The success of The Crawling Hand has, it should be said, something to do with the arm itself, with the plangent qualities of that sightless limb, and this is just what I was saying to my chess-playing friend D. Tyrannosaurus the day on which we were finally concluding our chess match. The game had proceeded by telephone initially, but in time it became clear that weeks were going to pass before one of us proved victorious. I don’t know who D. was calling for strategic counsel, some working girl perhaps, but he seemed to require much preparation in order to make his moves. We therefore determined that despite the earlier agreements on the subject, we were going to bring the match to fruition in person once again, at the café called Ho Chi Minh.
It was a rout, I don’t have to tell you, because I am really the much better player, though clearly D. Tyrannosaurus, whose actual name was Tyrone (as he had belatedly admitted), had misrepresented his inabilities in order to attempt to throw me off. I had felt, as one often feels in life, let down by Tyrone, and not only because of his name or his chess skills. For example, I once suggested that we go to a minor league baseball game in the Rio Blanco area, where the local affiliate was doing rather well, and that isn’t the sort of thing I would have done had I known his only purpose was to swindle.
I was being taken, you see; that was what it was all about, and I didn’t appreciate being taken, and who would? When I encountered him at the Ho Chi Minh, for the purposes of the endgame, I should say, he had lost much of his luster. Tyrone was no longer attempting to straighten himself up in the way he had before. He had let himself slide. He was just another dreamy con artist. Is it the way of all obsessions that they consume their subjects? Was Tyrone simply tired out from his long boondoggle in the Southwest, attempting to persuade a reputable dealer of baseball cards to give him that one last precious item?
Liftoff from the moon
Perfect.
One hour later
Nothing.
Our match was completed in candlelight, and there was not much to it, and I wish that I could give you an exciting account of the game, in which there was psychological maneuvering in order to gain the upper hand. But this would be to descend into the blandly technical. I will say, though, that I have spent some time considering the sighing of chess players, and have wondered if it might be possible to somehow codify these chess-playing sighs, as though to indicate that certain kinds of sighs can, in particular circumstances, have a strategic role. For example, I noticed that one of the younger Hungarian grand masters, whose name escapes me, was given to a sigh that I came to name the Slow Leak. It didn’t really count as a sigh exactly, and perhaps I am overreaching by even using this word to refer to it. But the Slow Leak is really the perfect description. You know the way some people release a little bit of air, under a certain amount of compression between their teeth, and it’s really exactly like a balloon deflating? This Hungarian grand master had perfected, above all, the deployment of the Slow Leak, which he would use especially when the other player was just about to move, was, perhaps, reaching out to move the piece. In the Hungarian’s matches, the video simulcast would always have a close-up of the faces of the players; you could see the frustration in some of his opponents during the Slow Leak. Their heads rested in their hands.
I did not sigh this particular sigh while playing against Tyrone, but there’s another that is very effective, and this sigh is known as the Appaloosa. This, my friends, is the ugliest of all sighs. It involves letting the lips go free as the air is forced out of the mouth. The Appaloosa is a disruptive, nearly violent sigh in the context of a chess match. It is likely that the first chess player to make use of the Appaloosa was a man from some Western milieu such as the one in which I am writing these lines, where freight trains pass on the half hour and horses are as common as jet packs. This chess player, in whatever century he existed, was used to the snorting of the horses he regularly bred, and perhaps he was acquainted with the Nez Percé and their particular breed, the Appaloosa, and perhaps he had fallen in love with the idiosyncrasies of this particular Appaloosa, its nickering, and despite its tremendous ugliness and the whites of its eyes, which are so arresting, this chess player realized that the snorts of the Appaloosa would be perfect in a very close chess match. The results had to have been good, and so the Appaloosa, the chess-related sigh, went into more common usage, from which it has never since disappeared.
There are other varieties of sighs that work very well in amateur chess, and which have on occasion led to major victories. But the sighs do not work on chess automata, which take no notice of the less-becoming aspects of human behavior. Still, it’s what happens alongside the chessboard that’s interesting; it’s all the gestures that would seem routine or uninteresting to anyone who happened by, that’s where the action is in the chess match. Chess is human relations. But if I must: Tyrone’s opening was the so-called Nimzo-Larsen opening, which, when commonly practiced among, especially, Sino-Indian players, starts first with the knight on the king’s side (to F3), followed by (when an advanced player, like yours truly, elects to develop the center in reply) the pawn at B3, after which we get the fianchetto, or “little flanking.”
Perhaps Tyrone believed he was playing an original game, because he was not developing the pawns in front of the king or queen (D4 and E4), as in the conventional opening, and, probably, he imagined that I would somehow be unwitting about the Nimzo-Larsen or Nimzo-Indian opening, but my knowledge of the world is broad.
Can’t make it
Losing control
It makes my arm move…
Kill! Kill!
Between rhinoviral sighs, and while Tyrone was laboring trying to understand my strategy, I began to speak to the symbolism of The Crawling Hand.
“Have you actually seen the film? Have you seen the original?”
“Interesting question,” Tyrone mumbled, and in taking up this interesting question I intuited that he would be prevented from seeing how my knight inclined toward B4, which in turn threatened his queen’s bishop. “I guess,” he went on, “you’re asking whether you really need the film at all in order to make a, you know, a decent novelization? Now that I’ve done a few, actually, now that I’ve done a lot of them, I’d say that I’ve done them in different kinds of ways. You know, sometimes I’ve taken a shine to the material, even though most of the time these films are very bad. Sometimes something just comes over you, and you resonate with the product, you feel it, you find something from your own life that makes it resonate. Those are actually the harder ones to write, though. These days, they send me the script, I don’t even see the film. I retype the script, insert some he saids and she saids, descriptions. Not that I want to give away the trade secrets. But, you know, keep a fashion magazine around for the—”
Moving his pawn forward, soon to be blocked by one of my own.
“—for the sake of the descriptive parts, that kind of thing.”
I attempted to interrupt: “So you haven’t seen—”
“I didn’t even know there was an earlier film, really. Until you mentioned it that time. The horror thing, I don’t know.”
Coffee futures being what they were, the price had again risen while we were playing, and when the robotic purveyor arrived, we asked for the popular substitute made of toasted hickory. Tasted like pencil shavings. I didn’t want the jittery feeling. I needed to stay calm for the prize at hand.