Read Online Wise Men and Other Stories by Mike O'Mary - Free Book Online
Authors: Mike O'Mary
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little table. Some of them pressed in a little too close.
“Mmmm…someone smells good,” said a female voice behind me. I looked over my shoulder. It was an attractive black woman.
“Clubman Citrus Musk,” I said. She smiled at me. Her date, a very suave looking Billy Dee Williams type, smiled too and gave me a thumbs up.
“Could we have a little breathing room?” said the Champ. His tone conveyed that this was more than a request. Volunteers stepped in to push the crowd back. We were ready to begin.
An organizer stepped up to the table and placed seven tiles face down in front of the Champ and me. I looked up at the Champ. He looked as cool and calm as ever…imagine James Bond at a Monte Carlo baccarat table, sipping a very dry martini—except he has a little too much bristly hair going down the back of his neck and his martini is a Mr. Pibb.
“Are you ready?” asked the organizer.
“Ready,” said the Champ.
“Ready,” said I.
“Begin!” said the organizer.
The Champ and I picked up our tiles, placed them on our racks, and studied them. Neither of us moved any tiles around at first, and it occurred to me that perhaps the Champ didn’t need to rearrange tiles. Perhaps he could just see things in his head. Maybe that’s why he was the Champ. Or maybe he was just messing with my head. Maybe he was trying to intimidate me by not touching his tiles, which would make me feel self-conscious about the idea of touching my tiles, which meant I wouldn’t be able to rearrange my tiles, which would put me at a disadvantage since I normally like to move my tiles around.
“Fifty seconds,” said the organizer.
Damn! I thought to myself. I just wasted 10 seconds trying to outthink the Champ. He was good, no doubt about it. Without even trying, he had gotten into my head and thrown me off my game. But I wasn’t going to let myself get caught up in his head games…not in a sixty-second dash to Scrabble immortality. I decided right then and there that win or lose, I was going to play my way.
“Forty seconds,” said the organizer. I started rearranging my tiles.
The Champ and I were each dealt the following letters: EFIOMT. Yes, I know…that’s only six letters. There was a seventh letter, but I can’t remember what it was. It doesn’t matter anyway. Neither the Champ nor I were able to use that seventh letter, so I can pretty much guarantee that it was unusable. The Champ and I each played our hand using those six letters: EFIOMT.
I was rearranging my letters and coming up with some different options … FIT… MET… OFT… but nothing good. Meanwhile, the Champ still hadn’t lifted a finger. He just sat there studying his tiles, still trying to get into my head. But I was playing my own game…staying within myself. I kept rearranging my tiles: TOME… TIME… EMIT… MITE… OMIT…
“Thirty seconds.”
Finally, the Champ started rearranging his tiles. And oddly enough, the fact that he was following my lead bolstered my confidence. But that little boost in confidence was accompanied by a shot of adrenalin, which in turn made it more difficult to concentrate, and suddenly, I couldn’t think straight. I was losing it. I continued to rearrange my letters, but it was all nonsense: MIFO… FIMO… TIMO… TEFI… FIOT… nothing!
“Twenty seconds!”
I realized this was probably just as the Champ had planned. He was playing it cool, and I had played right into his hands. But I refused to give up. Focus, I said to myself. Concentrate. That’s when I heard the little voice in my head.
“See the word.”
It started as a whisper, but it kept repeating and it grew louder and more drawn out with each repeat: “Seeeee the worrrrrd.”
It kept running through my head over and over again—and then I realized the voice wasn’t coming from inside my head… it was coming from somewhere behind me. I turned around and watched as Billy Dee Williams did a stage whisper: “Seeeeee the worrrrrrd.”
It
“Mmmm…someone smells good,” said a female voice behind me. I looked over my shoulder. It was an attractive black woman.
“Clubman Citrus Musk,” I said. She smiled at me. Her date, a very suave looking Billy Dee Williams type, smiled too and gave me a thumbs up.
“Could we have a little breathing room?” said the Champ. His tone conveyed that this was more than a request. Volunteers stepped in to push the crowd back. We were ready to begin.
An organizer stepped up to the table and placed seven tiles face down in front of the Champ and me. I looked up at the Champ. He looked as cool and calm as ever…imagine James Bond at a Monte Carlo baccarat table, sipping a very dry martini—except he has a little too much bristly hair going down the back of his neck and his martini is a Mr. Pibb.
“Are you ready?” asked the organizer.
“Ready,” said the Champ.
“Ready,” said I.
“Begin!” said the organizer.
The Champ and I picked up our tiles, placed them on our racks, and studied them. Neither of us moved any tiles around at first, and it occurred to me that perhaps the Champ didn’t need to rearrange tiles. Perhaps he could just see things in his head. Maybe that’s why he was the Champ. Or maybe he was just messing with my head. Maybe he was trying to intimidate me by not touching his tiles, which would make me feel self-conscious about the idea of touching my tiles, which meant I wouldn’t be able to rearrange my tiles, which would put me at a disadvantage since I normally like to move my tiles around.
“Fifty seconds,” said the organizer.
Damn! I thought to myself. I just wasted 10 seconds trying to outthink the Champ. He was good, no doubt about it. Without even trying, he had gotten into my head and thrown me off my game. But I wasn’t going to let myself get caught up in his head games…not in a sixty-second dash to Scrabble immortality. I decided right then and there that win or lose, I was going to play my way.
“Forty seconds,” said the organizer. I started rearranging my tiles.
The Champ and I were each dealt the following letters: EFIOMT. Yes, I know…that’s only six letters. There was a seventh letter, but I can’t remember what it was. It doesn’t matter anyway. Neither the Champ nor I were able to use that seventh letter, so I can pretty much guarantee that it was unusable. The Champ and I each played our hand using those six letters: EFIOMT.
I was rearranging my letters and coming up with some different options … FIT… MET… OFT… but nothing good. Meanwhile, the Champ still hadn’t lifted a finger. He just sat there studying his tiles, still trying to get into my head. But I was playing my own game…staying within myself. I kept rearranging my tiles: TOME… TIME… EMIT… MITE… OMIT…
“Thirty seconds.”
Finally, the Champ started rearranging his tiles. And oddly enough, the fact that he was following my lead bolstered my confidence. But that little boost in confidence was accompanied by a shot of adrenalin, which in turn made it more difficult to concentrate, and suddenly, I couldn’t think straight. I was losing it. I continued to rearrange my letters, but it was all nonsense: MIFO… FIMO… TIMO… TEFI… FIOT… nothing!
“Twenty seconds!”
I realized this was probably just as the Champ had planned. He was playing it cool, and I had played right into his hands. But I refused to give up. Focus, I said to myself. Concentrate. That’s when I heard the little voice in my head.
“See the word.”
It started as a whisper, but it kept repeating and it grew louder and more drawn out with each repeat: “Seeeee the worrrrrd.”
It kept running through my head over and over again—and then I realized the voice wasn’t coming from inside my head… it was coming from somewhere behind me. I turned around and watched as Billy Dee Williams did a stage whisper: “Seeeeee the worrrrrrd.”
It
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