Supermarket(49)

This morning I wasn’t that hungry, so I snagged a bagel and cream cheese and went to see what old Red was up to. He was always an interesting conversation. He was the only person in here who I could just chill with. I went to his usual spot, but he wasn’t there. I searched around the hospital, but I couldn’t seem to find him anywhere, so I decided to go for a walk with hopes of finding him.

As I strolled through the garden, lo and behold, who did I spot? Red, sitting in the grass in front of an old oak tree, right under one of the heaters. He was plopped down, Indian-style, in his white slippers and robe, a cup of coffee in his hand, I watched as he arranged his pieces on top of the chessboard.

“There you are,” I called over to him.

“Hey there, kid! Know where you are?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Just checking is all . . . I need to know which you I’m talking to. Join me for a game, will ya?”

“I don’t know how.”

“Kid, we’ve been here before. Sit down.”

I sat down in the grass and crossed my legs. Taking a bite from my bagel, I examined the board. I picked up my knight and moved it two spaces forward and then one to the left.

“There we go,” said Red.

“But how?” I asked.

“The brain is a powerful thing. The information it can retain is astounding. But that’s not what you really came here to discuss, is it?” Red smiled.

He was right, so I decided to get to the point.

“I need your help. How do I beat this thing? How do I get rid of Frank?”

“How do you get rid of the king?” Red replied.

“I don’t understand.”

“You play the game,” Red said as he moved a pawn forward. “This is all in your head, kiddo, and Frank lives in your head. He controls the game, so you control the game. It’s just like chess. There are an unfathomable number of ways to win a chess game. But there are only two possible results. You win or you lose. Chess is like consciousness. It’s finite yet infinite. It’s logical yet illogical. It’s knowable yet unknowable. It’s hard. It’s part art, part science, just like any creative act. You play against your opponent, but really you play against yourself. You are your toughest challenger. Only you have the power to defeat yourself.”

“Look, Red, I’m sorry, but . . . I just don’t get what this has to do with—”

“Years ago, I had a wife. Her name was Veronica. She was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. I was addicted to heroin when I was your age. I had demons. And I blew it all. Stopped painting, started stealing, you know how the junkie story goes. And at rock bottom I found myself in a rehabilitation center. There I met the woman who would one day be my wife. She was a nurse there, and she helped me through the agonizing withdrawals. The night terrors, the loneliness. I don’t know if I would have made it out of there alive if it weren’t for her. She believed in me when no one else did, and somehow . . . we fell in love. We spent the next few years on top of the world, boy. I returned to my work as a painter and pool player, and she continued helping those who needed her care.” He looked into the distance, as though he was seeing those days in front of him. “She was adventurous. She loved to hike and ski and explore. One Christmas, we went away to a resort to have some fun on the mountain. After a wonderful weekend, I returned home. The day I got back, I was painting a picture of Veronica, who was posed in the window, and my family came to visit me. When my family arrived, though, their eyes were full of tears.”

My heart dropped. “What happened?” I asked.

“I just knew it,” Red said. “Someone had passed. So my mother told me to sit down, and I told them I was in the middle of painting a portrait of my wife . . . and then I called her into the room and told her we would finish later. That’s when my mother asked me if I was ready for the funeral. I didn’t understand and called to Veronica again, asking if she knew what was going on. My mother held my hands, tears running down her face, and said, ‘Red, Veronica’s gone, baby.’ I couldn’t register what she was saying, so I turned back to my wife . . . but she had vanished. ‘Red, she’s gone,’ my father said. Then I began to panic. I became violent, thrashing about. My brother and a cousin restrained me.” He paused for a moment. “I came to in a hospital bed a few days later. Veronica was there, tending to me. I was in rehab again, and she was my nurse. Or at least that’s what I saw. What I believed. The truth is, Flynn—”

I sat there, staring at Red as he wiped the tears from his jaw.

“The truth is . . . I spent years in this facility living in a loop much like your own, Flynn. I gave the nurses roles to play, and all of them were the role of my wife. Here I was, a drug addict . . . and she was my angel. Outside of here, I was a nutjob with no way out of his own delusion, and so I let it consume me. Your move.”

I looked down at the board.

“And when I faced my wife,” he said, holding back more tears, “when I really faced my wife, I realized that it was only me, myself, and I who was holding her captive. That I was the one who couldn’t let go. And so I had to face myself—battle myself. To regain my freedom. It was painful and treacherous, but I did it.”

“Did what?” I asked, then moved my pawn.

“I played the game I created and got rid of him.”