It can just as easily be the pressure to protect that drove Morphy, Fischer, and Luzhin mad—Nabokov’s title pointing us in that direction—the paranoia cultivated by hours over the board imagining the ways your adversary might attempt to destroy your kingdom, the stress of escaping from the blitzkrieg of a foe, and then the endgame, where the major pieces have fallen, and your king is out in the open, exposed, the piece you had been shielding from action, now expected to lead the charge in the phase of the game where checks are fired at you at every turn, sending you scrambling for shelter behind a pawn.
When Luzhin entered the room with the bucket and drummer, he saw a knight and a pawn but no king. His majesty was elsewhere, tormenting Luzhin from afar.
They decided to waive the last task on the list, fading on a blunt. It was getting late, and there was only so long you can keep that many of us together, but I still had to pull a runner, a bottle of malt liquor the objective. Sharing a forty would end the night.
SHIM and I went into the liquor store alone. An Arab guy with a light beard sat behind a high counter. The store was small and cramped like we were inside this guy’s trailer home. We opened the fridge and each grabbed a bottle of St. Ides. We slithered down the narrow aisle, and the cashier glared at us.
“Put that back!” He slammed his hand on the counter.
We darted out the door and down the block, past a crowd of dope fiends who cheered us on. The Arab guy was giving chase. He was big, a bear. “You son of a bitch!” he said. I ducked into an alley, forcing him to commit to one thief. He stayed on my tail, close enough I could hear him panting. I tucked the perspiring bottle of malt liquor under my arm like a football, and the bear began to recede in the dark, but his roar didn’t fade. A cry sharp and desperate, it boomed through the alley, an echo I couldn’t outrun.
fake it till you make it
I’d just started at City, turned eighteen, when I learned Bah Ba’s name was dropped from our lease. He’d still send checks, but it was official—he was no longer part of our household. Wouldn’t have to fly back for those meetings with the housing authority, and he’d be spared from having to see us, and from us having to see him. It was a joint decision between him and my mother, perhaps mutually beneficial, though it wasn’t clear who came up with the idea. Four years would pass before I’d see him again.
Ga Jeh was still going to City as well, finishing up her associate degree in the Hotel and Restaurant program. I’d stop over at the cafeteria, and she’d come out from the kitchen in her chef outfit and hook me up with lunch. I didn’t know what she had planned after graduation, whether she’d be a cook or work in a hotel. All that seemed certain was that community college would be the end of her education. She was ready for a full-time job, enough money for her own place.
I had to get used to rolling solo bolo. Rob and most of my friends were a year younger, still trying to graduate high school. The friends I knew at City, we’d see each other around and stop to chat, but hanging out at a community college wasn’t like high school. Nobody posted up in the hallways. People were in and out. They had jobs. I had two. One at a video store, the first time someone ever called me “Sir.” The other was tutoring two elementary school kids. We’d read together at the library, easy money. Sometimes their grandpa—their moms and pops were out of the picture—had to work late, so I’d take the kids for pizza. Other times he’d work so late I’d take the two of them back home to Oakland on the BART, walking them to their house in the Fruitvale, past taquerias and prostitutes.
I got the tutoring job on the strength of my first report card at City, four As and a B. Maybe my turnaround had something to do with the collegiate atmosphere. Teachers weren’t interested in controlling you. Didn’t ask you to take off your hat, force you to spit out your gum, and no more senseless worksheets. Best of all, you didn’t need permission to take a piss. And if you thought a teacher was lame, you could drop the class with no hassle. Not like in high school, where you had to persuade a counselor who’d give you some BS, talking about how in life you couldn’t change your boss.
After that first report card, transferring to a big-time college was possible. Universities wouldn’t factor my high school grades into admission, an offer to expunge the past.
My brother had quit City, and now he’d quit his job stocking shelves at Toys “R” Us. His new goal: become a millionaire. His path to riches—peddling water filters. Boxes of them sat neatly stacked in our room. The blue gadgets were also installed under our kitchen and bathroom sinks. They stood a foot tall, shaped like a torpedo head.
“Equinox is nothing like a pyramid scheme,” my brother said. He didn’t sound defensive about my accusation. Far from it, he acted like I’d lobbed him an alley-oop, an excuse to yap on about his company, how they made $200 million in revenue, how his friends were raking in
