The Dragon
       Warren exited his apartment quickly, leaving behind his briefcase, and with it all evidence that he had just completed his afternoon Fundamentals of British Government post-1909 seminar a few blocks north at Columbia University. He had tucked in his shirt and changed socks from white to black, and had donned a special pair of glasses designed specifically for reading. He had rationalized the purchase of these glasses by unfocusing his eyes during lecture enough that he himself believed that he needed them, although in layers of his psyche infinitesimally deeper than its surface, he knew he did not. Nonetheless, with a hasty combing of his hair, Warren’s image was complete.
       The weekly event to which he now headed was the only thing Warren cared enough about to fully carry out this futile attempt at looking older than he was. While never officially scheduled, Warren’s chess games with James had been taking place for three months on Mondays at five p.m. on the northernmost public chessboard in Central Park. The meetings were as much about chess as conversation, which could span anything, from the content of Warren’s seminar to the Knicks.
       The walk from Warren’s apartment to the chessboard was so short that Warren hardly had time to reflect on the previous week’s conversation before he reached his destination. James had already set up the pieces, and was sitting at the black end of the board. Warren sat down at the whites.
       James had never told Warren his age, but Warren thought he was around the age of his parents, perhaps in his late fifties. He wore a weathered brown zip-up sweatshirt over a faded polo, a denim cap, fraying jeans, and brown walking shoes of indeterminate brand. The modesty of his apparel made Warren ashamed of the effort he had put into his own appearance.
       “Shall we begin?” asked James with a smile that accentuated his wrinkles.
       “Yeah,” Warren replied. He thought for a second, and advanced his king’s pawn two spaces. As white, Warren had begun every one of their games with this move, and James always followed by advancing his own king’s pawn two squares, to match Warren in the center. However, today James opted to move his queen’s bishop’s pawn, leaving his king’s pawn untouched.
       “The Sicilian Defense?” Warren asked, using the established name for James’ move. “Why?”
       “Every so often, we all must break our routine in one way or another.” James often answered Warren’s questions with platitudes. Warren shrugged it off, and the game continued. After just a few more moves, Warren noticed James’s pieces developing into a familiar position.
       “The Sicilian Dragon?” he asked. “What’s this all about, James?”
       “What do you mean?” James replied. “Not a fan of the dragon?”
       “Come on. The dragon’s fun, but it’s not serious. It’s unsound.”
       James chuckled. “Unsound? According to whom?”
       “I don’t know. Everyone.”
       “I see. Everyone.” James adjusted his glasses. “I take it everyone is an authority on the matter? He must be, to have given you such a strong opinion. Why do you think it is that everyone considers the dragon unsound?”
       Warren was beginning to regret questioning James’s choice of openings. “I’m not really sure. It’s supposed to be risky, too open.”
       “Too open. I suppose you would prefer if I played conservatively. Would you like a closed game? A nice, rigid structure with no room to maneuver?” James paused briefly to perform a kingside castle.
“Here’s my issue with closed games,” he continued. “In a closed game, every piece has a predetermined fate. From its first contact with its home square, my queen’s knight knows its own endgame. Its brief life will follow a known pattern, chosen for it by the omnipotent everyone, as you so eloquently put it. If ever it tries to break free and choose its own path, everyone is there, whispering in its ear, ‘stay the course, it’s unsound out there.’”
Warren advanced his bishop, and James promptly captured it with his knight, placing it in a commanding position in the center of the board.
“See, in open games, there is freedom,” James went on. “This knight can be anything. The board is its playground. It could have followed the predetermined path, worked through high school to c6, gotten accepted to the University of f7, and gotten a nice nine-to-five at g5. But it decided otherwise. And look where it is now. Here, on e5, its reach extends far beyond anywhere any closed game could have taken it.”
Warren smiled. “I didn’t know you were so concerned with the livelihood of your chess pieces,” he said.
“It’s not just about the pieces,” James replied. “In my eyes, one’s life philosophy is never so visible as in their chess moves.”
       Warren chuckled. “Ok,” he said. “I’ll accept that, I guess.” Warren advanced a kingside pawn. “But if you feel this way, why have you been playing e5 all this time? Why are you just now going to the dragon, after all these months?”
       James gave Warren another wrinkly smile. Warren had learned that nothing was gained from pushing James when he chose not to answer a question.
       “How was your seminar?” James asked, maintaining eye contact with Warren. Warren eyed him at this change of subject, aware of how pointed James seemed in bringing it up.
       “It was fine,” Warren replied. “Professor Erikson led it today. I hadn’t seen him since last year, when he gave the Gunpowder Conspiracy lecture that we talked about at length.”
       “Ah, yes, the famed Gunpowder Conspiracy lecture.” James brought out his queen for the first time all game. “Now, how much do you know about Guy Fawkes, Warren?”
       Warren stopped and looked up from his move, his h-pawn held motionless in his right hand as if in suspended animation. Something about the manner in which James had posed the question seemed off to Warren. It came too quickly, without ample time for James to have reacted to Warren’s comment.
       “Not that much, I guess,” Warren responded tentatively. His voice now lacked a certain confidence it had previously possessed. The slight quaver in his tone of voice was more pronounced, and his volume had decreased slightly. Warren cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. “Guy Fawkes was the guy who was caught during the Gunpowder Conspiracy. He was way before 1909, so we don’t really cover him in my seminar. We did a little work on him in undergrad, but it’s definitely been awhile.”
       James continued to watch Warren, making his move in silence. He had not lowered his gaze from Warren’s eyes, giving Warren a nearly imperceptible smirk which made Warren feel as though James could read his every thought by the minute adjustments of the contours of his face. After a few minutes of strained silence, James spoke again.
       “What opening do you think Guy Fawkes would have played if he were a chess player?” he asked.
       Warren gave a chuckle, noticeably more nervous-sounding than his previous one. “I have no idea.”
       After a few seconds of what appeared to be a thoughtful consideration of his own question, James answered. “I think,” he began slowly, “that during his early years, you know, when he was in the military, he would have played a closed king’s game. But I don’t think he would have played it later. When he was working against Parliament, when he was a conspirator, I think he would have played something else. The queen’s gambit. Or even the dragon.”
       “Of course,” Warren answered. “Free, open, unsound games. Guy Fawkes the rebel.”
       James laughed, harder than he had all game. “Oh yes, unsound. Completely.” He advanced his b-pawn again and resumed watching Warren.
       Warren had been aware of the mounting pressure on his queenside for a while, but James’s last move had made him realize how lost the game was at this point. His kingside attack had no chance of gaining any momentum, and his queen’s bishop was unable to move at all. He was suddenly very distraught. He didn’t think it was over the chess game, but he couldn’t place it on anything else. His gut was suffused with a feeling of emptiness, his breathing became heavy, and he could feel the faintest hints of tears welling up behind his eyes. At that point he looked up at James. His expression had changed from the smirk to the same wrinkly smile, and Warren now saw him again as the kindly father-figure he had been in all their previous games. He looked at James’s denim cap, felt the warmth it exuded, and decided that James had bought it for reasons beyond low price. He continued to stare at the cap, not wanting to look away, until he reached toward the
 board, and with a swift, assured gesture, knocked down his own king.
       James’s smile continued, not gloating but comforting, sensing the way Warren felt.
       “I should go,” Warren said, the quaver in his voice now a full-blown shake. “Same time next week?”
       “I’ll be here,” James responded. They shook hands, as affectionately as can be done, and James walked away into the park.
       Warren walked north, toward his apartment. He turned and gave a final look back toward James, only to see him disappear into the foliage. He felt restored, as though their parting handshake had rid him of all his misgivings. He walked along 104th, stopping when he reached Columbus, his usual turn-off, but he noticed the light was red in his direction. Then, in a rare moment of impulsiveness, he decided to turn right, towards the south, the opposite direction of his apartment. He looked back once more. The light was green now, but Warren continued south, letting 104th fade into the horizon, thinking about the dragon.