Park Bench
ONE
Charles enjoys his walks with Tucker; off leash, both accomplished dreamers, they remained in step, insync, only separated by the depth of their thoughts. Tucker likes to be a few steps behind Charles, something that Charles has long since stopped trying to correct. Every so often, however, Tucker will increase his pace to match Charles’s stride, grab one or two of his partner’s fingers, and hold those fingers in his mouth. “I’m here,” would be Tucker’s gesture to assure both of them that “we’re together and don’t forget it.”
Their walk had a destination. A small neighborhood park around the corner. There are three benches in this park, but one was Charles’s favorite. Under a Live Oak tree, a cast iron bench placed there by Christine’s family almost two decades ago; a memorial for their wife and mother. Cancer. “Fuck Cancer,” Charles declared. There’s a plaque in front of the bench celebrating this woman’s life. What was most strikingly unforgettable were the two sets of handprint impressions in the cement, apparently left there by Christine’s children, set carefully in the wet concrete. They were caressing the plaque. Charles lost the love of his children, and sitting there, he would imagine he felt that love, he so dearly missed, caress him.
An uninterrupted walk would probably take them 10 minutes to get to the park, But Charles and Tucker found that it would generally take them up to 30 minutes to reach the park. Their journey and concentration were predictably broken by neighbors positioned in their expedition. Always welcomed, always expected, these interludes were appreciated waypoints, succumbed by endless, and sometimes pointless, but always entertaning and enjoyable conversations. Except one.
Doug is older than Charles; not by much but enough to make Charles feel younger. ‘Age is all relative Charles, so stop bragging!’ Charles heard himself scold himself. There was always some political conversation waiting for him when he saw Doug standing on his driveway; beckoning with his head for Charles to come over and join the anticipated conference of two retired liberals discussing politics. Charles, although a Democrate by birth, was more molded as a moderate than progressive. Doug was irrationally progressive; but than aren’t all radicals, left or right, irrational. “Can you believe the nerve of this Governor; taking the god-given rights away from us?” Doug’s proclamation was only beginning. So while he lectured, Charles thought. “God-given? These rights were written by man, weren’t they? Oh, maybe he thinks that man wrote those rights with the eye of god overseeing the process. Like the Ten Comandments. So maybe the Governor is only saying what god is dictating?” Charles smiled. And Doug interpreted that grin as an agreement. Doug, for his point to be made, reached really far one day; he proclaimed that Charles’s judaism was being questioned for even talking to the “deplorables”. When radical idealogy becomes reachable only by those who acclaim it, than Charles just walks on. The complete spectrum of politics and pundants, with all afiliations, has made his journey with Tucker an exercise barely tolerable; not fear, and certainly not respect, just distance.
As a board member of his community’s HOA, Charles is just one step from complete exhaustion. The rules and regualtions that govern the residents is housed in their Homeowners’ Manual of Rules. He wanted to help the residents understand, communicate and participate within the principles of the manual, to be involved. This always made sense to Charles. The board has continually tried to update and minimalize this handbook; that was good. But Charles was stymied, not by this manual, not by the basic premise of the HOA, but by the omnipotent oversight that governed the board of directors themselves; the Covenant. Holy Moly Board Members, you rule the day with direction by the written word of the Covenant.
Charles believed Doug always meant for his conversation to be for himself. Like all radical people, Conservation and Progressive, Doug was governed by his own personal Covenant; his prescript, ordinance that calls for a new way of being in the world, a way outlined by self proclaimed righteousness and justice. Not replying, not even acknowledging Charles’s input, with no room left to interject, Charles would continue to move slowly down the street. Sadly, Charles found Doug annoying and pompous, as he did all politically radical pundants, and generally decided that this was not a favorite waypoint; sad commentary since Doug was his only contemporary liberal neighbor. The park was just a few more steps.
Going to sit with Christine now, and her memories. Tucker would roam through the tall grass in search of an errant baseball. As much as Charles wished Tucker luck, he was hoping the search would last a while; once Tucker found a ball hidden in the bushes, it would be time to go home, prize ball securely held in his mouth, now in front, leading the way home, ending his human’s conversation with Christine. Charles would follow.
TWO
As Charles sat on the bench, with Tucker busy searching for his treasure, it seemed that his only interest was focused on the clouds as they passed by. Using a branch of the Live Oak as a guide, he counted the clouds as they traveled by him. How many passed by the branch in a minute, just curious. Were there any duplicates? That’s not possible. Was there even the remote possibility of images that he could even recognize. Highly doubtful, but he would imagine. It passed the time; a mindless excercise for a meaningless purpose. Christine’s bench, the Live Oak, were part of a park that was encircled with 15 homes. He hoped for anonymity. “Maybe 15 more minutes”, he wished.
Charles allowed his mind to relax. Saturday during ther Fall can be a very special time in his neighborhood. A community with many young families, Saturday usually means everyone is home, kids are playing, running, being young. Their screams always seemed to calm his busy mind. Charles watched the clouds. He wondered how his day, like the clouds, seem to pass by uninhibited or without restriction; his life took on the weightlessness of the day. 77 years is a life time to him, but a speck of time, an illusion of passing events to a bigger picture. If 77 years was such a long time, as his body tried to communicate, why then is the inorganic world around him still the same as it was in the beginning of his existence. Was his 77 years just an illusion, a naive perception of flowing occurrences like the clouds. Imagery that is never static; in constant motion, perpetually different every minute?
“Hi Mr. Charles!!!” Her shout woke him to the reality. “Mr. Charles!!!” It wasn’t really necessary to raise her voice, she was practically standing nose to nose with him. But she must have realized he was daydreaming, or maybe it wasn’t her first attempt, Charles finally acknowledged the multiple greetings from this 4 year old girl, Olivia. It startled him, shook him to his real and present realm, and made him aware. Standing behind Olivia was her older brother, Adam, 8; who was quite willing to let his younger sister do the introductions. The park had transitioned into a playground while he was away. Sitting there, Charles became a fixture, and Tucker became a willing toy. How did that happen, he thought. It was just him and the clouds a second ago. “Hi Olivia. Hi Adam. How are you two? Beautiful day isn’t it? Looks like you have all your friends here.” The siblings smiled; Olivia giggled, and Adam showed signs that he was getting bored. It was time for the pair to move on. Mr. Charles accepted their fleeting notation of his existence, and nodded as they quickly passed by this moment in his life.
Where’s Tucker? Charles looked for his friend; found him sitting patiently behind him and the bench. Tucker was used to being there, waiting for his human to return. ‘Time to go home,’ Charles muttered to himself. Tucker picked up on those thoughts, stood and shook the leaves and twigs and bugs off his body, and started walking with Charles tailing right behind him, as expected.
‘Let’s walk on the opposite side of the street, Tuck.’ Directions he gave Tucker by simply moving across the street. Tucker had sensed Charles’ directional change, and followed. Charles most definitely was not in the mood for a repeated Progressive lecture, and equally unwilling to be the direction of any conservative criticism of our present societal situation imagined or documented. Charles mentally nodded at the realization of the futility of their arguments. “Consider the end result,” Charles thought. “Consider if the conservatives are wrong, and the progressives are wrong. That would mean everyone is wrong. And with my calculations, ” Charles concluded, “that means we’re exactly where we need to be.”