We are looking for street vendors in Greenwich Village because my son wants to buy a Statue of Liberty water globe for his third grade sweetheart back in Texas. While I tell him a trip to Saks would offer better wares for his beloved, he can not be dissuaded. So begins our quest for what should have been an easy-to-find, made-in-Taiwan, gen-u-
ine American souvenir.
Unfortunately for us, the gray skies open, and rain chases all the vendors inside. The only person we find hocking anything on the sidewalk is a giant of a man in a hooded sweatshirt with a bundle of umbrellas clutched under one arm. I fork five bucks over to him, and we walk on...me scanning the storefronts for a Starbucks, cursing the determination young love has lit in my child's eyes.
We scurry over crosswalk after crosswalk, splashing through puddles as deep as our ankles. The wind blows our new umbrella inside out for the umpteenth time, prompting the adults to finally call rank and make the troops go inside.
By chance we duck into the Village Chess Shop on 230 Thompson Street. We don't get far into the store. It's already quite crowded with other people.
The small room is full of men sitting at tables placed in narrow rows, intently playing games of chess. My brother, son, and I stand dripping on the floor by the door, grateful for the room's heater, but quickly entranced by the clicking of the timers as one player after another hits a black box next to each chessboard to signify the end of a move.
I notice a chalkboard in the back of the room that says No gambling. $1 per game. Profanity, $0.50.Newspaper clippings of chess champions are taped on the walls around a giant canvas, a modern painting of ancient chess pieces. The work of art looks as hazy as the air in the room. Cigarette smoke hangs like a dingy curtain near the ceiling. It seems as if every player is smoking, but I don't mind. I find everything about this place interesting - the cramped room with ashes on the floors; the clicking of the timers; the old man in a scarf leaning back in the chair in the far corner, looking at his board, smelling the nicotine on his fingertips. What's the old proverb? On a chessboard, an ant is as strong as an elephant in battle?
In a thick New York accent, the proprietor of the store politely asks what we want. We only want to watch. The game directly in front of us has captured our attention. The two players move their pieces, click their timer so quickly it does not seem there is any time for thought. A bishop threatens a queen, is taken by a knight, which is threatened by a rook. The younger player, a white man in a blue skull cap with circles under his eyes, gets hung up on indecision and interrupts the rhythm of the clicking time box. He pinches his bottom lip as the black man sitting across from him glances up at us.
"Does he play?" he asks in a deep voice, gestures with large hands at my son. His face is round and smooth, but his eyes are older than his face, as old as the game he is playing.
"Yeah," I say. "He's played since he was four.... But, you know, not like you guys."
The man smiles kindly. He has square, white teeth, and I notice he isn't smoking. His opponent moves a pawn. The move is countered so quickly, I know it was anticipated. The white man is pinching his lip again. "We all have to start at the beginning, right? Have the boy play someone."
We can have the boy play? This thought has not occurred to me.
I look at my kid. His quest for the Statue of Liberty water globe is quite forgotten. He's as entranced by the men as we are, as respectful of their skill as any adult who has ever dallied in strategic thinking.
The man behind the cash register speaks up again. "Does he wanna play?" My son nods, his mouth gaping open.
"Yeah," I say. "Can you get him someone who'll go easy?"
The proprietor winks at me, the only woman in the joint, and scans the tables for an empty position. "We'll see what we can do."
In no time at all, my son's sitting at a table. His adult opponent looks him over, sizes him up. He lights a cigarette, but doesn't say a word. He just nods in greeting and smokes.
The game gets going.
My son carelessly moves a pawn onto a space that exposes his king; the man taps quietly on the piece, shows the mistake, and gives permission with an open palm to reconsider. So the game goes through checkmate.
They play again. Then one last time.
The man seems to enjoy his position as mentor, but it is easy to tell when he tires of teaching. Without a word of reproach, he stops tapping on the tops of pieces, stops forgiving novice mistakes.
"Oh, man," my son says, shaking his head and laughing at how quickly he is dominated. He is a good loser.
I thank the chess player profusely as we gather up our coats to leave. He looks uncomfortable with my gratitude, lights another cigarette, but half bows to me - blue eyes glittering-and smiles as I take my son's hand.
The proprietor of the shop won't let me pay for the games, so I buy a t-shirt instead. I am the one who wants to buy a gen-u-ine souvenir this time. After all, I know this experience is vintage New York.
If you're good at chess and want to play, give this shop a try. The staff could not be nicer, and the players all know what they're doing. Chessboards also for sale.