Turner, the old somber man seen playing chess at mealtimes by himself, or with another fellow if he’s lucky, was puffing away at a cigarette. Anderson was washed by a sense of loneliness and wandered over and sat himself down.
‘How you doing, Turner.’
A grunt, ‘Fine, fine, just fine. You know howta play chess?’
‘I can try.’
Anderson asked, ‘Why you always smoking on that cigarette?’
‘What kinda question is that?’ Turner scoffed and his arthritis fingers shook violently as he set up the chessboard; he chose the white pieces without asking.
‘You ever smoked on one before?’ he glanced at Anderson.
‘I did, when I was a young man. I had tufts of hair back then, black and thick as can be,' and a wistful look glazed over Anderson's eyes.
‘You ever notice a cigarette lasts longer when the air’s still and humid?’ asked Turner, as if posing a worldly question.
‘Yeah, sure, lasts a hecka longer. I used to buy ‘em when I was a boy in school, my dad never approved of it but I had my money. Never smoked it under a fan or when the autumn wind was blowing. They weren’t cheap for a boy, you know.'
‘I like this place ‘cause the air’s stale, always puts the tobacco to good use. Never havta worry 'bout nothing if you know you got your money’s worth,' said Turner.
He then edged the chessboard so that its parallel to the sides of the table. Leaning forward, he shut one eye and scrutinised the lines of the chessboard and the table, adding, ‘You know why all the wise men smoked cigarettes?'
‘Why?’
Turner let out a laugh but it sounded as if he's clearing the tar in his throat, ‘'Cause they all got 'nough brains to know life can be summed up in a cigarette.’
He hesitated and moved his pawn first with a ginger bitterness, sucked on the yellowed cigarette and tapped on the table, waiting for Anderson to make his move.
‘When the air’s sterile enough, the cigarette lasts for minutes. I counted before, got at least a dozen puffs outta that damned thing,’ he added, with an air of trivial knowledge.
Anderson moved his pawn too, carelessly copying what Turner did.
Turner wasn't done with his award speech yet, ‘But you ever notice how it always just floats straight up to your nose? Suffocates the shit outta you, I tell you. Makes you feel like choking and pissing at the same time. The worst feeling, tears me up even more when my whore of a wife left me. She took my son too.’
He moved another pawn adjacent to the first one and took another deep long puff and exclaimed thoughtfully, ‘That’s how you gotta see things. You let life live too long for ya, you’ll die all smothered with your nose strangled. That’s why I gotta hate this place. It’s for people who drag out their lives like they drag out their cigarettes. That feeling always ends up killing you.’
Anderson kept his mouth a slit and his tongue asleep and did the same, moved the pawn right as Turner did.
‘Boy, you just copying me, ain’t you? Ha! Don’t worry, you’ll learn. You gotta play more.’
Turner carried on his conversation with himself, ‘You gotta let hurricanes and rough winds into your life, blows the second-hand shit smoke away, leaves you clean and high. That’s how the hippies, the so-called beatniks learned it. They knew life well, you know. No use draggin’ on shit that’s not worth draggin’ on.’
He looked at his long pinky nail full of dirt for a second, bared his stained teeth and scratched at it with that nail, then flicked it off.
‘Andy, I wish I lived life like that. Oughta be dead by now, really.’
He held the cigarette between his lips and paused, pondering over what move to do next.
Turner wasn't a man who thinks quietly, ‘Yeah, sure, the cigarette will go out faster and it always leaves you of an after-shave feeling. Nice and clean.’
He looked up at Anderson and was only greeted by his silence, and Turner himself fell mute.
For the rest of the game, the ten or so minutes it was worth, they both held tightly onto their tongues and only self-pitying sighs were passed between them.
Turner won with a cough on his lips, 'We're old, there ain't no need to shake hands like those young'uns. I'll see ya tomorrow, you'll only learn chess if you play 'nough.'
Standing up, he mumbled 'I wish I was dead.' Maybe it was for himself, maybe it was for Anderson. And with that, he retreated back to his hard steel bed and smoked until it was time for slumber.
He died that night, mouth foaming as if to wash himself clean. And the next morning, when the old bitches and bastards were chattering about another one passed away, Anderson knew there was a god listening and he prayed to go to heaven.
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