The Joad Brothers

THE JOAD BROTHERS I found them sitting on the steps of Borough Hall. They looked out-of-place—two raw-boned hillbillies just come from the Hollow.

"My brother here wants to know how your chess game is going," the younger one asked with a Southern accent. He was about 40, a long and lean man with a nut-brown faced lined from too many days in the sun. His brother was older, fatter, shorter, grayer. He had a full beard and tugged on it.

"I don't get it," I answered, stuttering a bit. "What are you asking me?"

The older brother whispered something into the younger's ear. He nodded intently, and said, "My brother says that you're Bobby Fischer, the famous chess master. He says you don't like people asking you questions."

I may look like a lot of things, but the bald, hawk-faced Fischer is not one of them.

"My brother says he understands and that you want to keep your privacy but he admires you as a chess player."

I asked them where they were from and what they were doing on the steps of Borough Hall on a warm summer afternoon.

"From West Virginia. Been up here for the last few years. We're following the work."

"What kind of work?"

The older brother grabbed him and whispered something harshly into his ear.

"Can't tell you that, but it's important."

Last week, I saw them again, this time hanging out on the mezzanine level in Port Authority. I tried to make small talk, but they just stared back at me. "Remember? Brooklyn? You guys thought I was Bobby Fischer?"

The older brother whispered something to the younger one.

"My brother here says you look nothing like Bobby Fischer."

I asked them their names and what they were up to. With that, the elder handed me a business card that announced him—or someone—to be a stockbroker with Merrill Lynch.

"You're into stocks?" I asked.

"That is our cover."

We chatted about the evil of capitalism and how they were fighting the good fight for the little man. Exactly how they were fighting, I'm not sure, but the big brother had a pretty good rap. Almost as good as Tom Joad telling his mother he'll be there whenever a child is crying or a man isn't free.

"It sounds like you're bringing The Grapes of Wrath to New York," I suggested.

The older one snorted, said, "We don't like wine. I don't like grapes or anything like that."

I considered explaining the whole Tom Joad thing, but decided against it. I smiled, walked away. I was no Bobby Fischer, and these two had me in checkmate.