A pigeon knew he was on a mission, because he told the pigeon and the pigeon seemed to understand.
The pigeon nodded, anyway.
Sonic was gonna tell Rembrandt, but Rembrandt had a solid nickname. A minik…a momnik…moniker. That was it. Moniker.
Sonic was Sonic because when he was homeless he wore a Seattle Supersonics jersey, Silas, Paul Silas. Sonic washed it so much in the Noguchi Fountain in Hart Plaza all the letters came off except the a.
Sonic liked being clean, Sonic liked cheating newbies at chess, Sonic liked scraping the cheese off a cheeseburger and eating it separately with the meat grease on it, and Sonic liked being Sonic.
Then the damn hedgehog came along, and the burger and shake joint, and people asked dumb questions about the nickname.
Sonic wasn’t homeless anymore, hadn’t been for a while. The Roselawn Assisted Living Center stopped having an on-site maintenance man and hired a service, so the tool shed became his home.
Before Hadden, the discontinued maintenance man left, he rigged up power and cable to the shed, helped Sonic put a bed in there.
Gave Sonic coveralls too, so Sonic didn’t look so conspicuous coming and going. Best way to keep his home was to not be in it, so Sonic spent most of his time on the street.
But his nickname had been sullied by video games and fast food.
He wanted to be Checkmate, but he wasn’t better at chess than most of the old guys in the plaza with their clocks and fancy strategies.
He was just an old guy, savvy enough to scam one of the bright eyed mortgage kids out of five bucks with a knuckled over bishop and a puppy adoption pout if he was accused of wrongdoing.
But he was a man in search of a new nickname.
You couldn’t ask for a new nickname.
You could simply tell people your real name, of course, but when your real name was William Arthur Smith, the best you were gonna do out of that was Billy, and Sonic was too old to be a Billy.
He was too old to find a new place to live too, but when he came home to the old shed from the plaza at dusk all his stuff had been cleared out of it. Two years and four months of high living was over. The black coax cable that stuck up out of the ground by the door was gone, all of it except a pair of dirty socks and a garage sale chess set that he had to replace the black king with a hex nut.
Sonic picked the chess set up, left the socks, stayed in the plaza til dark, wanting to vent to the pigeons and the fountain and the UAW memorial statue. He stayed silent, left the plaza when the cop asked a third time, found a copse of trees to crash in over by the casino parking structure.
Gotta be some good dumpster diving behind the casino in the morning, but security shooed him away at first light and he walked back to the plaza.
Set the chess set up on the table nearest the Underground Railroad statue and played games in his head til one of them mortgage boys, those kids who descended on the city overnight a few years back and stayed, sat across from him.
“Ten bucks a game?” the kid asked, and Sonic just nodded.Didn’t introduce himself, didn’t say anything
He didn’t have ten bucks, but he’d tell the kid where to find him. Or win.
Sonic’s empty stomach had a cheap bourbon ache, though Sonic hadn’t drank in years.
Kid studied the board. Took too long. Looked at the hex bolt.
“What happened to the black king?” the kid asked, lighthearted, pleasant smile, some kinda cologne that smelled like he was in the woods.
Sonic leaned forward. “There’s only one black king at this table, Youngblood, and I’m him.”
The kid nodded, respectfully.
When the kid walked away 15 minutes later Rembrandt walked over.
“Get him?”
Sonic spit between his teeth.
“Shiiiiiit, kid whipped my ass like he was Isaac Asimov.”
“Gary Kasparov?” Rembrandt asked.
“One of them Russian motherfuckers.”
“You didn’t nudge him, didn’t play Magic Rook?”
“Just lost.”
*******
Sonic walked from St. Pete’s to the plaza, chess set under his arm. Something about the loss of the shed made him decide to quit cheating at chess.
He had four three card monte cards in his pocket, and an old Tayshaun Prince jersey he had gotten from the church’s clothes box over a blue t-shirt
The cardboard of the cheap chess set box was damp with sweat by the time he got to the plaza.
The pigeons were cooing, there were pistachio shells or something strewn on the ground, Sonic’s sight was going. Soon it was gonna be tough to play chess, cheating or not.
Rembrandt had his feet up, board set up and he was twirling a pawn in his right hand.
“Any games yet?” Sonic asked.
“Nawww,” Rembrandt said. “One of them mortgage kids wandered through. I asked him if he wanted a game, and he said he did, but he was looking specifically for the Black King.”
Rembrandt snorted. “Who the fuck is the Black King?”
Sonic looked down at the pigeons, peeled off the Prince jersey and set it on the bench.
“I suppose,” The Black King said,” the young man was talking about me.”
***
Headed into my 5th Year at Substack. Any monetary appreciation for the stories can be bestowed below and will be greatly appreciated.
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Again, this is perfect. I’m glad i waited till morning to read this.
It tasted as good as- maybe better -than sweet black coffee.
I don’t think it’s just my damned good mood, but that gave me a whole lotta joy, kinda the way a particularly adventurous Vietnamese meal might, except that doesn’t convey the humor element. In case you didn’t know, you are a black-belt wizard with name creation.
Small sidenote: yesterday we attended the wedding of our daughter’s fiancé’s mom (her second). She’s 56, is married to a 72-year old guy named Billy.