By Paxton Garthie
The renowned chessmaster Bobby Fischer said that chess was war, with the object being to crush the opponent’s mind. So that must be what we have here – a chess match.
Tyson Coomer. Twice in the past three weeks, you’ve rung my doorbell and ran away. Whether you targeted me a second time on purpose or out of poor memory is irrelevant. What you must now know is that you’ve made a powerful enemy.
The first time you fraudulently called upon me, I was in the middle of penning a fiery op-ed for the Fobb County Model Train Enthusiasts’ Newsletter, for which I serve as Editor Emeritus. This proved only a minute distraction, and it even crossed my mind that this had simply been a case of someone ringing my doorbell, discovering that they had mistakenly gone to the wrong house, and leaving in search of that correct address. No harm, no foul.
But the second “prank” proved far more infuriating. See, at the time of that insult, I was fast asleep, having dozed off during a late afternoon episode of “Antiques Roadshow” with my Bolognese, Francesca, on my lap. The unexpected caller roused her so suddenly that she bolted from her place, grievously wrenching my testes in the process. At that point, I knew that someone was playing “Nicky Nicky Nine Doors”. And that this could not be forgiven.
Nicky Nicky Nine Doors was known as “Doorbell Dixie” in my day, and it remains a game that can be played by young or old. Your strategic speed advantage – those shoes that have the wheels in them – were also your undoing, as I was able to follow a trail of puddle water all the way to your house, five doors down from mine. I couldn’t launch a traditional counter-offensive in broad daylight, due to the obstacle of your step-dad Bill drinking on the front lawn, so last Sunday, it was I who returned in the dead of night and, putting my own twist on Doorbell Dixie, rapped upon your window and made the “throat slit” gesture.
But you betrayed the rules of the contest. Yes, you summoned Bill to see who was lurking outside, forcing me to hide in a tree and make raccoon noises. It was not my proudest moment. But after clambering down from there and changing my shorts, I enjoyed an overwhelming sense of relief, as you had now felt a fraction of the violation that I’d been burdened with. How does it feel, Tyson?
If you thought that would be all I had in store, you don’t know Paxton Garthie. The new bully whose attention you seem to have attracted? He mows my lawn. The absent-minded milk monitor who always seems to give you regular milk instead of chocolate? He used to mow my lawn. And the gym teacher who’s begun making you climb that big rope after each and every class? Wonder of wonders – he’s a model train enthusiast. My tentacles of influence extend across the whole of Fobb County!
I bet you’d like this all to end. I bet you’d like to apologize. Well, when you ring my doorbell this time, perhaps it will be I who leaves you in the lurch? I suppose what I’m trying to intimate is… checkmate, Tyson. Checkmate.
