Pattern Play

Chapter 1

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Same sound. Same pitch. Same moment.

The alarm blared. The sudden noise sharp and shrill, and far too loud for a morning this still.

Michael groaned, squinting against the strip of light leaking through the curtains. He reached out, slapping blindly at the snooze button through the glare. Missed. Tried again. And again. Finally, fourth time lucky.

“Gotta replace this damn thing,” he muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Wakes the dead two boroughs over.”

He swung his legs off the bed, planted his feet on the cold floor, and ran a hand across his stubbled cheek. Yawned.

All part of the ritual.

Get woken by an alarm that could wake the dead.

Complain about said alarm.

Sit up and feel the stubble that grew overnight, while he yawns and debates buying slippers for the cold floor.

“It’s only going to get worse when winter hits,” he kept telling himself. Now, winter was just around the corner, and he still hadn’t bought slippers. At only 47 years, he felt buying slippers was for old people. And he wasn’t old, not that his sore joints believed him.

The rest followed without thought.

Turn on the radio.

Stretch.

Pee.

Strip the pyjamas, drag on today’s clothes.

Just routine. All of it. Always.

While he was pulling on his jeans, the radio stopped singing its classical music and the news came on.

“Good morning, New York. It’s time for the 6 o’clock news,” the radio spoke, then continued to highlight all the news, and none of it good. Wall Street hinting at yet another rate hike, minor earthquake hitting New Jersey, more protests in Times Square, and yet again more bomb threats. This time at the Bublix he goes so, just halfway up the block from here.

He stared dumbly at the radio, that last news story stuck out.

“Why would anyone want to bomb a Bublix, of all places?” He said aloud, as if the radio itself could answer the question. Instead, the radio just continued speaking.

“It’s a brisk morning, so make sure to wear a jumper out there. The date is Saturday October 23rd and that was the 6 o’clock news update.” The radio finally stopped talking and more classical music started to fill the air.

He left the radio playing as he slipped on his joggers and trudged toward the kitchen. But even the draw of his need for morning coffee didn’t stop him noticing the crooked painting in the hall. A single pawn, ink-brushed onto white canvas, framed in a narrow matte-black border. Clean. Precise. A gift to him from himself almost 20 years back now. His very own 30th birthday present. With a nudge of a finger, the frame squared off perfectly. And now, coffee.

The coffee machine groaned to life with a few splutters and a gurgle, and he dropped two slices of bread into the old metal toaster, and he still hadn’t gotten around to fixing the timer dial that stuck halfway. Which he was reminded of again when the smoke alarm started blaring as he poured coffee into his mug, the sudden noise almost causing him to drop both the mug and the glass pot of hot, black, precious caffeine.

The toast, dead. Totally black. The tea towel he used to wave in front of the smoke alarm, folded neatly in the laundry basket, ready for the next load of washing. At least he had his coffee.

By 9:40 he was already out the door, bag slung over one shoulder, chessboard inside, pieces neatly tucked into their individual pouches. The same route, the same destination. Central Park. Table twelve. Stone top, iron legs. His temple, his battlefield.

Every Saturday at 10 a.m., without fail.

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The coffee in his stomach providing the warmth and drive to move this morning, he locked his apartment door and started down the flights of stairs. Living on the fourth floor and no lift made for quite the workout, not counting his walk toward Central Park. That would add another 15 minutes work of exercise into his day.

Exiting his building, he was confronted with the usual sights. Living on the corner of Amsterdam and W72nd, the drone and flow of traffic was persistent and never ending. He witnessed a near accident, an old blue sedan with a dented fender went too close to the kerb and nearly went up. The foot traffic wasn’t much better, either. It was a constant line of dogs being walked and people jogging, even to get across them felt too much like that old arcade game; Frogger.

There was enough space to step out, but one wrong move and he’d be bowled over. Not today though. He picked his gap in the crowd and crossed without incident, sidestepping a golden retriever with a bright red bandana, and started heading toward the morning sun. Letting it warm the side of his face as he began the familiar walk to the park.

His own joggers made their trademark thump on the pavement, along a well trodden path he’d done so many times he could do it with his eyes closed. Assuming there was no one around to bump into. Along the way he ticked off the landmarks. First, was always the coffee vendor, right near the bakery. The smell of the welcoming bitter beans mixing with the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread. But no stopping, no time today, plus he’s had a coffee already. There’s a chess board waiting for him. To win.

Next came the subway entrance at Verdi Square, just past the triangle of benches and half-dead shrubs. Someone was always playing something there, today it was a guy with a saxophone who only seemed to know two notes. The pigeons didn’t care. Neither did he, as he kept on walking past. He’d caught sight of his destination.

The trees seen first, the patches of green breaking up the monotony of glass and grimy concrete. Their leaves shimmered in the sunlight, a calm kind of movement he didn’t get from the city. Then came the fence, cast-iron and flaking in spots, marking the edge of Central Park like a line drawn between two worlds.

Stepping through the gates, it was a whole new world. The noise shifted too. Less honking, more birds. The footsteps grew lighter, the dogs less frantic. Someone played a guitar down by the fountain, too far to make out the tune, just close enough to feel it settle behind the ribs. Sounded much more in tune than the saxophone guy.

By the time Michael reached the Chess & Checkers House, the sun had begun to thread itself through the thinning canopy of orange and copper leaves. The little brick pavilion sat just where it always did, nestled between the winding paths and the tall oaks that now stood half-bare, their fallen leaves swirling in lazy spirals across the stonework.

It wasn’t grand. Just a squat, red-brick structure with a moss-dark roof and four open archways that faced the park. Inside, nothing but quiet benches, a corkboard cluttered with old flyers, and a clock that hadn’t worked right since the early ’80s. But outside? Outside was where it came alive.

The stone tables out front were carved right into the patio, checkerboard patterns etched in black and cream. A few regulars had already taken their spots, bundled in jackets, breath just visible in the crisp air. The iron chairs scraped as they shifted into place, the sound sharp but familiar.

Michael reached his table, his personal battlefield of the mind. Table twelve. The one where he hadn’t lost a game in years. Tucked at the edge, near a low wall crusted with lichen. Same corner, same tilt of sunlight. His opponent wasn’t there yet. They were never there before him.

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“Checkmate.”

Michael’s smugness came through heavily. His opponent didn’t mind, it always ended the same way. For them, it was opportunities to learn, to better their own game. Not for the first loss today though, they just smiled back, a simple honest one that showed there were no hard feelings.

Somewhere across the rooftops, a bell struck twice. He paused, halfway through setting up the board again, hand still hovering over a piece. Two o’clock already? No wonder his stomach was starting to chew on itself. It took only a moments deliberation before he started packing away his pieces. In they went, one by own, into their own well worn felt pouches. Acts of reverence.

“I’m done for today, I’m starving,” Michael explained as he described the toast mishap his morning.

“Happens to the best of us all,” his opponent replied as they swept their pieces carelessly into what their trademark old, battered briefcase.

With a handshake and farewells made, they parted ways. He couldn’t get the aroma of fresh bread out of his mind, and his stomach growled its answer. There will be food in his stomach before he gets home. In the end, he went with a simple hotdog from the weekend vendor, just inside the park’s barrier before the loud, noisy world resumed.

The hotdog, loaded with onion and mustard, hit the spot. Not good for his waist, not bad on the taste, and rather light on the wallet. It ticked most of the boxes. He’d already decided as he left the green sanctuary, full bellied, and into the grey and glass jungle that we would have those leftover sausages for dinner. Already cooked, wrapped in clingfilm and waiting in the fridge to be consumed.

Every step heading toward the grey clouds covering the afternoon sun solidified that resolve, along with the mental replaying of today’s chess games. And how he can improve next week. Win with fewer moves next time.

It wasn’t until he’d automatically stopped outside the familiar building that he realised he was home. In front of him was the old brick building, five stories tall and random AC units jutting from windows, the red brick accented by the zig zags of the wrought iron fire escapes.

After fishing in his pocket, the jangle of keys as the main door unlocked, checking his mailbox out of pure habit to find it empty… of course it would be empty, it’s Saturday… and ascending the stairs. Once inside his apartment and his chess pieces stowed lovingly in their spot, he went about his peaceful afternoon routine until it was time for bed. Tomorrow was Sunday. Church day. Fulfilling, exhausting, predictable. Still… he hoped this one might be different.

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