick coating of
matted brown hair. This does not stop Larry, no not for one instant
could it keep him from being the bell of the "panhandlers ball"; a
social butterfly circumstances permitting. Only a connoisseur of combat
or those who can spot well kempt wing tips on a wayfarer would know
Larry as a well educated and nimble conversationalist.
    I have seldom seen legendary Larry elsewhere but the great marble cube
of conquest we sat at presently; but occasionally the sight of a
camouflaged neanderthal shuffling down Forty-ninth street can be seen.
On April  second, nineteen and ninety six, I had the good fortune of
running, literally headlong into Larry for the first time.
Coincidentally he and I both had business on West Forty-ninth that fine
spring day. Coming about a corner at great speed while juggling a
twenty pound briefcase and a "tall drip" in an obscenely tall paper
mug, I stopped microns from distributing my steaming caffeinated load
evenly all over Larry, who just brushed enough disgruntle eyebrow hair
away so that a brief wink could be seen. I said that I was dreadfully
sorry about the near collision but needed to keep on my way, for I was
uncharacteristically late for my appointment of destruction with a man
that calls himself Dr. Payne.
    Larry let out a bit of a snicker at that point, just a few puffs of
air escaping on each syllable.
    "Dr. Payne was invited to be my opponent in your absence and was
consequently excused promptly." Another sputter of giggles trickled
 from between his teeth as he leaned back into the alien stride he had
become accustomed too.
    Before he had sidled on too far I spoke up; "Wait" I said hesitantly.
"Any man who could dispose of a highly reputable figure such as Payne
in twenty minutes or less must be more than worthy of my time."
    Larry's foot stopped mid-stride atop a pebble that ground audibly to a
halt beneath the pressure then turned to me with a brown toothed smile
and said, " I've all the time in the world."        That was six years ago.
Today, every Sunday, at noon hour, we meet at the two ton stones, and
settle disputes ages old over opposing colors and squares. Once he had
told me over a game, that I was intentionally dragging out, that he had
learned the game from his "here one day and gone the next, junkie of a
father."
    "How could a junkie teach a game, as complex as this, so well?"
    "He couldn't; but I could read"
    "Knight A-one."
    "Queen A-one." His reply calm and calculated, rehearsed even.
    The little voice in my head was shouting and throwing furniture. A man
this crazy should not be able to agitate me so, and yet he does, with
astonishing brutality. Larry truly humiliates me; the way his sand
paper voice penetrates my soul, makes me quiver with inferiority. Slow
unwavering movements, undoubtedly planned out minutes in advance,
leading inevitably to my swift demise. Three hundred and thirty-six
scrimmages have taught me little but to look for genius in even the
most unlikely places. Larry is the only man I know that drinks wine
 from a water bottle while holding court; at the head of a long line of
challengers in the most central of parks.
    My tie was flapping in the wind, over my left shoulder as my right
hand made the last move of the day.
    "Queen E-three."
    As the last bit of  "e"  left my lips the first leaf of autumn fell;
kind of symbolic of the days events. The end of the year was coming
indeed. Late at night Larry sporadically introduces himself to my
thoughts; where does Larry go in the winter? The leaf plummeted
gracefully for nearly thirty feet before taking refuge on the ground
just beneath the tree it had departed from, the tree just behind
Larry's left shoulder.
    "The leaves have fallen; much like you my friend."
    "Without much resistance and over a short span of time?"
    "I was going to say gracefully...Queen A-three...check and mate."
    "You are a filthy cheater Larry, a filthy cheater; I will see you next
Sunday same time"
    Larry just nodded at me, and then to the fellow who was standing in
line behind me.