A Seat at the Edge of the World

On the far left end of the immovable bench sat an old man. Gray, disheveled, dismal. Investigating the young couple that had just entered the park.

He was there every day. Except for the days when it rained hard. On those days he sat under the roof overhang by the basement door of the building. Today it did not rain, so he was at his bench. He had no phone with him, no book, no newspaper. No seeds or cigarette. Nothing but his warm coat. Brown with a checkered lining and a worn hat. He often felt chilly sitting on his bench, so the hat was a necessity.

As he sat on his bench he watched people walking through the small tree-lined square. Some he recognized from the neighborhood, a few new faces he pondered about, the squirrels he enjoyed watching running up and down the trees. Digging and burying and forgetting and searching. Sometimes he would see a few birds in the square. He liked when the birds were there. They would sing songs and that gave the place a very pleasant ambiance, especially when the sun would shine through the branches and leaves of the tall oak trees.

This was a good place.

He felt very lucky that he could come there every day and see the world. He had everything he could need at that bench in the square. His legs could rest. He was comfortable sitting. He had the trees, the squirrels, the birds. During spring and summer he could even smell some flowers blooming in the small flowerbeds under the trees. He could see people walking. Sometimes pushing a stroller. Sometimes walking a dog. Sometimes speeding along. It was endlessly surprising and interesting, and he was in the middle of it all on his bench.

Today was special.

Today there was a young couple walking through the square. They were holding hands and speaking casually. It must have been a light sort of conversation. Neither seemed burdened or committed to a point.

That's nice, he thought. It's nice that they can have that space in their day, in their relationship, where there is room for lightness. There is not always room for lightness.

Sometimes he would see people walking by carrying whole mountains on their backs. Hunched over. Feet dragging. He wondered if he were younger, and maybe stronger, if he could offer a hand, but nowadays he just watched.

It wasn't his turn for action any longer. Now he just participated as witness.

The couple came to the end of the square and crossed the gravel path to the other side. The old man watched them intently as they walked around the church and disappeared from sight. He kept looking, as though their departure was still unfolding.

After a little while his eyes relaxed and the square settled back onto itself.

The old man took a few long breaths. From the left he noticed a woman walking in. She was carrying groceries. The bags looked ballooned and by the way she was walking he could tell they were heavy. One of the bag straps was slipping off her shoulder and the man became concerned it would slip off and the eggs he feared were in the bag would spill out on the pavement.

His concern grew with each passing moment. He became quite uncomfortable as he observed.

She made it halfway through the square and stopped near the fountain to adjust the bag on her shoulder. She hoisted the bag higher, shifted the bread, and continued on.

The man felt relief. He watched her disappear around the corner.

Suddenly the man felt very tired. So much was happening around him. He closed his heavy eyes and the sounds of the birds and distant cars grew louder.

"I'll rest my eyes for a bit and just listen," he thought.

He must have dozed off, for when he came to, he heard a high-pitched giggle coming from the fountain. He slowly opened his eyes and saw a little girl running around the fountain trying to catch the pigeons that had flocked to the stone watering hole for the afternoon. With outstretched arms she would bolt toward the birds and they would flap their gray feathers and hop just out of reach. This continued for a while and the little girl seemed undeterred by each unsuccessful attempt. In fact, her laughter intensified and the old man imagined what would happen if she actually got hold of one of the birds. A moment later a woman came up to the girl and took her hand, and they walked off with the girl looking over her shoulder at her playmates still gathering by the fountain.

The man's face softened. He adjusted himself on the bench and brushed off a leaf that had settled on his right thigh. The man looked up.

It was a cloudy day and the clouds were moving quite quickly across the sky from the north. On the ocean the wind must have been blowing twenty to twenty-five knots, but in the square you could hardly feel a breeze. The great oaks offered protection from Mother Nature. They would shield him from the sun, keep him dry when it drizzled, and hold back the winds that chilled his bones.

He was grateful to his protectors.

Those old oaks.

Weaving their arms into contortions. They did the best they could with the neat square plot of land that the city planners had allotted them. The oaks had been there for at least a few hundred years, watching the city take shape and unfold before them.

Many mornings he had sat in the square. Wonder, fantasy, reality, sense perception. Each overtaking the other as if going for gold at the racetrack. Each egging the other on.

A waft of fragrance in the wind and he was off.

An entire world would open before him. Exotic bazaars and spice stalls. Women dressed in colorful jellabas. Men with daggers on their hips.

Then back to the bench. Satisfied from his travels, resting in the present for a few moments. At any time at all he could begin again. It was really quite miraculous. Anything could become a ticket.

A man crossing the square with a book under his arm. Unkempt hair. A stained white button-down shirt. Oversized trousers. He walked with a slight wobble. Maybe a limp. Maybe just years of bad posture.

The old man closed his eyes.

The man was returning from lunch. Clocking back into the DMV office a block away. Twenty-two years at the same office. In an average day he saw forty people. About two hundred a week. He couldn't remember the last time he had taken a sick day.

Ten thousand faces a year.

Each one arriving with a different story. A different mood. Some interactions were more memorable than others. He searched for familiarity in their eyes. Some he recognized. Some remained strangers. Some made him laugh. Others followed him home and returned unexpectedly in the middle of the night.

Three years until retirement.

Thirty thousand faces to go.

If he tried hard enough, could he remember them all? Sitting there behind the glass. The window reducing the karmic footprint between them. If he tried very hard, all he would find were flashes. Colors. Shapes. Sizes. Joys. Sorrows. And somewhere beneath it all, something shared.

The old man opened his eyes.

The man with the book was sitting on a bench near the fountain now. He was no longer a stranger.

The old man took a slow breath. Looking around the square, he noticed a familiar face. A volunteer from the church was walking toward him carrying a takeout container.

It must be noon, the old man thought.

The cheerful man approached the bench and, after asking how he was feeling and how his day was going, handed him the container, smiled, and turned back toward the church. The old man watched him go with a relaxed and grateful smile still on his face.

He looked down at the container in his lap. Slowly he opened it. To no surprise, a ham and cheese sandwich sat beside a small pile of sliced apples. He knew he would never be able to chew the apples. That wasn't important. He was grateful.

Truth be told, he had lost interest in food a while back. He often forgot to eat altogether. And what he did eat tasted almost like air mixed with cardboard. He didn't miss eating very much. He was still able to travel to any meal he had ever eaten and recall each sensation. Hell, he could even travel to meals he had never tried.

He took a few bites of the sandwich. His jaw hurt. He gave up on the task.

Soon after, he put the sandwich back in the container and placed it on the bench beside him.

The afternoon continued.

The old man remained on the bench. Alert at some moments.

Grounded in stillness, the great oaks sent their roots through the square. Every now and then they gathered enough strength to push their way through the pavement. The neat flat stones would buckle and part. Defeated and deformed.

A squirrel was descending headfirst down the trunk of the nearest oak. It paused halfway. Holding perfectly still.

The old man paused too.

Neither of them seemed in a hurry.

After a moment the squirrel continued downward and disappeared around the far side of the trunk. The old man kept looking for some time. Then turned away.

The late afternoon light filtered softly through the leaves. He looked up and closed his eyes. The warmth was pleasant. He rested his hand on the bench and felt the sun-soaked wood.

The square became busier as the day progressed. Children were out of school now and made their way through the park. Loud in their chatter and laughter. Backpacks hanging from their shoulders. Uniform shirts untucked.

Soon a trickle of early commuters began entering the square. Some heading for buses across the street by the church. Others taking the opportunity to sit by the fountain and enjoy the afternoon air.

A little boy sat by a crack in the pavement playing with the loose chunks of stone. His mother watched him for a few moments and then glanced toward the old man. She walked over and, with the smallest smile of acknowledgment, sat down on the opposite end of the bench.

Both continued to observe the boy.

Looking up, the boy suddenly noticed his mother's absence. A flash of panic crossed his face before he quickly located her. Relief followed.

He picked up the largest piece of broken pavement and walked toward the bench.

The mother and child spoke for a moment, then stood and continued through the park. The old man said nothing. They did not acknowledge him when they left.

After they departed, the old man looked down and saw the stone resting on the opposite side of the bench. He reached over and picked it up.

The light began to fade. The fountain turned golden. Foot traffic increased and it became difficult to follow all the passersby. Dogs greeted one another with barks and wagging tails. People sped bicycles through the square.

The old man sat on his bench holding the stone. He felt its weight in his hand. The sharp edges. The corners that had never had the chance to soften beneath rain and wind.

The sunlight faded and the streetlights flickered on. Fewer people walked through the square now. An older couple passed on a leisurely stroll. A woman pushed a stroller. A few more dogs went out for their evening walks with their humans following closely behind.

The old man sat on his bench.

As night fell, the square emptied. The oaks rustled in the evening breeze.

The old man sat on his bench. His eyes were closed. His hands were open.

The stone lay by his foot on the ground.