The Manny

‘You move the bishop like that and it’s game over, buddy. You’re crazy! Think again.’

OK. He was preoccupied. I waited two minutes then tried again. ‘So. Sorry to bother you, but I’m just so curious. Is this for a school?’

This time he looked directly at me. ‘You really interested?’

‘I am.’

‘It’s not a school. This is a group from a summer camp for kids with special needs or special situations.’

‘Serious situations?’

‘Some very awful situations. Yes.’

‘Why chess?’

‘Because it’s hard, I guess. Must make ’em feel smart. Do you know anything about chess and kids?’

‘I have a son who’s nine.’

‘Does he play?’

‘They do it at school, but he hasn’t gotten hooked.’

‘Well, maybe you should get him hooked.’ He smiled. Major-kilowatt smile.

Bingo.

‘Are you also a teacher?’ I was so excited. I knew this was my guy. ‘Are you working at a steady job in this field?’

‘I’m not a teacher at all.’

Shit. I thought he was a professional. Maybe he wasn’t my guy.

‘I’m taking a break while I figure out some plans.’

He waved to the kids. ‘OK. You in the white shirt.’ He pinged a bubble gum at the girl’s head. ‘You, with the goofy smile, you’re in charge of the whites and Walter is going to do the blacks. You can argue with their moves, but they get the final say!’ When he saw that I wasn’t leaving, he stopped and rested his arm on the park gate and looked me in the eye.

‘I’m just subbing for a pal. He’s my roommate who’s a teacher in the public school system and a counsellor in the summer. I’m not an expert with kids like him.’ He picked up a pile of cloth on the ground and smiled. ‘Excuse me, if you don’t mind …’ Still. He was really good with them.

One of the kids had stepped off the chessboard, and turned his back to the game. His shoulders were hunched up around his ears. Mr Director tried to drape the cloth on the kid’s shoulders, but he shrugged it away. He stuffed some candy down the back of his shirt, but the kid didn’t laugh. He threw the cloth on the ground and got down to business with the distressed kid, dragging him a few feet away to talk to him privately.

I couldn’t help but notice how his worn-out khakis traced the lines of his impossibly hard ass. I put down my tote bag full of newspapers and waited.

Mr Director flicked the kid’s baseball cap up. ‘Darren, c’mon.’ He held the kid’s shoulders and tried to manoeuvre him back into the group. Darren just slowly shook his head and then pushed the brim of his hat further down. Mr Director smacked the cap off the kid’s head. Darren didn’t think it was funny. He put it back on and pulled it down real hard. Something was wrong.

The Mr Director bent his knees and looked up under the kid’s hat, and then sucked hard on a lollipop as if it helped him focus.

‘Talk to me, man.’

Darren shook his head.

‘Russell! Take over.’ Russell, an older kid on the sidelines, waved back.

Mr Director put one arm around Darren’s shoulder and another on his arm and led him over to a park bench about thirty feet away. Darren, who seemed about eleven years old, wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. I was riveted. A few minutes passed and he seemed to be breaking through, gesticulating wildly. The kid started to laugh and this cute guy knocked his baseball cap off again – this time they both laughed – and Darren raced back and took his place again on the board.

All right, I thought. He doesn’t look like a psychopath. He doesn’t smell like a psychopath. Obviously, the kids like him. Let’s try this again.

‘Sorry …’

His expression was direct and polite. I was sure he wasn’t a native New Yorker.

‘You again?’ He smiled at me.

‘Yes, me again. I have a question.’

‘Want to get into the game?’ He cocked an eyebrow.

‘No … I mean, yes. My kid might.’

‘I’m afraid the group is pretty tight-knit. They’ve been together the whole summer …’

‘No, no, not that. I just was wondering,’ I asked, ‘do you have a full-time job?’

‘Yeah, I’m CFO of Citigroup. This is the investment banking division.’

I laughed out loud. ‘Seriously. Is this your job?’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Do you have a job?’

‘Does it look like I have a job?’

‘Do you want a job?’

‘Are you hiring?’

‘Well, maybe. Do you know what a manny is?’

‘A what?’

‘Oh, God. I apologize. Let me start over. My name is Jamie Whitfield.’ I pulled out my business card and handed it to him. ‘I work at NBS News. I have three children. And I live nearby. Do you work with kids often in any capacity?’

He kept one eye on the group of kids. ‘Not really.’

‘You don’t work with kids? Like ever?’

‘I mean, I can fill in. They’re in no danger here, maybe have a little sugar high, that’s all.’