Under the Bench

“It wasn’t lost, it was being delivered.”

That’s not what I expected to hear after tracking down the owner of the diary I found under a bench in Central Park. Yet, here I sat in front of a crying woman, holding what I should’ve realized immediately was not meant for me.

I found it in a small alcove of the park that the city created to shield its visitors from the expanses of salesmen and sun tanners. The entrance is a chain-link fence painted the same dark green as the leaves behind it. It’s somewhere you’d expect park groundskeepers to go when they needed to retrieve replacement parts for a broken water fountain or toilet.

Hallet Sanctuary sits just above 59th St, the southernmost point of Central park. Inside, a series of tree-lined paths leads to a pond and a small waterfall. American elms and sweetgums provide shelter and shade for an ecosystem of squirrels, cardinals, and rats. Don’t let the manufactured nature fool you, as a series of newly-built skyscrapers so tall and thin they are destined to fall dominates the background.

I visit this area often. There’s one bench in particular where I sit. As is common in Central Park, this bench is dedicated to someone’s deceased loved-one, though I never investigated who. It sits off the trail in a small nook completely surrounded by bushes. With just enough light to enjoy reading, you’re protected from the wind and the growling gas motors of nearby hot dog carts.

The last time I was there, two days ago, some curious pigeons joined me and what I thought would be a shared moment of peace erupted into a battle for a worm. Evading a flurry of chirps, feathers and claws, I stood up and took a frantic step to the side. The edge of my shoe caught on a small root and I toppled over, landing on the compacted dirt. I wasn’t hurt physically but laid there for a minute anyway while the two pigeons flew away. 

When I finally rolled over, I saw a book under the bench. I grabbed it and lifted myself onto the seat to investigate. It was a dark blue leather-bound journal with an elastic strap attached to the back that was stretched over the front holding it shut. I briefly flipped through the pages, with the unmistakable shaky handwriting that follows the final act of a teenager’s relationship.

The owner’s name, on the inside cover, was blacked out with a sharpie but I couldn’t take a hint. I was able to make out the letters in the indentation etched into the surface and decided that I would help reunite the diary with its owner.

Aaron Tyndall.

Tyndall is a familiar name to everyone who lives in New York City. However, I had never heard anything other than a The attached to it. The Tyndall is a 5-star hotel on the Upper West Side whose enormous cascading marble entryway provides a warm welcome for people with a life made possible by a doting staff.

A quick google search revealed that Aaron Tyndall was the hotel owner’s son. I worked on 96th and Broadway and The Tyndall was only a couple blocks north. I decided I’d bring the diary there on my way home from work the next day. Maybe, I thought, they’d even give me a reward for returning it.

I sat at my desk the entire day, imagining the secret world of a hotel heir that, at least for another few hours, was open to me. I ran my thumb along the edge of the diary, knowing I’d only need a slight pull to open it. He would never know I read it.

Part of me sincerely wanted to read it, even knowing how wrong that was. The other part of me enjoyed the short-lived thrill I got just from imagining myself as someone who opened it. The things we think, eyes avoiding a spreadsheet on a computer screen. 

When I walked into the hotel after work, the woman working the front desk welcomed me with a pleasant smile, belied by a head-tilt that dared me to prove I belonged there, among the lobby’s Greek statues. I placed the book onto the counter and she shattered.

“Just a moment… sir.” She pressed a button under the desk and within ten seconds, another woman, flanked by two security guards, entered the lobby and asked me to follow them. Not sure whether I could say no, I placed the diary back into my backpack and complied.

We snaked through a series of corridors deep into the hotel, usually danced on by the stuck wheels of laundry carts. Eventually, we reached a room originally designed as a bomb shelter and they asked me to take a seat.

The woman wore a crisp red suit with a white satin button-down shirt underneath. Her earrings, shoes, and belt all black. Everything fit perfectly, except her face. Her eyes were red and puffy and her hair had clearly been professionally done earlier in the week but not brushed or cared for since.

-Who are you? What are you doing here? Where did you get that? Where is he? Who sent you?

I explained the series of events that led me there: the park, the pigeons, the book, that I worked nearby. The woman crumpled into a ball on the floor, missing the empty chair right beside her, and buried her head in her hands. One of the security guards took a tissue out of his pocket and held it next to her head. She reached up, without looking, and grabbed it.

After a moment of deep breaths, she released from her position, looked up at me, and said “It wasn’t lost, it was being delivered.”

The taller of the two guards was holding a small camcorder. When she nodded towards him, he opened up the screen and pressed play.

There was a masked man. He was holding the camera with his right hand, filming close to his face. As he lowered the camera down his body, he said “I think I have something that belongs to you.” A young boy appeared: first his hair, then his closed eyes drooping face, and then his tied wrists. He appeared to be asleep but otherwise unharmed.

The man spoke again, the camera’s cheap speaker struggling to produce the audio without clipping.

“On April 12th, I will leave his diary under Deborah’s Bench in Hallet Sanctuary in Central Park. If you ever want to see your son again, you will do the following: place 5 million dollars of bitcoin in a crypto wallet. Next, you will write the account number and password to the wallet on the last page of his diary. Finally, On April 13th, you will place the diary under the same bench and leave. Once you complete this, I will return him to you safe and sound. If news of his disappearance comes out, I will kill him. If there is even one penny less than the amount I asked for, I will kill him. If the diary isn’t under the bench when I get there, I will kill him.”

The camera screen turned black and the woman let go the breath she’d been holding and sobbed. She leaned her head back against the wall and, in between forced inhales and exhales, said “he’s probably already dead. He’s probably dead right now.”

 The guards responded, in tandem

-ma'am, we don’t know that

-maybe we can try to put the diary back. They still want the money.

“Oh cut it. We don’t even know if he was alive in that video” she replied. Adding, “or if that’s even really him. I mean, god knows, I’ve never seen him writing in a damn diary.”

The shorter guard looked at the other, before saying “the diary is his, ma’am. He always carries it with him.”

As they continued, I noticed the desk in the room was solid walnut. On top, sat a small lamp with a white marble base and gold-knob that matched the marble floor. The lavender scent that filled the hotel’s lobby, for the guests, carried through the corridors and into the room. The chair I was sitting in provided the perfect mix of support and cushion. I felt more stressed sitting at the beach than I did sitting in that chair in a bomb shelter deep in a hotel with two bodyguards comforting their sobbing boss, holding onto a lost diary that… that had 5 million untraceable dollars.

Speaking up, for the first time since the video played, I said “I’m so sorry this happened Mrs. Tyndall.” I shifted forward in my chair. Both guards, stood above, her across the room from the door, reassuring her that everything would be ok, that they’d get Aaron back. None of them acknowledged me.

I bolted.

The guards were 10 steps behind me and wearing dress shoes.

I ran through the corridors with the arrogance and joy of a new millionaire.

Turning each corner, I could hear the clicking of their footsteps behind me growing fainter.

I sprinted into the lobby, ran past the desk, and finally out the exit door.

Once out on the street, I tried to slow my breath, and calm down.

I just needed to get to the train and then get home. I knew it would be easy to log-in and transfer the funds to a different account or change the password or whatever.

I just needed to get to the train and get home.

The closest subway entrance was only two blocks away but I knew the guards would probably check there first. I decided, instead, to head towards the further entrance, 6 blocks south.

On my way there, the thought of that boy kept entering my head. His hands were tied. I brushed these thoughts aside as much as possible by reminding myself that the time the diary was supposed to be picked up had already passed. The boy, as his mother said, was probably already dead… and they don’t need the money anyway.

I made it to the train entrance, walked in, scanned my MTA card, and with god’s help, the train was there waiting, its doors open.

I got in and sat down in the corner of the train car, clutching my bag as nonchalantly as I could manage.

I was only going 4 stops. Just 4.

The train stopped. The doors opened. People got off. People got on.

3 stops.

What was the first thing I’d do when I had the money? Of course, I’d need to leave NYC. Maybe I could find a small cabin in the woods or move to Mexico? I could easily use some of it to buy a car or RV.

The train stopped. The doors opened. People got off. People got on.

2 stops.

Would I need a fake passport and driver’s license? How could I go about getting them? I’d never done that before.

The train had gotten a lot more crowded. People were packed in, many shoulder to shoulder. A small man stood, facing me in my seat, far closer than I’d prefer.

Would I need to choose a country to get a fake passport from or would a fake American passport work?

The train stopped. The doors opened. People got off. People got on.

The speakers on the train beeped, alerting passengers that the doors were about to close.

Right then, the man in front of me ripped the bag out of my hands and sprinted off the train, the doors closing immediately behind him. I turned around in my seat and watched him run up the subway stairs and onto the street.

1 stop away.

The train accelerated. When I faced forward in my seat, other passengers began to offer me comfort. One shared that had happened to them too. Another asked if I needed anything.

I sat, eyes staring blankly at the advertisement for a new form of payday loans, my mouth slightly open.

The train slowed and the doors opened at my stop. I stood up, as I had done a thousand times before, and walked out. A woman pulling a wheeled cart filled to the brim with laundry held the exit door open for me and I followed her. Once at home, I sat on the stiff pleather sofa left by the tenant before me.

I decided I would call in sick the next day.

-“Hey, Craig. It’s me. I’m uh… not feeling well. I’m going to need the day off tomorrow.”

-“Have… have you watched the news recently?”

I walked into my living room, turned on the TV and the news had a picture of my face, alongside video of me running out of the lobby of The Tyndall.

Below, read the bold words “Wanted: for the kidnapping and murder of Aaron Tyndall.”