From the park bench
Sitting at a park bench right now. Let’s talk about park benches.
It’s a bench, but at a park.
I’ve spent a lot of time on park benches. Typically, I have no agenda. I’m here to listen to music and type things on my phone. And I’m all out of music.
In New York, the park bench has become my front yard, living room, front porch, etc. I live in a really small apartment, so even though there is a lot of noise out here, it’s kinda like I have the TV on in the background. Except instead of watching an episode of Cops, I’m just witnessing it in real life.
The cool thing about park benches is they’ve been around forever, and they maintain their status generation after generation. Despite all the technological advances in society (i.e. VR goggles where you can virtually fist fight people), there is still an innate desire to go outside and sit at a park bench. Why?
Back in the old days, the park was a more official “meeting place” for the townspeople. You’d come here to elect officials and also accuse people of being witches. These community events are essential to a thriving neighborhood. I am fortunate enough to bare (bear?) witness to the modern “community park events”. Instead of determining the fate of an alleged witch, I get to decide the fate of Timothee Chalamet look-a-likes.
The beauty of the park for me is the people watching and the entertainment you weren’t anticipating nor were you asking for. For example, as I began writing this sentence, this massive (and shockingly loud) dump truck showed up to drop off other heavy machinery:
That’s what it’s all about. I’m almost certain that the sound of the revving engine will serve as a mating call to crackheads and vagabonds, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the shiny (and expensive) toy that is ripe for a little grand theft auto robbery.
Surely there’s more to the park bench. Is it the guarantee that you will be seen? A park bench is a place where you can pretend like you aren’t the lonely dimwit you are. You can share your despair with the other solo park-goers. I, of course, do not fall into this category because I am only here due to the convenience factor of living across the street.
If anything, these hopeless souls are encroaching on MY front yard.
Time moves at a different pace from the park bench. I feel like I have either been sitting here for four hours or four minutes. I’m not sure which is more scary. Does “time” cease to exist on the park bench? Is “now” even a real thing? Or am I just getting a secondhand high from “Gunnar”, the 17 year old smoking weed right next to me with his buddies.
- jack