Chess On The Beach

Normally the best compliment I allot to the sprawling tentacles of Los Angeles is, “I suppose this area would not be improved by a cataclysmic earthquake.” But Chess Park is something else. It’s awesome.

The square rests at the edge of Santa Monica, where the city’s periphery slides past joggers and sand castles into the beach and Pacific beyond. The climate is monolithically pleasant. It is always sunny, it is always warm, it is always just about three o’clock. The weather is so benign that I find it odd people discuss its minute subtleties at all.

It makes sense that they would be caught up in the nuance of sun and temperature variance, though, as about half of the players are homeless. The rest generally fall into the category of retired immigrants (mostly Russian) and wealthy black men (investment bankers, actors). Then there are a handful of eccentrics who do not seem to have jobs, but also appear to have homes. Pith Helmet Karl, Pete the Biker, and “Assassin,” a man I nicknamed on account of the sleek metal-and-glass case he totes his chess set in.

Most of my friends here are homeless, although I’ve learned that the distinction is blurry. Download frequently references a shelter, but also has a mobile phone and e-mail address. Sonny is a towering black man with benevolent eyes and a catchers-mitt handshake. Also the nicest person I’ve met on the West Coast. I suspect he’s homeless, but would not be terribly surprised if he’s merely retired and likes wearing sweats with a stocking cap.

Not that it matters. Such is the glory of Chess Park. The moment your feet touch the sand, it’s like you’ve stepped through the corn in Field of Dreams. Now you’re just a guy who enjoys the game. Rod is an investment banker who drives a Lexus. Tom pushes a shopping cart. Nobody cares.

Rod is probably one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. The last time I saw him he was alternating between speed-chess and a Rubix cube. But there’s not an ounce of pretension in him, no lingering fumes of Ivy League or MENSA membership. Just a ferociously quick mind paired with an easy-going demeanor.

I infer that most of the other black men are investment bankers, because they’re all superbly dressed and sputter off in luxurious cars. I enjoy lingering near their games, because the dialogue constitutes the most complex linguistics I’ve ever heard. A mixture of chess parlance and black vernacular. “You tryin’ a Sicilian Defense on me, son? Watch yo Queen— I’m gonna roll out my knight and school that bitch. Keres Attack mothafucka! Open a can of Kasparov on yo ass.”

Tom is the only person I’ve spoken to at any length about being homeless. Jumping into the back stories of the itinerant would spoil the egalitarian magic. Avalon would sink in shame if ever we dispatched investigative journalists thither. But Tom is beyond easy-going, and brings it up himself. He has a beard to be reckoned with, and sometimes when he takes his shirt off, looks like Tom Hanks from Castaway, had the character stayed on the island. He’s counting the days until he turns sixty-two, when eligibility for social security will actualize and he can rent an apartment and buy a computer. The latter of which will be particularly fitting, as Tom is one of the pioneers of programming, fully fluent in C+.

Generally speaking I get my ass handed to me by every single person I play. I’m reminded by the gracious victors that, since neither the homeless nor retired Russians have anything else to do all day, they have a glut of free time to devote to chess. To make myself feel better, I like to point out other extenuating circumstances as well. Jaime, for instance, is schizophrenic. While the condition has pretty well ruled out career options for him, it convenes an entire team of strategic advisers in his head whenever he sits across the board from me. Of course I’m going to lose against him.

Most of the homeless guys I talk to are, in reality, only about two failed pay checks different than half the people I know. I suspect the majority have attended college. They’ve got distinctive personalities, but they’re not winos or mad men. Los Angeles has its vagrant druggies and nutball tramps, but that crowd tends to shy away from games of strategy. Chess Park is home to the shelter intelligentsia.

Much of my neuroticism comes out of my ongoing attempts to strike a balance between novelty and community, exploration and association. Chess Park achieved both. I could drop in, unannounced, and find friends already congregated. And I could meet people from all walks of life, with ensuing brilliant discussions. I’m really going to miss that place.

Monday was my last day at Chess Park. It got me thinking: Tom wakes up near the beach every morning, when he feels like it, then walks over to the park to hang out with his buddies and enjoy the sun. He gets food stamps, and a beard befitting a Norse god.

I’m sure there are downsides to that kind of life. But a lot of folks retire to worse.