The Old Checkmate

an excerpt from

Anecdotes from the Western Bubble

by  Thoreau Lovell

The man standing across from me on the train is lean and disciplined.   No hedonist, this one—wearing a pressed green blazer and unmatching pants—hair dyed brown and combed straight back—face tan, calm, focused—unswayed by the jerky movement of the train car.   What’s on his mind has been on his mind for a very long time—anachronistic as a railroad car in a shopping mall—a flophouse at the end of a runway—a plow horse anywhere in America.   He’s like a tree bursting through the floor of the train and shooting through the roof like a spotlight for a state of mind that has all but vanished.

He doesn’t impress me!   I’m looking for a different kind of old person—one who has moved past checkmate—who can face the mirror and the camera, the page and the quiet room—one who has given up successfully.   In the meantime, I fumble around in the present tense.