Submitted this one to The New Yorker and Fence...

"I Don't Go to Fischer, He Comes to Me!"

Bobby Fischer may still be the most hated man living in Iceland. Yet when Reykjavík hosted the 1972 World Chess Championship, his match with Boris Spassky put Iceland front and center in Fodor's, and made Fischer the stuff of a modern Icelandic saga. Just ask his "friend."

"Do you like chess?" he bellowed in broken English, flavored with a thick Icelandic accent.

"Er, yeah. It's quite the challenge," I squeaked.

"Do you know Bobby Fischer?" He spat at me with no more than a millimeter of space between our heads.

"Yeah, the chess champion," I answered.

"You're damn right he is! He is grand champion. Fischer, he is my friend. We are very close personal friends."

"Do you visit Fischer?" I asked hesitantly.

He responded as if I was insane for even entertaining the thought, "No, no! I don't go to Fischer. He comes to me! Fischer is very strange man. Sometimes he visits pubs and he sits to talk to me. I am honored."

I had to take some deep breaths for fear that I would suffocate. He muttered some things to me, and I nodded, laughed, and looked over at my hostel mates sitting across from me in Sirkus, my favorite Icelandic bungalow-turned-bar. I mean, what can you do in situations like these?

Fischer's friend" made the next strategic move. He jolted so close to my face that his head butted mine, his breath smelled of baby food, barley, and sour milk.

Gritting his teeth and sweating profusely, he grinned and said, "You are from the States. Where in the States are you from?"

"Cleveland. Cleveland, Ohio,"I responded.

His face lit up like a five year old on Christmas morning.

"Cleveland! Cleveland!" he shouted, while flailing his arms wildly in the air. The whole place was watching his every move now. He asked if I knew a woman who lived there. When I responded politely that I didn't, he immediately became somber and rested his forehead on the tips of his thumb, index, and middle finger, a production that lasted for about 10 minutes. Then he slapped the table as if he just had a stroke of genius and said, "I will get paper and pen. You will find this woman for me."

I was barely able to respond with an affirmative "okay" as he shambled to the first floor of Sirkus. Fearing that he would come back, we moved a table over to a cramped booth and proceeded to discuss the man's mental state.

In all of my time in Iceland, I didn't run into Fischer and he didn't run into me. I will never know whether the drunken man in Sirkus was being truthful with me about his relationship with Fischer. He may see Fischer walking around Reykjavík every so often and equate eye contact with friendship.

Luckily, the man never returned that night. The next morning, our paths crossed on the streets of Reykjavík. He breezed by me, having no recollection of our encounter.