Fake Tales of San Francisco (mostly) - The Game

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The homeless and mentally ill of San Francisco are surprisingly accomplished at chess. How I should come across this notion, oh best beloved, I am sure you are gagging to be told. Well... As Keenan and Kel (Peace Be Upon Them) once said: awwwwwww heeeeerrre gooes!

There is no end of vibrations between the sprawling blocks on the North side of the city. My stay here is chiefly of instrumental value this time around - gathering equipment for Burning Man which I do not know I need yet is the mission statement. I carry out this arduous task in parallel with my client who cannot be named for legal reasons. However her gender can be revealed. She is the laid back type, through and through. A worthy travel companion who possesses an exquisite understanding with animals, you understand. We orbit in different circles for the most part but where there is collision there is light.

This afternoon I entered The Dragon. The Wal-Mart of which I speak was at least twice as big as any other room I have ever been in. I sell my soul in exchange for camping equipment - tent, sleeping mat, tarpauline, mug, processed foods, but no pet monkey - while she rides across the Golden Gate Bridge on a bike recently purchased for 20 dollars from a kindly old Chinese Man on Sacremento Street. Our roles up until now should start to be apparent... transparent.

However I digress. We sit facing each other in our burnished thrones. I am white and moved first accordingly; a rather conventional opening proceeds up until fate twists his knife and my queen is taken. With a dented ego and a depleted battery my moves become hasty, frenzied, hysterical until the tactical errors become what must be the content of a chess grand master's nightmare. This process, I am told by the deeply wrinkled black man in a wheelchair opposite me, is significant - a reflection on my approach in life - my path. My tragetory.
He fills me in:

"Everything in everybody's life is... significant. And everybody is alert, watching for the meanings. And the vibrations."

But anyway this talk just flows. Everyone is picking up on the most minute incidents as if they are metaphores for life itself. Everyone's life becomes more fabulous, every minute, than the most fabulous book. It's phony, goddamn it.. but mysterious.. and after a while it starts to infect you like an itch
in a part of your body that does not exist.

So I am defeated and wave goodbye to the one dollar wager placed on the game. So long oh majestic Eagle, a piece of preyper fluttering in the coastal breeze. Farewell.

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