(no subject)
A click and a jangling of keys came from outside the door. Neal looked up from his laptop and saw Lewis step inside, transferring various bags from hand to another. Neal startled out of his bummy posture and sat straight up, moved his laptop from his belly to the coffee table.
"Whatcha got?" Neal asked.
"Oh. Lots of stuff!" Lewis said. He came over to the couch, waited for Neal to make room for him, and sat down. He placed the bags all around him. "First: this," he said, flourishing a bit dramatically a thin, aged paperback book before Neal. "'Principles of Morphy,' by Charles Averroes. This, my friend, is a gem. Any chump national master can write up a chess tactics book, but it's basically rehashing their old games and rules of thumb that everybody already knows. But, this is ... this is a gem. Independently published by Chucky Averroes, you know him as the Long Island legend that beat Shirov in two consecutive games a few years back. His idea: quickness, efficiency, aggressiveness--"
"What's in that bag?" Neal asked, trying to get off the topic. He and Lewis had become friends during college when they met at a few chess club gatherings. For a couple years they were intensely interested in the chess scene, but for Neal, the game fell out of interest, while Lewis somewhat continued with it.
"Some shoes and olive rye bread. Listen, Neal, this book is for you," Lewis characteristically brought the topic back to where he wanted it. "It's not just about chess--game analysis, opening theory, whatever. This guy used to be financial engineer and had this crazy career but was brought ruin--I mean like divorce, drugs, crazy ass shit--over chess. It's crazy. You have to read it."
"Why don't you just tell me about it, instead?" Neal said, lifting the laptop off his desk and back onto his lap. He squirmed a little bit, uncomfortable. He thought about moving to the love seat to lie back down and surfing the web with the computer set on his belly, but thought it was just too warm in here to exert any energy.
"Okay," Lewis said, a bit of annoyance in his voice. He flipped through the book, trying to jog his memory. He changed his mind and looked up, about to make a point, when Neal interrupted him.
"I'm thinking of changing my name," Neal said. "I don't like my name. And I think I'm going to hold an election. You know? Like, people can nominate names and I'll hold a vote. And maybe, like, my good friends or family get weighted votes like super delegates or something. Maybe I can start a blog about it or something. What do you think? You can get three votes... or five. I don't know. I haven't figured out the math yet. And like my mom and dad can get five points or something." He considered this for a moment. "No, you know what. They get just one vote. They messed it up the first time. They get a regular vote. Maybe I can give that girl, Miriam, like two votes or something. Sounds like a decent 'in' for a convo, right?"
"Don't use 'convo.' Who does that? Don't speak like you're texting. Jesus," Lewis said.
Neal didn't like his name. No matter how he looked at it, it looked funny. In fact, the longer he looked at it the funnier it looked. One sweltering summer day, he decided to hold elections for a new name.
Dear Friends, Family and Mere Acquaintances,
Many of you know of my ongoing distress and distaste for my name. I've now finally decided to do something about it. During the next two weeks, I'm going to hold an election for a new name. I will change my name with the most votes. Polls are now open for suggestion.
"Whatcha got?" Neal asked.
"Oh. Lots of stuff!" Lewis said. He came over to the couch, waited for Neal to make room for him, and sat down. He placed the bags all around him. "First: this," he said, flourishing a bit dramatically a thin, aged paperback book before Neal. "'Principles of Morphy,' by Charles Averroes. This, my friend, is a gem. Any chump national master can write up a chess tactics book, but it's basically rehashing their old games and rules of thumb that everybody already knows. But, this is ... this is a gem. Independently published by Chucky Averroes, you know him as the Long Island legend that beat Shirov in two consecutive games a few years back. His idea: quickness, efficiency, aggressiveness--"
"What's in that bag?" Neal asked, trying to get off the topic. He and Lewis had become friends during college when they met at a few chess club gatherings. For a couple years they were intensely interested in the chess scene, but for Neal, the game fell out of interest, while Lewis somewhat continued with it.
"Some shoes and olive rye bread. Listen, Neal, this book is for you," Lewis characteristically brought the topic back to where he wanted it. "It's not just about chess--game analysis, opening theory, whatever. This guy used to be financial engineer and had this crazy career but was brought ruin--I mean like divorce, drugs, crazy ass shit--over chess. It's crazy. You have to read it."
"Why don't you just tell me about it, instead?" Neal said, lifting the laptop off his desk and back onto his lap. He squirmed a little bit, uncomfortable. He thought about moving to the love seat to lie back down and surfing the web with the computer set on his belly, but thought it was just too warm in here to exert any energy.
"Okay," Lewis said, a bit of annoyance in his voice. He flipped through the book, trying to jog his memory. He changed his mind and looked up, about to make a point, when Neal interrupted him.
"I'm thinking of changing my name," Neal said. "I don't like my name. And I think I'm going to hold an election. You know? Like, people can nominate names and I'll hold a vote. And maybe, like, my good friends or family get weighted votes like super delegates or something. Maybe I can start a blog about it or something. What do you think? You can get three votes... or five. I don't know. I haven't figured out the math yet. And like my mom and dad can get five points or something." He considered this for a moment. "No, you know what. They get just one vote. They messed it up the first time. They get a regular vote. Maybe I can give that girl, Miriam, like two votes or something. Sounds like a decent 'in' for a convo, right?"
"Don't use 'convo.' Who does that? Don't speak like you're texting. Jesus," Lewis said.
Neal didn't like his name. No matter how he looked at it, it looked funny. In fact, the longer he looked at it the funnier it looked. One sweltering summer day, he decided to hold elections for a new name.
Dear Friends, Family and Mere Acquaintances,
Many of you know of my ongoing distress and distaste for my name. I've now finally decided to do something about it. During the next two weeks, I'm going to hold an election for a new name. I will change my name with the most votes. Polls are now open for suggestion.