“Can I borrow your car?” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

“Mine’s not reliable,” he said.

“Which one?” I said.

“What?”

“Which car do you want to borrow, the Subaru or the Infiniti?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.

My son was being polite.

“Your choice,” I said.

“The Subaru then,” he said. “I’m in charge of the music at the wedding. You’re coming, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“The wedding’s at Log Haven in Millcreek canyon,” he said. “It might snow.”

“The Subaru is a good choice then,” I said. . .

The wedding was lovely. We left after the bride and groom danced, but before they cut the cake.

The road was covered with snow on the trip up the canyon, but it was clear as we started back down. I wasn’t driving fast, no more than 25 or 30 miles per hour. We came around a corner, and I felt the car losing traction, I knew instantly it was black ice, and not just a little. It was like finding yourself on an Olympic sized ice rink when you thought you were in an easy chair just watching the show. I was having trouble keeping the car on the road. The car skidded to the right, I steered right, the car skidded left I steered left, but still no traction. We continued to gain speed. Gravity, and the ice were working together and not to our benefit. A car came around the corner up the canyon. I could see the terrified look on the passenger’s face as we passed just inches a way. I thought we might end up in the creek. I thought we might even roll if we went over the embankment. I thought, this is serious.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join together this car and this bridge abutment.

We survived. The damage to the car was considerable while we escaped with minor injuries. The seat belts may have saved our lives.

A county sheriff told us we were the only ones to have trouble with the ice. He came down the canyon just minutes after us and didn’t encounter any black ice. We should have stayed for the cake cutting.

The news of our close call spread rapidly. A few days later I heard from my cousin.

“I heard you were in an accident,” she said. “ I’m so glad you are ok. Do you remember the tale Granddad B liked to tell about black ice?”

“I don’t,” I said.

Dad was coming home and hit a patch of black ice, slammed into a cow that rolled over the windshield, smashing the roof on its way over. By the time he got home, a neighbor had already gotten through on the party line to tell Granddad about the accident. ‘Course the tale had been a bit garbled by the time Granddad heard it. In the version he heard, it was a guy was hit.

Dad came home, and was asked “Is it true Son? Did you hit him?” My dad laughed and said, “I think it was a she, but yep, I sure did. She rolled right over the windshield, and she’s sure enough dead all right!” He laughed again, and said, “but it’s ok, the car’s a bit dented but drives ok.”

I went to the salvage yard today to recover some personal items from the Infiniti. The insurance company said it was totaled. The change was gone, but the CDs, a sunshade for the windshield, a scrapper for ice and snow, miscellaneous receipts, an air gauge, and a Swiss army knife were still there. It was opening the trunk when the memories flooded back. The bumper sticker told the story. Obey Gravity it’s the law.

I picked up a new car today a Hyundai Elantra, the bargaining was fierce. I offered, he counter offered, I added features that he should include at the same price, he agreed but only on the condition that I buy him a box of Twinkies®.

“What color have you decided on?” he said.

“I’d go with the red, but police ticket red cars more often than others,” I said.

It’s a myth, he said.

“Okay, red then,” I said, “but you pay for any tickets.”

I returned a few days later to complete my part of the bargain, the Twinkies®.

“Thanks,” he said and laughed. “How are you liking your car?”

“I like it,” I said.

“Got any tickets yet?” he said and smiled.

“No, no tickets,” I said, “but a patrol car has been following me ever since I left your lot last week.”

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“It’s a wandering eye,” he said.

“What?”

“A wandering eye, I saw you staring. My eye is always looking this way or that, it’s out of sync with the other eye. It’s always been that way,” he said.

“No, I was—”

“Yes it sometimes looks in a different direction, unnerving isn’t it?”

“No, I wasn’t looking at your eye,” I said.

“It’s okay,” he said, “everybody does. No need to feel embarrassed, I’m not. Yep pretty strange looking that. Some people think it’s Lazy Eye but that’s different. That’s Amblyopia, wandering eye is classified as Strabismus, mine is unilateral Strabismus.”

“Can I ask you a question about your wandering eye,” I said.

“Sure, no problem. Education is the key, right? Go for it.”

“Well, I was wondering if your wandering eye can see that bit of spinach stuck between your teeth?”

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That’s the last thing I remember thinking. But, when I opened my eyes, up was down and down was up. The seat belt was doing a good job of holding me in place, but the assorted objects that had been resting comfortably on the floor, and on the seat, and in the glove box, a box that popped open on the first rotation of the car, were all obeying the laws of physics as they flew about.

A baseball bat from the floor behind my seat, carefully placed there to protect me should some punk decide to do me harm, flew near my head striking the windshield. I felt like the target of those physical laws, never mind that they didn’t know me from the bat. I was on my way to the National Open in Las Vegas to play chess, but now I was on my way to the hospital. I arrived at the Montevista, where an x-ray revealed no broken bones, but missed a nice collection of bruises. The doctor said I’d be sore for a few days and offered me drugs. I said, “no” but he insisted. “Just in case you change your mind,” he said. I don’t like to take drugs, they make my mind all fuzzy, and a fuzzy mind is the last thing a chess player needs.

I took a cab, East on W Rochelle, a right at Durville, right again at W Flamingo and then, Las Vegas Boulevard, the center of all the action. I soon arrived at the Riviera; the site of the weekend of chess I had planned before my restful trip across the desert.

I checked into my room in the Monaco Tower, and headed for the casino. I saw a friend, Harold, at the roulette wheel and stopped to talk for a minute. Harold has a system. He only bets on black or red, choosing the opposite of what has recently come up. He’s a smart fellow, and yet I haven’t convinced him that his system is bunk. “The wheel has no memory.” I say. I’ve repeated the phrase so frequently over the years that it’s started to sound like something a Buddhist monk would chant. Harold doesn’t make his bet because he thinks the wheel is flawed, but rather because it just feels true, the opposite color is due. I try again, the wheel has no memory It’s not like chess, I say, where your moves do influence the outcome, but alas Harold and the gambler’s fallacy are married for time and all eternity.

In a Swiss-system tournament, the top of half of the field is paired with the bottom half of the field. There are no eliminations. You can lose every damn round, if you don’t play well your only choice is to deal with the blow to your ego and go on, or withdraw. If you knew you were going to lose the choice would be easy, but you don’t, and so you play.

I started quickly, winning my first round game in 19 moves. The second round was a strange one, the bumps and bruises made themselves known, and in the beginning I felt uncomfortable at the board. The feeling only lasted a while. And then, I reached a trance like state. I was seeing everything. The pieces seemed to be moving themselves. I could have drifted off, taken a short nap, and I’m certain that when I awoke the pieces would have continued to find the right squares. The result would follow inevitably, like the flotsam that had done the extreme makeover on the inside of my car a few days earlier.

Chess attracts all kinds, many of them quite strange. It’s expected, but this event would register a ten on the weirdness scale; the nuts outnumbered the geniuses by a wide margin.

At the coffee shop after the day’s final round, a player, I call him momma’s boy since he always travels to the tournaments with his mother. He must have won his last round, I don’t know how else to explain his behavior. But, he was going from table to table stabbing the air with his fork and yelling, “put a fork in him he’s done.” Security arrived a few minutes later and escorted him from the restaurant. I saw him later still playing in the tournament so they must have believed his explanation, though I can’t imagine what it was.

The third and fourth rounds were uneventful. There was nothing but the ticking of clocks, punctuated by a handshake, a signature on a score sheet, a smile, and a frown.

At the beginning of the fifth round, I observed a silent exchange between two players. One was waving his hand and pretending to write in the air. I understood it as a request for a pencil. The other player, paying no attention to his opponent’s antics, was setting his clock. The player looking for the pencil was now looking for a score sheet as well, something to fill out with the nonexistent pencil which he continued to wave about. Finally, one of the other players, anxious to begin his own game walked over to the table and placed a score sheet and pencil there, and turned to leave. Air writer said nothing, but checked the pencil for suitability, and then as if to punctuate an unpleasant situation, raised slightly off his chair, and farted.

The tournament ended Sunday night. I hadn’t played well. I blame my bumps and bruises, and the pain reliever I never took. I must however, report a final incident. A player’s opponent fell asleep at the board during the final round, and was snoring. His opponent tried to wake him up with a whispered admonition and failing that uttered a louder more forceful plea, which received a loud shushing from nearby players. He rose, walked around the table, placed his hand on his opponent’s shoulder, and shook him, first gently, and then more vigorously. His opponent woke with a start and swung his arms out in front of him and to the side sending the chess clock flying. The clock struck the head of the player to his right. The player took the full blow to his head, and fell to the floor. He wasn’t wearing a seat-belt, but a seat-belt never helps in an accident where an object just lying around, and then following the laws of physics becomes a lethal weapon.

That’s the thing about playing chess, you can close your eyes, catch some zees and when you open your eyes again nothing much has changed.

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I hadn’t seen Sonny for a while when I ran into him at the Mall. He flashed his hockey player smile, perfect teeth, not the originals, and under each arm he carried a small dog.

“Holy shit, it’s Sonny” I said. “I haven’t seen you for, uh—”

“Two years,” he said. “How ya doing?”

“Good,” I said. “Last time I saw you the dogs were bigger, and they were Dalmatians, and now you have two.” I hesitated.

“Maltese,” he said.

“Why the change?” I asked.

He smiled. “Little dog little doo doo, big dog big doo doo,” he said.

“Two dogs double the doo doo,” I said.

I thought about adding no dog no doo doo, but I didn’t.

I recently told this story to a friend, and when I finished she said, “I’d rather have a big dog.”

“Weren’t you listening?” I said. “Big dog big doo doo.”

“I heard you,” she said, “but I have experience with both. You’re right, big dog big doo doo, little dog little doo doo, but that’s only part of the story.”

“And,” I said.

“Big doo doo easy to see little doo doo not so easy.”

She was right. I thought about adding no dog no doo doo, but I didn’t.

You might be wondering what happened to Sonny. He finally decided on one of the two women and moved to Las Vegas where he launched a career as an Elvis Impersonator. I don’t know if he still has the two dogs.

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“I don’t wipe anymore,” he said.

“You don’t wipe,” I said.

“I haven’t wiped all winter,” he said, “my wiper is broken.”

“Your wiper is broken,” I said.

“Yes, my wiper is broken.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well the last time I tried to wipe nothing happened,” he said.

“Nothing happened?”

“That’s what I said, nothing happened.”

“I think this is the kind of problem you need to solve,” I said.

“I’ve tried,” he said, “I ordered a new one.”

“You ordered a new one; what does that mean?” I said.

“I ordered a new motor,” he said.

“Huh”

“I tried to get one on the cheap, but found that I could only get one from the source,” he said.

“You don’t mean from God do you?” I said. “You’re not going to quote scripture to me now are you?” There’s a time for wiping and a time to refrain from wiping; Ecclesiastes 3:?.

“Of course not, I mean the Toyota dealership, my car’s wiper motor is on the blink, I need a new one,” he said.

“Ha ha! I’ll bet you think you’re clever, a funny guy, don’t you?”

“Hey, there’s nothing funny about not being able to wipe.”

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