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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Service / Giving Back
- Published: 10/20/2016
It was an ordinary bench. Nothing special about it at all. Just a wooden park bench with a curved back, and dark green weather worn slats.
It sat next to a jogging trail overlooking a small dip leading to a pond, nothing to note how important it was at all.
The old man sat on the bench most every Saturday and Sunday. Sometimes he brought a small lunch to eat, and he always brought his water bottle, some nuts for the squirrels, and a bit of bread for the ducks. He also brought things you could not see: compassion, wisdom, kindness, a sense of humor, and experiences that were shaped by the patina of time. He had lived a long time, and loved for all of that time.
“Hey old man, why you sit there all day?”
The young man was only fifteen. He had seen the old man every time he came to the park to ride his skateboard. Today was the first time he said anything to the old man.
The old man smiled.
“How come you skate all day?”
“Because it is fun, and I am good at it.”
“Well, that is why I sit here. It is fun, and I am good at it.”
“WTF," thought the kid to himself: “What could be fun about sitting on bench?”
“Your nuts! It can’t be fun just sitting there.”
“I’m nuts? You are the one doing incredible tricks on railings that spill you out onto cement, without a shred of protection. What good’s hitting a good trick, without being able to remember it?”
The kid was both proud and pissed. He was glad the old man noticed how difficult the tricks were, but pissed that he thought he would get hurt and not remember his tricks.
“I haven’t hit my head yet.”
“Give it time.” And the old man smiled.
“You think I am going to get a concussion or something?”
“No. I KNOW you are going to get a concussion. I just don’t know how bad of one.”
“What would you know about skate boarding?”
“Not much, but I know Tony Hawk wears a helmet. I know Mullen, Gonzalez and Burnquist , all wear helmets. I know you should too.”
The kid kicked up his board, walked over to the bench and talked with the old man. He was surprised that he knew all those famous skateboarders. The kid ate half of the tuna fish sandwich the old man had brought. During the next two hours, the kid admitted he didn’t do well in school, he had two younger brothers, and his mom worked two jobs, and buying a helmet was out of the question. He couldn’t even afford new wheels for his board.
“You coming here tomorrow?”
“Sure, I always skate on Sunday. “
“Okay, see you then.”
The next day (Sunday) the old man waved the kid over to the bench.
“Here. I thought you might like these.”
In the bag were a helmet, a complete set of wheels, and five decals of the skateboarders that they had talked about yesterday.”
“Man, thanks dude. Wow. That’s dope.”
“Oh, I also want you to give this to your Mom. “
The old man handed over another bag. In that bag was a big box of chocolate, and a card.
“What’s this for? You don’t know my mom.”
“No. But chocolate has never failed me with a woman yet. (and he chuckled) If your Mom is raising three boys at one time, alone- she doesn’t get many treats. With that big box of chocolates, she gets to choose which ones to eat, and when, believe me, that helps her mind. The card is for her to read, not you.”
“Whatever. I will give it to her. Thanks again.”
A couple weeks later the skateboarder saw the old man on the bench, and came over to talk.
“My mom said to thank you for the chocolate, and she cried when she read your card. She hugged it to her heart, and told me to make sure I told you that.”
The old man smiled, and nodded.
“What did you say in that card? She won’t tell me. She must have read it fifty times that first day.”
“Oh, not much. I told her she was a great mom, she was raising a good kid, a tremendous athlete, and not to worry about your future. I told her that you were going to be just fine. As soon as you find something as interesting to you as skateboarding, you will soar.”
The kid was flabbergasted.
“You told her all that? How do you know all that stuff will happen? You really think I am a tremendous athlete?”
The old man smiled.
“ You have skill, balance, timing, endurance, and strength, I believe those are the hallmarks of an athlete. You also don’t give up, you learn from your mistakes, or tricks that don’t work, and you figure out how to correct them, or hit the trick. Those qualities, are what will serve you when you get a bit older. You are going to do just fine in life. “
Over the next five years, everything the old man said, came true. The kid never became rich, but he opened a little skate board shop, and later added half pipes in the back, and even sponsored tournaments and skaters. He did well enough to buy a small house to give to his mom and brothers. And he still made time to sit with the old man on the bench too.
She was 22, spiky orange hair, and covered with tattoo’s. She only sat down on the bench because she was tired, the tears were still falling, and to be honest, she didn’t even notice the old man sitting there.
“Good morning young lady. Are you okay?
“What? I am fine, what’s it to you anyway?”
“Well, when I see a lovely young lady, who has the strength to stand out, but tears are pouring out of her like someone left the faucet open, well, I think she might need to talk.”
“Why, what could you possibly say to me? You don’t even know me!”
“I could start with the simple fact that you are both and artist and an individual. I could start with understanding that you want to make your mark on the world, but that the world has already marked you. Or, I could simply tell you that as pretty as you are, you are more beautiful inside, you should let it out more. “
The girl stared at the old man. You could see in her eyes that she had sucked up every word he said, like a desperate desert dweller taking their first drink at the Oasis. No one had ever called her beautiful. No one had ever told her she was pretty. How did he know she did Art, she never showed her art to anyone- ever. How did he know how alone she felt? How did he know she wanted to prove she didn’t need anyone , while all the time wishing she had someone to be with?
“You really think I am pretty?” She asked shyly.
“Oh my gosh, yes!” Only your thoughts are ugly.”
“My thoughts?”
“Yes. They are the reason you are sad.”
“Well, if you are so smart, tell me what my thoughts are!”
“Okay, you see beauty all around you, don’t you? It is in your art and your poetry.”
“How did you know I do art and poetry?”
“Because kind smart pretty people, fight the pain by seeing beauty that they hide from the world.”
The girl started to cry. The old man handed her a handkerchief. She leaned into his shoulder and started to sob.
“I am worthless, a failure. My paintings are crap, my poetry sucks, and I drive away the people I want to love.”
The old man said nothing. Just held the girl lightly, and let her cry.
The girl told the old man everything. Her hatred for her father. Her fling with being gay, but realizing she did that just to hurt her mom, and out cool the kids in High School. She told him how much she hated college, and why she dropped out. She told him how she worked at Waffle House, and hated it. She told him that she always wanted a cat, but was afraid she wouldn’t care for it enough. The cat was the only dream she mentioned.
The old man waited until she wound down. Then he straightened her up on the bench.
“Do you have a make up mirror?”
“Yes, right here in my purse.”
“Okay, can I borrow it from you?”
Still sniffling a bit, she dug out the compact with the mirror in it.
“Here, what do want this for?”
“Well, I can’t figure out if this new look on you is more rock band, or more raccoon, or wolf like.”
“What?”
The old man held the mirror up. She looked at herself , the laughter peeled from her without any effort. She hadn’t laughed in a real long time. Real laughter. The kind that makes your side hurt, and you can’t breathe. She did look like she came from a 1980’s rock band, or maybe a raccoon that had aspirations to be a rock star. She laughed again. The old man laughed with her.
“Come by here tomorrow. I will have something for you. “
“Okay.”
The next day she showed up, and there was the old man sitting with a woman about forty. They were chatting amicably and the girl with the orange spiky hair and tattoos felt a pang of jealousy. She wanted the old man to herself. Plus, they looked comfortable with each other talking on the bench. She didn’t want to interrupt them. For all she knew, that woman might be his daughter. So she slowed almost to a stop on the little path to the bench.
The old man saw her, gave her a big smile, waving her over. The woman turned to look, and to the spiky haired girls surprise her face lit up in delight. She waved too.
“I am glad you came. This is Amanda Warrick. She teaches Art at the School for the Arts. I told her to bring a sketch pad. If you wouldn’t mind drawing something for us?”
“Well, I didn’t expect this. I don’t have my pencils. And I don’t know what to draw.”
Amanda smiled, and pulled out a sketch book, a bunch of pencils, a portable easel then said:
“Why don’t you draw two pictures? One of the pond there, the way you see it. And one of your kitten?”
“What? I don’t have a kitten.
The old man reached into a box perched next to him. He pulled out a tiny calico kitten. Handed it to the spiky haired girl.
The spiky haired girl took the tiny little puff ball of fur, barely bigger than her palm, and snuggled it against her chest. In mere moments, the kitten purred and closed its eyes. Never looking up from the tiny life sleeping in her hand, she asked the old man:
“What’s her name?”
“That’s up to you. She is yours.”
“I shall call her…Palate.”
Years later, the kitten was much much bigger, the spiky haired girl had long dark hair with a purple streak in it, Amanda was both her Agent, and her lover. She painted the old man on the bench, and it made her famous. He had driven to New York City to see it at the Guggenheim. She was standing next to him when he turned with water wide eyes:
“Thank-you. “ It was all he said, and all she needed to hear. She held his hand when he turned back to look at the picture some more. Amanda took a photograph of that moment. It became almost as famous as the picture.
The bench is still there. It is still just an ordinary looking bench, with green slats. The old man is no longer there. Just a bronze statue sitting on the bench. A bronze skate board leans against the bench. A small kitten sits on his lap. He is handing a bronze handkerchief to someone sitting next to him, on his face, is a simple open smile. Next to him, lays a bronze half eaten tunafish sandwich , some nuts, and a squirrel.
On the bronze plague that bears his name, are the signatures of over a thousand people who once sat and talked with the old man on the bench. Many still came to sit and talk.
by Kevin Hughes
The old man's park bench.(Kevin Hughes)
It was an ordinary bench. Nothing special about it at all. Just a wooden park bench with a curved back, and dark green weather worn slats.
It sat next to a jogging trail overlooking a small dip leading to a pond, nothing to note how important it was at all.
The old man sat on the bench most every Saturday and Sunday. Sometimes he brought a small lunch to eat, and he always brought his water bottle, some nuts for the squirrels, and a bit of bread for the ducks. He also brought things you could not see: compassion, wisdom, kindness, a sense of humor, and experiences that were shaped by the patina of time. He had lived a long time, and loved for all of that time.
“Hey old man, why you sit there all day?”
The young man was only fifteen. He had seen the old man every time he came to the park to ride his skateboard. Today was the first time he said anything to the old man.
The old man smiled.
“How come you skate all day?”
“Because it is fun, and I am good at it.”
“Well, that is why I sit here. It is fun, and I am good at it.”
“WTF," thought the kid to himself: “What could be fun about sitting on bench?”
“Your nuts! It can’t be fun just sitting there.”
“I’m nuts? You are the one doing incredible tricks on railings that spill you out onto cement, without a shred of protection. What good’s hitting a good trick, without being able to remember it?”
The kid was both proud and pissed. He was glad the old man noticed how difficult the tricks were, but pissed that he thought he would get hurt and not remember his tricks.
“I haven’t hit my head yet.”
“Give it time.” And the old man smiled.
“You think I am going to get a concussion or something?”
“No. I KNOW you are going to get a concussion. I just don’t know how bad of one.”
“What would you know about skate boarding?”
“Not much, but I know Tony Hawk wears a helmet. I know Mullen, Gonzalez and Burnquist , all wear helmets. I know you should too.”
The kid kicked up his board, walked over to the bench and talked with the old man. He was surprised that he knew all those famous skateboarders. The kid ate half of the tuna fish sandwich the old man had brought. During the next two hours, the kid admitted he didn’t do well in school, he had two younger brothers, and his mom worked two jobs, and buying a helmet was out of the question. He couldn’t even afford new wheels for his board.
“You coming here tomorrow?”
“Sure, I always skate on Sunday. “
“Okay, see you then.”
The next day (Sunday) the old man waved the kid over to the bench.
“Here. I thought you might like these.”
In the bag were a helmet, a complete set of wheels, and five decals of the skateboarders that they had talked about yesterday.”
“Man, thanks dude. Wow. That’s dope.”
“Oh, I also want you to give this to your Mom. “
The old man handed over another bag. In that bag was a big box of chocolate, and a card.
“What’s this for? You don’t know my mom.”
“No. But chocolate has never failed me with a woman yet. (and he chuckled) If your Mom is raising three boys at one time, alone- she doesn’t get many treats. With that big box of chocolates, she gets to choose which ones to eat, and when, believe me, that helps her mind. The card is for her to read, not you.”
“Whatever. I will give it to her. Thanks again.”
A couple weeks later the skateboarder saw the old man on the bench, and came over to talk.
“My mom said to thank you for the chocolate, and she cried when she read your card. She hugged it to her heart, and told me to make sure I told you that.”
The old man smiled, and nodded.
“What did you say in that card? She won’t tell me. She must have read it fifty times that first day.”
“Oh, not much. I told her she was a great mom, she was raising a good kid, a tremendous athlete, and not to worry about your future. I told her that you were going to be just fine. As soon as you find something as interesting to you as skateboarding, you will soar.”
The kid was flabbergasted.
“You told her all that? How do you know all that stuff will happen? You really think I am a tremendous athlete?”
The old man smiled.
“ You have skill, balance, timing, endurance, and strength, I believe those are the hallmarks of an athlete. You also don’t give up, you learn from your mistakes, or tricks that don’t work, and you figure out how to correct them, or hit the trick. Those qualities, are what will serve you when you get a bit older. You are going to do just fine in life. “
Over the next five years, everything the old man said, came true. The kid never became rich, but he opened a little skate board shop, and later added half pipes in the back, and even sponsored tournaments and skaters. He did well enough to buy a small house to give to his mom and brothers. And he still made time to sit with the old man on the bench too.
She was 22, spiky orange hair, and covered with tattoo’s. She only sat down on the bench because she was tired, the tears were still falling, and to be honest, she didn’t even notice the old man sitting there.
“Good morning young lady. Are you okay?
“What? I am fine, what’s it to you anyway?”
“Well, when I see a lovely young lady, who has the strength to stand out, but tears are pouring out of her like someone left the faucet open, well, I think she might need to talk.”
“Why, what could you possibly say to me? You don’t even know me!”
“I could start with the simple fact that you are both and artist and an individual. I could start with understanding that you want to make your mark on the world, but that the world has already marked you. Or, I could simply tell you that as pretty as you are, you are more beautiful inside, you should let it out more. “
The girl stared at the old man. You could see in her eyes that she had sucked up every word he said, like a desperate desert dweller taking their first drink at the Oasis. No one had ever called her beautiful. No one had ever told her she was pretty. How did he know she did Art, she never showed her art to anyone- ever. How did he know how alone she felt? How did he know she wanted to prove she didn’t need anyone , while all the time wishing she had someone to be with?
“You really think I am pretty?” She asked shyly.
“Oh my gosh, yes!” Only your thoughts are ugly.”
“My thoughts?”
“Yes. They are the reason you are sad.”
“Well, if you are so smart, tell me what my thoughts are!”
“Okay, you see beauty all around you, don’t you? It is in your art and your poetry.”
“How did you know I do art and poetry?”
“Because kind smart pretty people, fight the pain by seeing beauty that they hide from the world.”
The girl started to cry. The old man handed her a handkerchief. She leaned into his shoulder and started to sob.
“I am worthless, a failure. My paintings are crap, my poetry sucks, and I drive away the people I want to love.”
The old man said nothing. Just held the girl lightly, and let her cry.
The girl told the old man everything. Her hatred for her father. Her fling with being gay, but realizing she did that just to hurt her mom, and out cool the kids in High School. She told him how much she hated college, and why she dropped out. She told him how she worked at Waffle House, and hated it. She told him that she always wanted a cat, but was afraid she wouldn’t care for it enough. The cat was the only dream she mentioned.
The old man waited until she wound down. Then he straightened her up on the bench.
“Do you have a make up mirror?”
“Yes, right here in my purse.”
“Okay, can I borrow it from you?”
Still sniffling a bit, she dug out the compact with the mirror in it.
“Here, what do want this for?”
“Well, I can’t figure out if this new look on you is more rock band, or more raccoon, or wolf like.”
“What?”
The old man held the mirror up. She looked at herself , the laughter peeled from her without any effort. She hadn’t laughed in a real long time. Real laughter. The kind that makes your side hurt, and you can’t breathe. She did look like she came from a 1980’s rock band, or maybe a raccoon that had aspirations to be a rock star. She laughed again. The old man laughed with her.
“Come by here tomorrow. I will have something for you. “
“Okay.”
The next day she showed up, and there was the old man sitting with a woman about forty. They were chatting amicably and the girl with the orange spiky hair and tattoos felt a pang of jealousy. She wanted the old man to herself. Plus, they looked comfortable with each other talking on the bench. She didn’t want to interrupt them. For all she knew, that woman might be his daughter. So she slowed almost to a stop on the little path to the bench.
The old man saw her, gave her a big smile, waving her over. The woman turned to look, and to the spiky haired girls surprise her face lit up in delight. She waved too.
“I am glad you came. This is Amanda Warrick. She teaches Art at the School for the Arts. I told her to bring a sketch pad. If you wouldn’t mind drawing something for us?”
“Well, I didn’t expect this. I don’t have my pencils. And I don’t know what to draw.”
Amanda smiled, and pulled out a sketch book, a bunch of pencils, a portable easel then said:
“Why don’t you draw two pictures? One of the pond there, the way you see it. And one of your kitten?”
“What? I don’t have a kitten.
The old man reached into a box perched next to him. He pulled out a tiny calico kitten. Handed it to the spiky haired girl.
The spiky haired girl took the tiny little puff ball of fur, barely bigger than her palm, and snuggled it against her chest. In mere moments, the kitten purred and closed its eyes. Never looking up from the tiny life sleeping in her hand, she asked the old man:
“What’s her name?”
“That’s up to you. She is yours.”
“I shall call her…Palate.”
Years later, the kitten was much much bigger, the spiky haired girl had long dark hair with a purple streak in it, Amanda was both her Agent, and her lover. She painted the old man on the bench, and it made her famous. He had driven to New York City to see it at the Guggenheim. She was standing next to him when he turned with water wide eyes:
“Thank-you. “ It was all he said, and all she needed to hear. She held his hand when he turned back to look at the picture some more. Amanda took a photograph of that moment. It became almost as famous as the picture.
The bench is still there. It is still just an ordinary looking bench, with green slats. The old man is no longer there. Just a bronze statue sitting on the bench. A bronze skate board leans against the bench. A small kitten sits on his lap. He is handing a bronze handkerchief to someone sitting next to him, on his face, is a simple open smile. Next to him, lays a bronze half eaten tunafish sandwich , some nuts, and a squirrel.
On the bronze plague that bears his name, are the signatures of over a thousand people who once sat and talked with the old man on the bench. Many still came to sit and talk.
by Kevin Hughes
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