STEVE
He’s late, again, and he’s not answering his phone. You almost leave without him when a car pulls up, and Steve steps out, a smile on his face and an apology on his lips. At the last minute he remembered that he needed to book a hotel for next week. He’s going skiing. You shake your head and tell him to get in. Soon you’re on your way, trading funny stories. It’s been too long, but he’s always busy, ever since you first met him.
He was sitting, but as soon as you walk into the room he’s on his feet, slapping you on the shoulder, welcoming you in a booming voice. His hair is short and wild as a bird’s nest, and his shirt is worn and ragged; the smell of dirt and sweat clinging to them, but his smile is infectious and before you know it he’s pulling up another chair, inviting you to join the game. But that was Steve for you; offering advice on how to play the game even as he assures you that he is going to win. There’s a weariness to him though, and every time he sits down he collapses into the chair, sighing a weary sigh as he savors it. He tells you how he spent the morning rock climbing, and the afternoon in a kayak. Along the way he met a couple guys on motorbikes. They didn’t talk for long but Steve’s thinking maybe he should try that.
One story trails into another as the game goes on, lasting for over an hour. Steve barely glances at the board, moving a piece so that he can finish the joke, fighting down the laughter. He’s so busy laughing he doesn’t even notice what’s happening, until all of the sudden his turn comes and he realizes he can’t win. Slowly he looks up says “Good game. Rematch?” It’s getting late. Steve has to head in to work early tomorrow, and that night he’ll be going to a concert; but he insists, so you rearrange the board and start again, as the clock inches closer to midnight.
This time there are no stories, no tips. Steve is silent as he stares at the board, his fingers idly playing with a piece as his mind analyzes the board, tracing the different outcomes, considering the odds. That was half the reason he wanted a rematch. He lived by numbers and statistics. It was his job as an investor to calculate the most likely outcome and predict the market. Now he has to prove that he wasn’t wrong.
The game is long and slow, every move is analyzed and debated, silently. Eventually it pays off, and you agree, he’s eliminated every avenue you have. He sighs again and announces that he’s call it a night, but not before mentioning that he almost beat you, you just got lucky.
You smile and nod, your only words are “Good night Steve,” as he stumbles up the stairs, already asleep before his head hits the pillow, waking up just enough to pry his shoes off with his toes.
