I met my neighbor Gene when my family moved to our new house in North East Philadelphia. Gene was in his mid-eighties then, a short, older guy wearing his old-school clothes and eyeglasses. He loved to play chess, and he would always ask me to play with him every time he saw me around. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gene. I am just a little busy today, maybe we’ll play next time?”

“Ok, sounds good. We’ll play next time.” Gene would say with his signature older men’s smile on his face. He was already excited to play a game whenever that would be. He was old and lonely, even back when his wife was still around. I never told him I have no clue how to play chess, but I always thought, what the hell, eventually, I will play with him. The old man might teach me a thing or two. He had 80 plus years of experience after all, and I was just an asshole, his next-door neighbor, who was trying to figure out what to do with my own life. 

I worked full-time then for the finance company in Southern Jersey at the time. I hated fucking it. I hated that company, financing, leasing, bullshitting, people who worked there and bullshitted their customers and bullshitted each other. I hated all people who stuck in the daily morning traffic over the Palmyra bridge driving to Jersey; I hated my colleagues, my asshole boss, and myself for working there and contributing to the great evil. It was around that time, back in 2016, when I discovered and was reading a lot of Charles Bukowski, and my world has changed along with me and everything I was about in this life. I loved his honesty, sense of humor, the ugly truth of the brutal reality, and the never-ending drunken shenanigans he lived through, and wrote about in his poetry and fiction works. But there was something else to it. There was the real-life feeling of hardship and misery, an enormous passion for writing, the close feeling of life and death with all this living on the edge full of despair and failure. Bukowski’s work inspired me to become a writer, and I remember that powerful feeling from the deep-down: “Fuck that finance company, I want to be a writer!” 

I always loved books but never had time to read anything. There was still something in the way, something more substantial, something else more urgent, more useless that just helped me to waste my precious time with no fucking benefit to my life long-term or otherwise. I slowly changed that habit and started to read more about different things. I’ve tried to read as much as possible as if I was catching up on the lost time. I loved to come home from work, feeling all fucking frustrated and used up, as usual, have my dinner and go to my room or sit in my front yard patio reading a book. The time stopped for me, the bullshit stopped, and I felt that there are things in life like books that are just beautiful and can help me forget all that horseshit I had to deal with daily.

One day the old man walked out of his house and noticed myself sitting outside reading. 

“Hey, how about a game of chess?” He gave me one of his old people warm smiles like he was sure that I would say yes. Fuck, I thought. I just wanted to read my book in peace. Shit, there was no escape for me now. Gene sure doesn’t give a fuck if I was busy or not or if I will ever become a writer or not, and frankly, he doesn’t even give a fuck about the finance company and the morning traffic altogether. It’s been a long time since he was staying in traffic himself, commuting to work, making money for his long-ass-retirement.

“Sure, why not,” I said. “Let’s play some chess!”

“Ok, I am going to grab the board, and I’ll be right back.” Said Gene smiling.

I walked over to the older man’s yard. He had a little round, white table with two chairs with badly painted white paint pilling off. He loved to sit here proudly with his wife enjoying the beautiful weather, watching the cars go by, the neighbors move around, the sun shining, and the birds chirping as their boring retirement moved slowly along just like he was. His old lady passed away about two years ago. As long as I can remember, she was always ill. During the last year of her life, she barely went outside. She died one day in her bed right there right next door to our house. I felt sorry for the old man even when she was alive, just staying at home for twenty-some years doing nothing. Now everything was even more depressing when he was left alone there still doing nothing and going slightly crazy with every day. 

Shortly after Gene lost his wife, he started to lose his mind, memory, and the touch with the real world. Losing the love of his life and the only person who lived with him in this house sat by his side, sharing their non-eventful and boring retirement, was a hard hit to take. I remember once he told me his story about how they met when they were teenagers, lived in Germany for a while, and then moved over to Philadelphia, worked multiple jobs, have children, and all that jazz. 

“Do you want a beer?” The old man asked me, walking out of his house. He had the chessboard and two cans of cheap American beer in his hands. He was old school; he knew the shit. 

“Sure, thanks!” Said I, smiling back at him.

He sat down, gave me a beer, and started to set up the board and the figures. 

“Honestly, I don’t know the rules very much, so I would need your help here a little bit.” Said I with a stupid smile on my face.

“Of course, no problem, I will help you out.” Said the old man calmly as he was placing his pieces on the board. I watched what he was doing and repeated after him. He’s got black figures, and I’ve got white once. The game was on. I could hardly figure out my strategy because I didn’t have one in the first place. 

“Can I go here? Like that?” I’d ask. “Yes” or “No,” the old man would say.

I had to ask him about my possible moves every time. He would always give me the right answer. I appreciated that about him. Gene was an older and a smart man, and I was a young and dumb young guy, full of ambitions, stupidity, and bullshit. Then out of nowhere: “Checkmate!”

“What the fuck?!” I thought to myself. And there goes another failure in my life. 
“Let’s play another one?” The old man suggested calmly, just like a pro.
“Sure. That was just a warm-up.” I replied.

We played another game, and I’ve lost it again. I lost every single game that evening against Gene. He might have been old, but his brain was still sharp; then, at least it was. The funny thing was that he took me as a dangerous opponent, and he never even tried to make it easy on me. Not even a tiny bit. He came in crushing. I remember looking at his face, and he was happy for once. He finally had something exciting going on in his life. For a moment, I felt good about keeping Gene a company and granting him this satisfaction of winning. I never felt bored losing to him. It was kind of fun. It was always interesting to see the many ways he would outplay me. 

Gene’s daughter stopped by shortly after our game began. 

“How are you, dad?” She asked, walking towards us.
“I am good; we are playing the game with my neighbor John here.”
“I see. Great!” Said his daughter and then looking at me: “Thanks for doing this, John.”
“No problem, this is fun. I am learning here a lot.” I responded. She never talked to me until today. I guess, now, I deserved some recognition for once. 

Gene’s daughter rarely stopped by, and she rarely brought his grandson over. In today’s world, young people barely give two shits about the older generation. They seem too entitled and too busy with their bullshit that spending time with older relatives is of no importance to them. I never knew what was up in that family, no wonder the old man was so excited, crushing me in the game. Since I never had a chance to see none of my grandfathers, this whole thing felt different to me. It felt kind of special. It felt like the right thing to do. I knew now how it felt to be around old folks, supporting them, and keeping them a company. Gene could be like one of my grandfathers to me. Some kids don’t appreciate the very few moments they have to spend with their old people, and some never even get a chance to know or see their old people alive. Life is a strange thing. Life has never been fair to me. 

The old man and I played chess now and again multiple times, whenever I could and whenever he was around. A lot of times, life was in my way, and I had to reject Gene’s offers, which made me feel like shit afterward. I thought to myself, how many more games can I still play with the old man? He’s turning 87 soon, and with every year the life was more like a guessing game for him and more like a chess game for me. Later that year, I got married and moved out of my mother’s house, and I rarely saw the old man since. On a few occasions when I visited my mom, I saw him on his steps, watching the street traffic and the life go by with a blank, sad older man’s face. He saw me getting out of my car and approaching the house.

“Hey, how about a game of chess?”

“Hey Mr. Gene, I am sorry, I am just on a quick visit to see my mom, and then I got to roll. Maybe next time?” I hated to reject the old man, but there was no fucking chance of sitting down with him and playing chess with all of the other shit I had to deal with in my life.

“Ok, no problem. We’ll play next time.” Said the old man and went back to minding his business. 

One day I’ve noticed that Gene looked different. He was still old, but something was slowly dying inside him. Something felt distant. It has been a few years since I moved out, but he aged more than that. My mom said, he had no recollections of what the hell is going on in the world, and around him, anymore. He’s probably still not aware that his wife was gone. One day I was at my mom’s sitting in the patio, smoking a cigarette and reading my book, just like the good old days. Gene went outside and saw me sitting there.

“Hey, how about a game of chess?” He asked.
“Sure, why not!” I responded. 
“Ok, I will be right back.” He went inside.

He’s been gone for a few minutes and returned with the board and chess figures but no beer this time. He sat in front of me and started to set up his pieces. That was then I’ve noticed that he’s really changed and just looked strangely different. I have noticed that his face was paler and more wrinkled than usual, his hands were skinny and shaking, and he always complained that it was doo dark to see even though it was still quite bright outside. The game started, and I still wasn’t any good. The old man was at it with full force investing all of his attention and winning. Something smelled terrible as he sat close to me. He smelled like the older people do just multiplied by a 100. I couldn’t help it; I needed some fresh air. I looked closer at him while he was thinking about his next move. His clothes seemed never to be pressed or washed either with all those weird stains all over. He sure wasn’t bothered by his appearance or by the “old-people smell,” I thought. Gene wasn’t looking at me at all during the game as he was all in it. It was my turn, and I was still too depressed by his appearance. He gave me a questioned pale look like what the fuck is taking you so long? I made my move, and he checkmates me right after. Fuck! The old man was too old to make any more moves in real life, but he always knew how to make the right move on the board and checkmate the fuck out of me. He kicked my ass even when he could hardly see the figures on the board as it was getting late in the evening. 

I felt sad just by looking at him. I stopped paying any attention to the game; there was no point. The old man himself saddened me way too much. I started to think about death and life and how we all live to die one day, and that day will always be the biggest mystery to all. I thought about these little moments people have with each other before anybody leaves this life for good. I thought about my grandparents, whom I haven’t seen much or never, and right now, none were alive anymore. Maybe the gods are giving me this chance to spend some time with the old man to make up for the time I never had with my grandparents? Maybe my grandparents up there in heaven are watching me and the old man playing chess and screaming, “God damn it, son! If we were around, we would teach this knucklehead how to play the damn chess! Look at him losing every single game!” There I was sitting with the old man, watching him at the game and imagining that if I could be just a little bit luckier, I could be sitting just like that with one of my grandfathers playing chess, drinking beer, cringing from their old people’s smell. It was never about winning for me in chess, basketball, soccer, or drinking beer or my job or whatever else. I was always happy to be around and partake in whatever it was I involved myself in. Hemingway once said something like, “if you want to write about life, you must first live the life.” That is precisely how I want to live my life and how I approach my writing, appreciating every moment in life, enjoying the little things, partying like there was no tomorrow, and helping out whenever and whomever I could.

The old man is still around if you are wondering. God bless his soul. Now and again, I do see him when I come to visit my mother. He is always sitting on a chair at his front door, watching life go by with his old-man’s face and old-man’s smell. He is about 90 now, and he’s getting there closer and closer with every day. He is not asking me to play chess with him anymore. Did he forget about our little challenge? I should probably ask him to play some chess next time I will be in the neighborhood. I’m sure he can still kick my ass. 

“Did you get married already?” The old man asked me the last time he saw me.
“Yes, I did!” I answered, puzzled. 
“Oh, really? When was that?” He asked with a bit of sad surprise on his face.
“Three years ago.” I would respond with a smirk.
“Oh, yeah? I guess I forgot. Congratulations!”
“Thank you!”

“I guess you did forget my wedding, old man. You were present at the ceremony, but now apparently, you have no clue it ever happened.” I thought to myself, smiled back at the old man, and went inside my mother’s house. 

Somewhere down the street the neighbor was messing around in his garage listening to the classic rock station, and the wind has brought over the sweet and sad melody by The Rolling Stones, and it just made a perfect sense:

“…drink in your summer, gather your corn.
The dreams of the night time will vanish by dawn.
And time waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me.
And time waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me…”

I will always remember those good old days when the old man was in his right mind and happy to kick my ass in a chess game while drinking the cheap American beer and I was just a young asshole trying to figure out my life, hating on the world and trying to become a writer. I am sure somewhere deep inside; he is still thinking about his next move, his next checkmate, and I still suck at chess.