Eric R. Widen

 

 

“Well, we’re in quite a pickle now, aren’t we Frank?”

“No, Marty. We were in a pickle when our boat ran out of gas. We were in trouble when we aimlessly drifted for two days. We were royally screwed when the storm came, and, finally, we were sent to our graves when we landed here.”

They both sat in the sand with their backs against the one remaining tree that jutted out from the small spit of land. They loosely draped their hands over their knees as they sheepishly admired the small raft that they had constructed from the debris from Frank’s boat and the one other tree that the island—if one would have even called it an island—had offered. Their hopes were high when they had first begun construction; however, upon completion, they came to the bleak realization that the raft was only strong enough to hold one of them.

“So, what do we do now?” Marty asked. He shook the sand out from his loose cargo shorts, and then he used the side of his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt to wipe the glistening sweat from his brow. A gold chain hung around his neck, and it draped over the nest of gray hair that twisted and tangled about his exposed chest—a signature piece for wealthy, retired old men.

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Frank asked. “One of us needs to hop onto that raft and get out of here,” he plainly said with a nod.

Marty’s eyes widened. “What? You expect one of us to just sail off into the sunset while the other one stays behind to die?”

Frank spoke calmly, as if the two of them were back at the office, and he was making a new business proposal. “There are means of survival.”

Marty sprang to his feet, and then he challengingly spread his arms as he rattled off several questions. “What would he eat?”

Frank looked directly into Marty’s eyes, and he only moved his lips as he answered. “He could fish.”

“What would he drink?”

“It could rain.”

“Where would he sleep?”

Frank folded his hands behind his head, and then he closed his eyes as he feigned comfort. “This is a wonderful tree.”

“Frank!” Marty shouted in protest.

Frank rose to his feet, and then he put his hand onto Marty’s shoulder, the same way that he had, back when they were in business together. “I’m only thinking realistically, Marty. I mean, think about it. The best-case scenario is that the one on the raft returns with rescue. The worst-case scenario is that he doesn’t, which is more or less the equivalent of destroying the damned raft and accepting certain death for the both of us, right here, as it is.”

Marty fell silent for quite some time. His eyes flickered as he continuously shifted his gaze among Frank, the raft, and the open sea.

Frank felt the muscles in Marty’s shoulder begin to loosen, and he noticed the tense expression begin to melt away from his face. He knew that he had won when Marty had finally let out a defeated “huff” as he plopped into the sand and then dropped his hands to his sides. “How would we even decide who gets the raft, anyway?”

Frank smirked as he sat down and assumed the same position as his friend and former business partner. He knitted his brow as he pretended to think. Frank had already formulated a plan within moments after he had realized that the raft only had seating for one. He decided to play koi for a good sixty seconds, however, lest Marty get suspicious of his immediate proposal.

Marty spoke up before Frank’s allotted time had passed, and he derailed Frank’s pretend train of thought. “Why don’t we flip a coin, or a rock, or… something?”

“Oh, no, Marty,” Frank said as if he was mildly offended. “These could be our last moments together. Don’t you think that we should do something more meaningful than flip a rock?”

“Well, what are you thinking, Frank?”

Frank rubbed his thumb against his chin, he squinted his eyes, and he looked out at the ocean as he thought aloud. “Well, we should have some sort of an ode to our past—something to honor and celebrate our friendship. We should…” He clapped his hands, and then he smiled at his life-long friend as he dramatized a counterfeit epiphany. He picked a small shell up from the sand, and then he placed it in front of Marty as if he was moving a piece in a board game as he proudly announced a single word: “Chess!”

Marty shot him a questioning look as he repeated, “chess?”

“Well, sure, Marty. It’s only fitting. Remember that we used to play a game against each other during lunch, every day at the office!”

“Yeah, and I also remember you beating me every day, at the office.”

“Oh, come now, Marty. I didn’t win every time.”

“Mostly every time…”

“Oh, where is your sense of appreciation for tradition? What better way to decide our fate than an old-fashioned ‘may the best man win’ in a gentlemen’s game of chess? The winner will set off on the raft in the morning.”

Marty fell silent again. Frank knew that he had gotten a spark. He had offered an apple, but what Marty wanted was apple pie. Frank reached into the oven, and he pulled out just what Marty had wanted. “Not only may this be our last game of chess together,” he said as he pointed his finger into the air in a ‘hold on’ motion, “but it may be our last drink together, as well.”

Frank reached behind the tree, he rummaged through the belongings that they had managed to salvage from the wreck, and then he produced a bottle of liquor. “This may be the last bottle that either of us ever sees; therefore, its value is substantial. Every sip from it must be earned.” He slammed the bottle down into the sand. “So, to make the game both, interesting and fair, every time a piece is captured, the captor takes a drink.” He jiggled the bottle and the brown liquid jostled about, within. “It will serve as a celebration of each minor victory, and we will also be honorably offering each other a slight advantage by metaphorically shoving the tip of one’s own blade into his gut.” He tapped his temple. “In chess, your mind is your weapon, and alcohol dulls its edge.”

Marty fell silent again. Frank saw the wheels turning. He wiped the sand away from his hand, along the leg of his denim shorts, he placed both of his hands around the neck of his white short-sleeved shirt as he attempted to adjust his tie, which wasn’t there—habits—, and then he combed his hair over to the side with his fingers as he continued to push his proposal. “We will draw the checkered board in the sand.” He snatched the shell from the sand, and then he held it up in between Marty’s eyes. “We will each use a shell to represent our kings, and for the rest of the pieces, we’ll just write their initials into the sand with our fingers. We will simply wipe them away and then rewrite them as we move the pieces.”

“You’re crazy, Frank,” Marty said with a smile as he shook his head. “Those are the exact words that I said to you when you first came to me about starting a business.”

Frank’s face grew deadly serious as he leaned in toward his friend, and he wagged his finger. “And was that very day not the beginning of the rest of your life?”

Marty leaned back and then crossed his arms. “So, a life-or-death game of drunken-chess?” He laughed as he shook his head. “And to think that I just wanted to flip a rock.”

Frank sketched the checkered board into the sand while Marty located two shells which were worthy of serving as their kings. After they had scribbled the initials of all of their pieces onto the board, placed their kings within their rightful positions, and then respectfully stuck the bottle into the sand, off to the side, so that it had a perfect view of the game, they were ready to begin.

They both sat opposite of each other, cross-legged in the sand. They stared down at the make-shift chessboard for quite some time before Frank spoke up. “I insist that you go first, Marty.”

“You always preferred to go second,” Marty snapped. “You’ve probably already got a plan, so, you go first.”

Frank smirked and raised his eyebrows. “Very well,” he said as he reached down to move his first piece.

Marty’s hand shot out, and he motioned for Frank to halt. “No! You probably wanted me to say that because you actually wanted to go first.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. “Ugh, I’m already losing this game, and we haven’t even begun yet.”

Frank chuckled. “Marty, do you remember when you used to question my business decisions, and I would compare running a business to waging war?” He folded his hands and looked his friend in the eye. “In war, you must neutralize and eradicate every emotion. Emotions make you question yourself, they make you hesitate, and they make you dead. The best decision may also be the cruelest decision; however, in war, that decision may mean life or death. If one is unable to formulate a strategy simply because of his emotions, then that man has no place at the war-table, and his rightful place is in a grave. The best man wins. War is war, and that is exactly what we’re doing right now, Marty.” He reached down, and then he moved his first piece. “We’re at war.”

It took Marty nearly ten minutes to make his first move. Frank immediately countered. “Jesus,” Marty frantically blurted out. His nerves, however, were not nearly as frazzled as they became several moves later, when he found himself in a position to take one of Frank’s pawns. Over the years, Marty had learned that the only time that he ever had the opportunity to capture one of Frank’s pieces was when Frank had wanted him to.

Marty perpetually ran every possible scenario through his head, and he assured himself that Frank had no means of a counterattack. He eventually took a deep breath and made his move.

All of Marty’s fears were instantly liberated once he saw utter shock electrocute Frank’s face. Frank’s eyes skittered across the board, as if he was going to find a way to reverse what had happened. Frank quickly gathered himself, and it only took him a moment to regain his composure. “Nice move,” he blankly stated as he snatched the bottle from the sand, and then he stretched his arm across the board and handed it to Marty.

Marty wrapped his lips around the bottle, and then he kicked back the largest gulp that his mouth had allowed. He had already felt his nerves begin to dissipate before the burn had even faded from his throat.

Frank analyzed the board for a moment before he had made his next move. He moved his bishop within range of Marty’s knight. Marty made the obvious move, and he took Frank’s bishop with his knight. After Marty had taken another generous gulp from the bottle, Frank had erased the initial of his queen, and he prepared to take Marty’s knight. He stopped himself; however, when he had realized that Marty would have been able to capture his queen with his own queen.

“Recognizing which piece is where is rather difficult without actual pieces,” Frank said as he nervously attempted to adjust his imaginary tie. He took his minor defeat to the chin, and then he simply moved one of his pawns.

Unfortunately for Frank, he was consistently two steps behind, from that point onward. His board-control was at a dangerous disadvantage, and after only ten moves, Marty had captured four of his pieces.

Two moves later, Marty had taken Frank’s fifth piece— his other bishop.

“I must admit that you are off to a good start,” Frank nervously said as he cleared his throat and then combed over his hair, “but, it all comes down to the checkmate.”

Marty laughed like a madman as he waved his fists in the air. He snatched the bottle from the sand, and then he tossed back a victorious gulp.

Before Marty had even realized it, he had taken every one of Frank’s pieces, with the exception of his king. “That’s… that’s not looking too good for you, man.” His drunken words stumbled out of his mouth as if they were tripping over his lips.

Frank continuously moved the shell, which represented his final piece, out of harm’s way, as Marty used every one of his remaining pieces to sloppily chase it down.

“You know, life is a game of chess,” Frank said as he moved his shell one space to the right. “You, obviously, are the king, and all of the people who are around you are your pieces. The common-folk are your pawns. They are drastically inferior, yet infinitely useful. Those whom you more closely associate with are rooks, knights, or bishops. They wield great power, yet, you still use them all the same.”

Marty moved his rook across the board, and then Frank moved his king to the right an additional space as he continued. “You may only come across a handful of people in your lifetime who are as valuable as queens: A wife, a child, a best friend. They may mean more to you than words could ever explain, but they, too, are merely pieces on the board. They all share the same purpose: to serve king. He moves them, he positions them, and, when he needs to, he sacrifices them.”

Marty moved his final piece into place. Frank spread his hands out in acknowledgement of his defeat. “That’s it,” he announced.

Marty jiggled the bottle so that the last remnants of its contents fluttered around, within. “That’s it,” Marty mumbled. “Checkmate.” He kissed the bottle, kicked back a victorious swig, and then he spread his arms as he lazily reclined into the sand and closed his eyes.

Frank smiled from ear to ear as his friend fell into a drunken slumber. “Yeah,” he echoed, “Checkmate.”

 

Frank loomed over his best friend. His pride simply didn’t allow him to leave without making a statement. “You chipped away at your king with every piece that I let you capture.” He paused after he had bent over and patted his friend on the chest. He looked over at the bottle, which was loosely resting in the sand with Marty’s fingers lazily wrapped around it.

Frank hadn’t allowed himself to capture a single one of Marty’s pieces. He needed to stay sharp. He stared at the bottle for quite some time, before he snatched it out from Marty’s incapacitated grip. “One for the road,” he said to himself as he raised the bottle to his lips and then tossed back a generous swig. He returned the bottle to the sand, wrapped Marty’s fingers back around it, and then he kissed his friend on the forehead, as if he was leaning over a casket and offering a final sign of love to the deceased. He scribbled a word into the sand, underlined it, and then he pushed the raft into the water and set off.

 

Marty awoke to the gleam of the sun and the whooshing sound of the rolling waves. It took a moment for his inebriated mind to bring his situation into focus. “Frank,” he grumbled as he rubbed his eyes and then pushed himself up onto his elbows and leaned back in the sand. He cupped his hand over the top of his eyes to serve as a visor to block out the sun.

“Frank!” he repeated, but only the waves cared to respond. He twisted himself around, and then he scanned the empty sand of the beach that surrounded him. Neither his friend, nor the raft, was anywhere to be found.

“No!” he squeaked as he attempted to climb to his feet, but he staggered, and then he fell onto his hands and knees. He looked downward at the sand that swallowed his fingers. His eyes slowly rolled upward as he noticed familiar patterns that were etched in the sand, just a few feet in front of him. His mind started to bring the familiar blurry curves and lines into focus. They were letters!

…His heart sank.

A chill swept over his entire body as he read the one word that his best friend had left for him, in the sand: ‘Checkmate’.