Shelf Life

On a dark evening, a man wearing a gray, hooded sweat shirt walks off the street and into the District's Southeast Neighborhood Library. His hair is slicked back in the middle and wild on the sides. A scruffy stubble covers his face. He looks like someone who hasn't eaten or showered lately. He grabs a chessboard, sits down on one of the small chairs in the children's section and begins setting up the pieces. He waits as he does every Tuesday night. Waits for the roles to change. No more ignored pleas. No averted glances. During the next hour, people will look him in the eye. They'll listen to his words. In this down-at-the-heels library that still beckons to those in search of transformation, he's the chess teacher.

His name is Conrad Cheek Jr., and his one pupil tonight is an 11-year-old boy named Avery. Tufts of Avery's blond hair poke out of his baseball cap with "Cape Cod" emblazoned across the front. The boy stares at the board.

"The bishop has everything on this side," says Conrad. "The knight has this, too. And the rook has this spot. So there is no escape. See a way out?"

Conrad's voice is low, calm, patient. Don't get discouraged, he tells Avery. Conrad has been playing since he was 8 years old. He's 50 now. He's got a natural advantage. He shows Avery how to win with only a rook and a queen.

"See how you do it?" he asks the boy gently.

Avery tries the same moves against Conrad but fails. They try again. And again. And again.

"Checkmate," Avery finally says, grinning.

"Very good," Conrad says. "You learned a little more that time."

The clock strikes 8 p.m., and Conrad puts the board away. He zips his jacket and plunges back into the night. Under an arm is a stack of Street Sense newspapers for sale. He stops in front of the CVS drugstore next to the library. His arms spread apart like he's taken the stage. "Get your new edition of Street Sense, the newspaper by and for homeless people," his voice sings. "And help a hardworking homeless man."

People rush by. They talk on cell phones or to each other. Most never look at him. "Maybe next time," he says to a couple already gone. A half-hour later, he counts out $20 in wrinkled bills and shoves the stash back in his pocket. That's enough for tonight.

The Southeast branch perches on a little knoll on Capitol Hill, right next to a Metro station and two blocks from busy Eastern Market. It's a red-brick building you could easily miss with the bustle around it. Hard to believe that on a December evening 82 years ago, hundreds of people gathered here to glimpse a fresh promise of Washington's future. The dedication speeches that night focused on how this new branch and the D.C library system would serve as "a model for other cities throughout our land." There was more talk about how the city's public schools would lead the nation. The intoxicating smell of hope filled the air. An orchestra started to play, and the crowd flooded inside.

The library has changed little since then. The layout is much the same. The graceful arched windows and the wood trim are still here. But everything looks tired. A rusting cyclone fence now circles much of the property to keep loiterers away. The outside book drop box is gone. Someone put human excrement in it a few years ago, and that was the end of that. There's still a gaping hole in the men's bathroom wall near where someone once ripped out a urinal. Inside, the air is heavy, like a house that needs airing out.