Although the MWL loved parks he was bothered now and then, by the fact that he couldn't adequately explain to himself the source of this affection. And, because he was not clear in his head what a park really was, he was uncertain whether his affection was justified.
He tried to decipher the meaning parks held for him. After thinking about it for a while he realized although he was disappointed that the discovery was so ordinary and trite that a park was a place where privacy was both ferociously and incontestably grasped, and at the same time casually and completely surrendered. It dawned on him that a park was any spot in the city in which people behaved in the midst of strangers as they did when they were alone. A park, he concluded finally, was a place where people held private parties in public, with themselves as the only guest.
He realized in some way he couldn't quite make clear to himself that in a park any park there was always some tattooed mystery slinking around disguised as a non event, wearing glasses and a wig, smoking a pipe and humming.
He came to this conclusion sitting on his ladder in the park watching two men he had never seen before, playing a game that was unfamiliar to him, on a cement table that he could have sworn was not there the day before.
He watched politely and cautiously from a distance, moving closer gradually until he took a kibitzer's position to the side of the two men who were entirely absorbed by the play.
Up close, he could see what he had felt from a distance; it was a very strange game. Each player took a turn arranging objects on the table in some pattern that was pleasing to him. Any object, it appeared, could be put down on the table, scraps of paper, a leaf, a cigarette butt, match covers, pebbles, spit, anything at all. And these did not seem to stand for a collection of abstract definite powers, like a Queen or a Knight in chess. The retained their individuality and represented what they were and the pattern they made up.
When the player whose turn it was had completed his move and everything was laid out to his satisfaction, the other player had a chance to make a counter move, which consisted of shifting or removing or adding any thing he wanted to the display. When this play and response was done they would talk for a while and the cycle would begin again.
The game was being played by two men who looked familiar to him but who he could not quite place. One was balding with a thin mouth. He wore a plaid jacket. The other was slight with a bent nose, crooked sunglasses and a mop of stringy blond hair.
"I've never seen this particular game played," the MWL said, when he felt he had been a bystander long enough to claim the role of kibitzer. "What is its name?" A hand articulated an obscene gesture. When no other reply was forthcoming he asked, "what are the rules?"
"No rules," said the balding man who was watching his opponent slide and shift objects around furiously.
"That's right, no rules at all," said bent nose, whose hair had fallen over his sunglasses from the exertion of the move.
"Every game has rules," said the MWL, "that's what makes a game a game. How can you play the game if there are no rules."
"It's not an easy game," the balding man acknowledged, not without some pride. "It's not for everyone."
"There must be rules," the MWL said decisively, "otherwise it would mean that you could do anything."
"Yes," said Mop head. "Your move," he said to his companion who was still intently examining the position he had been left, as if the ring of a beer can were harboring a trap of cosmic proportions.
"You could do this," the MWL said, reaching down and cautiously moving half of a lottery ticket across the top of the table.
"You could, but it would be very foolish and not very tasteful," the balding man said looking up at him.
"Very foolish," his companion echoed.
A breeze came up an blew the piece back to its original position.
"If there are no rules how can you learn to play?" asked the MWL, "in case," he added, "you wanted to learn to play."
"You watch other people play or you just remember," bent nose said.
"And take advice," his companion added.
"If there are no rules how do you know which moves are legal," inquired the MWL.
"That's easy," said the man with the full head of hair, looking at his partner. They put the game aside for a moment in order to answer the MWL's questions. "If a player makes it, it's a move, and if it's a move then it's a legal move. You can't miss it," he suggested.
"But how do you win," asked the MWL.
"Can't win," said bent nose, appearing surprised that the issue of winning had come up.
"Can't lose either," said his companion, turning his attention back to the game and quickly coming to a decision about his next move.
"You become an expert fast," said the smaller of the two men. "Figuring out which move to make is easy. Actually making a move once you decide on it is the hard part."
The balding man was using his turn to construct a delicate but intricate pattern of odd shaped pieces of paper on the board. He reached into his pocket for a collection of cut up pieces of rice paper that looked as if they had been covered with a translucent spray paint and set them out.
He was using for his move those pieces that were entirely covered with black paint. They made the top of the table look as if it was covered with deep, bottomless holes. The MWL thought he saw the bald man drop a pebble into one of these pits.
"Actually there are rules," the bald man confessed, as if he had rethought an issue the MWL had raised previously.
"There are rules but only the rules you make up. Making up the rules is a move in the game. It's the way the game is played by experts. It's one of the hardest moves to make."
"If you need rules," the player with the sun glasses affirmed, "you make them up, and then you discover that they are the rules you were playing with all of the time."
"If you're lucky," said his companion.
"Sometimes," said the first man.
"Sometimes, and sometimes not. And sometimes someone changes the rules. People forget the rules conveniently."
"They certainly do," repeated his partner.
"You mean they conveniently forget the rules," asserted the MWL. Plaid jacket moved over to make a place for the Man with the Ladder who sat down.
"That too," said the bald man. "That too."
The MWL watched the pattern emerge under the bald man's fingers. When he put the last piece in place the three of them sat watching the pieces carefully. They sat so still a squirrel climbed up on the table and took a peanut, which had been used as a piece, off of the table and scampered away with it.
"That comes very close to cheating," the blond player said quietly, very close. But it was a very clever move for a squirrel," he added.
"Can squirrels play? " asked the MWL.
"That one can," baldie replied.
The MWL watched them playing for a while. Although he couldn't say why, the game was exciting to look at and it began making sense to him, although he couldn't tell which particular sense. In fact, it seemed to him that he was familiar with the game in some way he was not aware of. The sense of the game became clear enough, so that when the balding man took his next turn and had nearly finished constructing a set of figures on the board, the MWL leaned over and whispered, "that's a very poor move I think," pointing to the butt of a cigar resting on a matchbook. The balding man looked up at him and then down on the board. "You know, he said, "you're absolutely correct."
"First the squirrel then him," said mop-of-hair. "Who is playing? If you going to get advice and help, I'm entitled too," he whined and looked around for an ally. Not finding anyone he got up. "I'm going to get some more pieces. I'll be back," he said and left quickly.
"Why did he have to go get more pieces," asked the MWL, "there are plenty of pieces here," he said, pointing to mounds of rocks and twigs and pieces of paper.
"Change of strategy," he was told. "He's looking for a piece of a comic book cover I expect," confided the balding gentleman. He leaned over and looked up right into the MWL's face. "Sometimes his moves are so predictable. It may take him a while," he added. "He will only buy it if he's convinced he can't find it free anywhere. He's probably gone to Brooklyn. He's very stubborn. You know there's a solitaire version," he said after a while. "It takes a little longer to play and it's not as much fun," he added, "but it's easier to learn."
"Teach me," asked the MWL.
"You know it already, I think. We've been playing the solitaire version."
"How can it be a solitaire version if two people are playing it?"
"It's easier," confessed the balding man, examining his missing companion's incomplete position. "It's the attitude, your feeling about the game. You can play it alone if you want. You want to play for a while just to kill the time until my friend comes back."
"O.K." said the MWL.
"You start," the balding man said to the MWL, you can use his position to begin."
"Are you sure he" indicating the absent head of hair "won't mind."
"Of course not. I don't think so anyway. Besides," he said, "it's not a position worth saving."
"Well," the MWL said, clearing most of the scraps of flotsam and jetsam off of the table carefully, "I'm not sure I really know how to play but I did see something interesting there." He pointed to half of a flower.
"That was an extremely clever move you just made," replied his companion. "You're sure you've never played this game before, without thinking you were playing a game, perhaps. You're not a hustler, are you?"
And then, thinking a little, he squared off to the MWL's face. "I don't play for time under any conditions. No how, no way. Money, now and then, but time, never." He was adamant.
The MWL ignored him and was getting ready to make his move when Sally, the bag lady, came by.
She was pulling 3 carts loaded to overflowing with shopping bags from Dean and Delucca's and Bloomingdales. The carts, which were from Grand Union, were strung together into a wagon train by pieces of chain and cord. The load was oppressive. She rested as she went by and relaxed by yelling at them.
"That's all you guys got to do all day is lay around and play games. I don't understand you people. You got no initiative, that's your problem. What are you kids or something. Lazy bums," she cried, heaving the cords attached to the wagon to her shoulder and pulling off. "Take my advice," she yelled, turning her face towards them, "find something useful to do with your time," and she set out on her rounds.
"Never play with her," the balding man commented when she was well out of sight. "She's treacherous. I think she learned from her mother," he said.
After they played three rounds, the balding man threw a bottle top onto the table. "I'm bushed," he said. "I guess my friend isn't coming back. Expect he couldn't find his comic book."
The MWL was disappointed. The game was fun. "Maybe we can play again tomorrow or next week," he suggested.
"Probably not," said his companion. "My friend and I are traveling men. There's always another park," he added, "although this one has the look of a place a person could settle into." He pulled a hat out of his pocket. "You're welcome to the game, if you like it. Teach it to anyone."
"I'll forget it," said the MWL.
The balding man reached over and picked up a piece of spray painted paper from the table. "Here," he said, handing it to the MWL. "All of the rules are here. It's been fun playing with you," he said, and he walked off.