You would be amazed at how much fun it is to be a park bench! I realize I’m not much to look at: a bunch of heavy wooden planks attached by (in my case) two cement legs. And admittedly, my function is rather pedestrian (no pun intended.) I mean, come on, my assigned function in the park is to give people’s legs a rest by offering a waystation for their behinds, sometimes cute little bums, sometimes gargantuan buttocks that inexplicably expand the longer they are deposited. Sadly, my other function, according to Dog Nation, is to be pissed on. Thank God it rains with some regularity here in my park. On the surface, for people with not much imagination, I’m an ass holder. What they’re unable to understand is that I can transform into all kinds of vehicles that can delight and excite but also soothe and comfort. One of my favorite transformations is when I turn into the park’s lost and found department. All things dropped or forgotten: a glove, a cell phone, once a shoe, can end up on my horizontal planks. I patiently look after them, sometime for days,, waiting for those three happy little words:
“There it is.”
Then there’s the summer when I become a peanut gallery for the old men in the saggy shorts and the black socks from the halfway house down the street. For them, I’ve been designated their meeting place mostly because in front of me across my walkway on the grassy expanse often appear several young women from the buildings that surround my park. The ladies have congregated to “lay out” which is hip for sunbathing on a blanket. The peanut gallery will be noisily jabbering away until suddenly a hush comes over the crowd. One of the nubiles just sat up to work in a little more suntan lotion. All that can be heard are the occasional hurried whisper and a few quiet sighs of appreciation. She then reclines and the gallery returns to its normal disjointed banter. I don’t quite understand it but the nubiles and the gallery seem to be enjoying themselves so I’m content in the knowledge that I’ve successfully performed my duty. Last fall, I slept with a woman. She was older and more than a little bit addled but if you’re a park bench, you really can’t be picky. She just appeared one day, shuffling up my walkway, wrapped in a variety of dirty rags, doused in cheap perfume, muttering angrily to nobody in particular. She had a bright green umbrella which she kept pulled down tightly around her head, presumably to keep off the sun and the rain but that I suspected was more likely designed to keep her safely ensconced in her own little world. She sat down, got herself situated, then snuggled into me, the muscles in her back slowly releasing as she became more comfortable with our relationship. Then, thankfully, she stopped her muttering. We maintained our embrace for three days. Day and night people would come up my walkway, slow down, decide not to disturb us, then continue on their way. On our third afternoon together, a thunderstorm rolled in, turning the sky an angry black. My lady’s bright green umbrella began to get a real workout. Just as the wind began to sound serious and the raindrops got bigger, a young woman came running up my walkway (as best she could in her high heels,) stopped in front of us and said in a strong but pleading voice, “Mother, it’s time to go back to the Home.” I could sense my lady’s back muscles stiffen, then felt her slowly get to her feet. Without a word, she began her shuffling, accompanied by the slow, steady clicking of her daughter’s heels. And then she was gone. Fortunately, I always have Winter to look forward to. It’s a more peaceful, restful time of year for me because on most days people leave me alone. Of course, I still get pissed on but I actually don’t mind if it’s really cold out. That brief surge of warmth up my cement leg is kind of invigorating. But the true reward for me is that Winter is my time. My time to quietly await the snowflakes that will come to gently wrap me up in a blanket all my own.