The Theory of Games

by Ezra Sidran

  “So, how did Nick give you the computer files he was working on? He must have stopped by your house. Maybe when you were out?” the Authoritarian Man was baffled.

  Nick used our WiFi network. Remember, I told you about WARdriving and everything before? Nick had login permissions to my network. But it’s not like we got much work done the next day. We – Katelynn, the students, me - all of us, we were like zombies. People would try to work on the project, hoping that doing something would help, saying stupid things like, “it would be what Nick wanted.” We would look at the code and then look away and then be overcome with grief again.

  Katelynn and I just tried to comfort the students, each other, Bill, ourselves. None of it made any sense. Nobody believed that Nick would kill himself. Nobody.

  Grief comes in waves and there is a little respite in the troughs between the peaks, but then the next wave hits and you curse God all over again. That afternoon the little yellow house had been swamped in grief just as if the Mississippi had burst the levee.

  And then the phone rang.

  CHAPTER 3.4

  Katelynn put the phone down and her face, which had been pale with grief, was now flushed with rage. “They won’t bury Nick,” she said.

  I have never been good in a crisis and I will never be good in a crisis. I need some time, a cup of coffee and a cigarette; just a moment so I can collect my thoughts. “What do you mean they won’t bury Nick?” I could not comprehend the words that had come from Kate’s mouth.

  “The Catholic Church won’t bury Nick,” Kate answered, “They’re saying Nick was… They’re saying he committed suicide. The sonofabitch priest said, “The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches, ‘Everyone is responsible for his life before God who has given it to him. It is not ours to dispose of.’ It’s their catechism. They won’t bury Nick,” Katelynn said.

  Those fucks won’t bury Nick? I never gave a rat’s ass about religion. I never understood Nick’s religion. I never accepted Nick’s religion. But I accepted that Nick accepted Nick’s religion.

  Nick was a devout Catholic. Nick never missed a Sunday mass; he could have been up all night working, writing code, but bleary-eyed and sober, he would drag his ass down to the ostentatious gothic cathedral on Spring Street. Ten-percent of every dollar that he ever received went to that fucking church. And now, and now? And now those fucks wouldn’t even bury him in his church? I was more than furious. Furious was distant smoke on the horizon.

  Give me the phone, I told Kate and she meekly handed me the phone.

  I punched in John the Howler’s number.

  John, it’s Jake. We have to bury my student, Nick. Do you remember him? John remembered him. I need you to… I need… we need your church. They won’t bury him in a Catholic church. They think he killed himself. He didn’t. But we need your church.

  Only I knew that hung-over or whatever or wherever the night found him, John the Howler made it to the First African Methodist Episcopal Church down on Twelfth Street every Sunday morning – bright as a pin in a crisp pressed suit - by ten A.M. and then he led the choir.

  John the Howler said, “No problem. Don’t worry. I understand. I’ll have the whole band there. Don’t you worry we’ll give him a proper burial, Jake.”

  I said, “Thank you, John” and handed the phone back to Kate.

  “The services will be at the AME church on Twelfth Street,” I said, “Please tell his family and his friends.”

  Kate had started to say, “Jake there’s something I wanted to talk to you about Nick’s files.” But I cut her off, “It can wait, go tell the group.”

  And then – I hadn’t even cleared my brain from the fucking fury that still swirled around it - the phone rang, again. Kate answered and handed it to me. It was Bishop Miller.

  I knew Bishop Miller and Bishop Miller knew me because I had often played at his AME church down on Twelfth Street. It was just John the Howler’s and Bishop Miller’s and my little secret (and any member of the congregation that was so color blind that they didn’t see that there was a white boy who surreptitiously slipped in and out and played the piano behind the choir – transported – his white boy’s eyes rolling up in his head, sober, because now he was sucking straight from the fountain from which blues and rock and roll flowed and playing all those Gospel passing chords (D/F#, B/D#) and then mysteriously disappeared before the potluck afterwards.

  I liked to play Gospel. I loved to play Gospel. I needed to play Gospel. Gospel was the root of the Blues which was the root of Rock and Roll. But it was our little secret. So I played, in Bishop Miller’s church down on Twelfth; and now I needed a favor.

  Bishop Miller was a very large Black man; and the voice that came through the phone line was that of an extraordinarily large Black Man. “John Styles,” – all these years I never knew John the Howler’s last name – “just called and asked me to arrange a funereal service for a beloved.”

  Yes, a beloved.

  Yes, I need to bury a friend.

  “John said that he would provide the music for the service. Are there any other arrangements?” Bishop Miller asked.

  How do you tell an AME Bishop that Bill needs to be there?

  Yes, Bishop Miller, I answered, the beloved, one of the departed’s best friends was… was a… was a dog.

  “I understand,” said Bishop Miller, ”You know there was a time when we African Americans were thought of as less than human; less than one of God’s Creatures. As long as I am Bishop of a Church there will always be a place for all of God’s Creatures.”

  Thank you. Thank you, Bishop Miller I said.

  “Ten-thirty on Saturday,” said Bishop Miller, “and the departed’s best friend will be welcome.”

  CHAPTER 3.5

  I was behind an ancient Lowry grand piano – age-stained ivory keys yellow – at ten-thirty the next Saturday.

  I looked up into the choir loft and there my eyes met John Styles’ and he just nodded. This piano looked as if it had not been tuned since before I was born but I put my hands on the keys and I pressed down and I heard the most glorious D chord that I had ever heard.

  D, D7th, G, G7th… I was numb but the hands just played.

  “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound / That saved a wretch like me.”

  Did you know that John Newton, the author of Amazing Grace was a slave captain?

  “No, no, I didn’t,” said the Authoritarian Man, “seriously?”

  “Yeah, fucking seriously,” I answered, “his ship foundered in a storm, he prayed to God – the cargo in his hold were slaves packed like anchovies in saltwater – and they were all saved. So, John Newton wrote Amazing Grace – didn’t stop him from running slaves from Africa to the Carolinas for the next ten years. And eventually John Newton became a Methodist preacher. Go figure.

  “Go figure.”

  I played the gospel (i.e. Black Gospel) turn: B minor 7th, A7th, D7th and the chords, flew sweet and clear from the ancient brass harp of the instrument.

  This was an old – beaten to death piano – and it sang.

  I made it through the intro and then John the Howler, up in the choir loft, picked up the fine thread of the song, “Amazing Grace that saved a wretch like me….” and then when we turned the corner into the chorus, Clyde the Foot came in and I looked up from the keys – which were clear and pure and not out of tune – and Clyde hit the kick twice – whomp, whomp – and then the bass just glided into the A7th and then John and the choir picked it up, “I once was lost, but now I’m found.” And then six big Black men brought in Nick’s casket from the back of the church.

  Bill and Katelynn were down in the front pew and Bill lay back on his haunches and howled. And the big Black men wheeled Nick’s casket down the aisle to just before the altar.

  I could not cry anymore.

  All the tears that I had left in this body I poured out into this old piano.

  All my life I have tried to hold back the Angel of Death.

  An
d now everything was for nothing.

  Bill howled.

  John the Howler wept.

  Clyde the Foot wept.

  But nothing stopped the six big Black men that brought Nick’s casket down before the altar. Nothing can turn back the Angel of Death when He has already collected.

  Bishop Miller came out from the wings. He held a Bible so worn that it was fluid in his hands. The six Black men left Nick’s casket before the altar and then took their seats in the second row.

  “We are here to bury Nick Constantine; a good man,” Bishop Miller began. “A good man; wronged in life; wronged in death,” Bishop Miller looked up from the pulpit and fixed his gaze upon every single person in the church. And then he repeated it again, “A good man.”

  “We have all been wronged,” Bishop Miller continued. A gigantic woman who was sitting in the pew behind Bill and Kate answered, “We have all been wronged, Bishop Miller!” And then the entire congregation said, “Amen!”

  Bishop Miller sucked in his lower lip. “Yes, yes, it is true. We have all been wronged. We have all been maligned. We have all been slandered.”

  “I want to tell you, people,” Bishop Miller continued, “we are burying a white man here today. A white man! Forsaken by his own people!”

  “No!” the congregation said with one voice.

  “Forsaken! Forsaken by his own people!” Bishop Miller responded, incredulous, “Forsaken by his own people!” Bishop Miller sadly shook his head.

  Bishop Miller stopped cold, and slammed his bible down upon the lectern and stared at each and every member of the congregation.

  “Who will bury this lost White man?” And then Bishop Miller answered his own question, “We will. We will bury this good white man.”

  “Amen!” said the congregation.

  Bishop Miller walked from behind the lectern.

  “We will bury this good White Man,” Bishop Miller repeated and then he asked the congregation “Are we not all equal in death?”

  “Yes!” the congregation replied as one.

  “And if we are not all equal in death are we not all equal in life?”

  “Yes!”

  Bishop Miller nodded to me and I began the introduction to “I’ll Fly Away.” Some glad morning when this life is over… I’ll fly away…” G|G7|C|G|G7|G/F#|E minor G|D|G. I’ll fly away, O Glory, I’ll fly way. When I die, hallelujah, by and by, I’ll fly away.

  And John Styles picked up, again, the thin thread of the hymn, by himself and sang it out clear, an affirmation, “I will fly away!” And then the choir came in; and then Clyde the Foot.

  And then Bishop Miller held up his right hand and stopped the band and he began his sermon. “And God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. - Genesis 1:31.” and the only sound from the congregation was the rustling of the pages of their Bibles as they turned to that passage.

  “God saw everything that he had made,” Bishop Miller repeated, “and, behold it was very good.”

  Uh, hunh! The large woman responded.

  Bishop Miller looked at each and every man and woman in the congregation. He looked up into the choir loft. He looked at John the Howler. He looked at Clyde the Foot. He looked at Bill and Katelynn. He looked at me. And, again, he repeated, “God saw everything that he had made and, behold it was very good.”

  A sigh breathed from the congregation.

  Bishop Miller stepped back, took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his brow. He took a great deal of time replacing the handkerchief into his pants pocket before he turned, on a dime – sharper than John the Howler – “God made the earth and God made the seas and God made people,” and Bishop Miller looked again at Bill, “and God made dogs, God made all the creatures!” And then he stopped.

  A chorus of Amens! rippled through the congregation.

  “And God made the Angel of Death. And even the Angel of Death is good because God made him!”

  The congregation was shocked into silence.

  Bishop Miller looked about the congregation. He had our attention. He walked down the three steps from the altar and placed his right hand on Nick’s casket. “Nick Constantine is not in this box. The body of Nick Constantine is in there, but Nick, himself, is with God!”

  “Amen!” the congregation roared.

  “Nick Constantine is in his Eternal Home that Almighty God has prepared for him! And even the Angel of Death that God Almighty created had his part to play. O Death, where is thy sting? First Corinthians 15:55.” Bishop Miller turned and walked back up to the altar as the sound of turning Bible pages filled the still air of the First AME church.

  “O, Death, where is thy sting?” Bishop Miller sadly shook his head at the folly of the Angel of Death. “Do you believe that this man is now with God?”

  “Yes!” Howled the congregation.

  Is he with God?

  YES! Howled the congregation and I smashed a G7th on the piano.

  Is he with God?

  YES! Howled the congregation and I smashed a G7th+9th/B on the piano.

  And then Clyde the Foot – beside himself with joy – went whap!, whap! whap! and then the bass picked it up. And I found myself playing a C7th and then an C# diminished and then a C with a D on the bottom and then the riff that I have to go into with faith because it never feels like it’s going to come out right because you have to accelerate through it, E minor, F, F# and then we had turned around just right and we were back to the G7th…

  Clyde was playing in 2/4 – straight 2 over 4 – and the bass was driving and then John the Howler began to sing, “Some glad morning when this life is over… I’ll fly away. I’ll fly away, O Glory, I’ll fly way. When I die, hallelujah, by and by, I’ll fly away.”

  And all was bliss.

  And then…

  And then the six big Black men got up from their seats and walked back down front and took Nick in his casket out of the church and we all followed out and got back in our cars and followed the hearse to the cemetery.

  We buried Nick just a few rows over from where Bix Beiderbecke, the legendary coronet player, forsaken by River City in life but embraced and celebrated in death, was buried. And Bill howled like his soul had been ripped out of his big chest. Don’t ever say that dogs are dumb and they don’t know what’s going on around them because they know. They know more than we will ever know. Bill just lay back on his hind legs and he howled and it just tore everything that I ever gave a damn about straight out of my body.

  CHAPTER 3.6

  It was when Kate, Bill and I had got back from the cemetery that Kate brought up what she had started to tell me the day before when Bishop Miller had called. “Jake, about Nick’s files,” she began.

  “Kate I looked at them, they’re fine, they work, they read the database just fine,” I brushed her off.

  “Jake, I know they work; that’s not the problem,” Kate answered, “It’s the time stamp on the file.”

  “What’s the time stamp?” the Authoritarian Man asked.

  “It’s the time a file was created, or in this case, copied on to a server,” I answered.

  A light seemed to go off behind the Authoritarian Man’s eyes. Maybe he knew where this was going.

  “Nick’s files were copied to my server at 2:17 AM,” I told the Authoritarian Man who was already furiously turning pages in Nick’s folder.

  “But the time of Nick’s death was placed at 2:30 AM by the police.”

  Exactly.

  “So he sent you the file and then hung himself,” the Authoritarian Man answered his own question. “You said Nick was efficient to the end; those were your exact words.”

  “Yes, I said Nick was efficient, but Nick used our WiFi network to send his files. It’s the only external way into our network. Do you remember the effective radius of our WiFi network?” I asked and wondered to myself surely there had to be some minimum intelligence test to be an Authoritarian Man; some simple logic puzzles or something. Guess not.


  It was beginning to dawn on the Authoritarian Man but not so fast that he could put it all together so I answered the question for him, “It’s maybe a hundred yards. So Nick was within a hundred yards, tops, of my house at 2:17 AM. Not even fifteen minutes later he’s dead on the other side of town. That’s impossible.”

  The Authoritarian Man’s jaw fell open like a drawbridge.

  And that’s how I know that Nick was murdered.

  “And that’s how I know Nick was murdered,” Kate finished telling me and it was obvious that she was right.

  What was within a 100 yards of our house?

  The answer was also obvious: Mount Mary College. Nick was murdered somewhere on campus and then his body was taken to his apartment and strung up on the ceiling fan.

  •

  Kate and Bill and I went out to the back porch and took a look at the campus. The sun was setting behind Morton Hall and shafts of golden light filtered through the leaves of Pudgy’s oak tree. “Wanna try snooping around in a couple of hours?” Katelynn asked.

  “Yeah, I think that would be a good idea,” I answered. I went back in to the house and returned with three cans of beer and a soup bowl. I handed one to Kate, poured another into the bowl for Bill and opened the third for myself.

  The three of us sat on the porch drinking our beer and watching the sun set. It hadn’t even been two weeks since we had last sat here the night I had been fired; the night of the party when everything was wrong and everything was right and Katelynn had wiggled her multicolored toenails. Oh, Lord, how the world had turned upside down since then. But the worse was still to come. We just didn’t know it.

  Bill’s dog tags clinked against the soup bowl. “Ready for another?” I asked. Bill wagged his tail.

  “Jake, you’re spoiling him!” Kate reprimanded me.

  “Doc Farmer said some alcohol is good for him,” I replied, “besides we’re not taking Ninja Bill on this mission. Hopefully he’ll be taking a nap in a couple of hours.”