Green Benches

My conflict with the man on the bench began when I first moved to the city. Being in my early thirties with few personal friends, I spent a lot of my free time reading. A romance here, a drama there, I tried my best to vary the genres of my literature. Changing the environment in which I read had also been very helpful in keeping up my mood and temperament. And so, once a week, I ventured to the park across the street. My books entranced me to the point where I hardly noticed the children playing or the birds chirping. This was my routine for several months until my little trips were interrupted. 

            I believe it was a Thursday when I first encountered the man on the bench. It was October because I remember thinking upon exiting my apartment building that it was unseasonably warm. I always sat on one of six green benches that circled a great oak tree. The tree provided fantastic shade in the summer and insulated me against the bitter winds of the fall. Any of the benches would be perfect reading spots, but I normally chose the one facing my apartment. Through the branches of the oak, I could see my window and make sure that no intruders had broken in. 

            That Thursday in October I was excited to read the next chapter in Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, which my cousin had recommended to me. But as I neared the circle of benches, I noticed that someone had taken my favorite spot. It was an older, heavy-set man wearing a thick, green parka. Due to the unusually warm fall weather, his outfit stood out. The man’s face was the glossy red associated with illness, so I assumed that he had a cold. His near-constant hacking confirmed my theory.

            This was far from the first time someone had taken my seat, so I simply sat two benches away from my normal arrangement. I now had to bend my neck to an uncomfortable degree to see my apartment window. The anxiety over my home being ransacked while I was unable to defend it kept my reading time short. I told myself that I would come down again the next day to make up for lost time, but I didn’t. No part of me assumed that I would ever see the man again. 

            A week from that Thursday, I strolled into that park with a novel in hand only to find my seat taken again by the same overdressed man. I rolled my eyes at the coincidence and sat two benches down like I had last week. This time I wasn’t distracted by a potential intrusion into my home, but by the man himself. He didn’t seem to be doing anything. Just slouching on the bench with his hands crossed at the curve of his bloated belly. As my eyes darted from page to man, I noticed that his eyes were locked firmly on the oak. His stare was only ever interrupted by coughing fits that forced his eyes closed. He seemed completely enamored by it. I understood why, it was a beautiful tree, but was it enough to hold a man’s attention for this long? After another short reading period, I closed my book and went inside. 

            That night, as I cooked pasta in my kitchen, I looked through the window into the park. This was the opposite side of the view I normally preferred from the bench, so I could see my favorite spot. The bench was empty. The man had gone sometime between my leaving and that moment. I barely thought about it for the rest of the week.

            I decided that to be safe, I would go to the park on Friday the next week. One extra day of reading at home wasn’t going to kill me anyway. On Friday morning, I checked out my kitchen window and found no one sitting on my bench. I thought about going then while I knew the seat wasn’t taken but quickly buried the idea. I had work to do and there was no chance the man would return within the next few hours. Unfortunately, when I made my way into the park that afternoon, I was again confronted by the man in the green parka. 

            My annoyance was beginning to transform into anger, but I didn’t let it take hold of me. I read for another small chunk of time during which my attention was constantly drawn to the man and his obsession with the tree. I concluded that he must have started coming to the park at the same time every day. Next week I would just come on my lunch break. It would be nice. 

            The next week the man was there again. Five hours earlier than I had ever seen him at the park. I was so shocked that I didn’t even sit down to read. Over the next three months, I made an effort to come to the park at different times and dates.  

            If I came in the morning, he was there.

            At dusk, he was there. 

            In the dead of night, he was there.

            In the rain, he was there. 

            In the snow, he was there.

            On a holiday, he was there.

            Any time I was there, so was he. 

            I found myself checking my window every morning to catch sight of him. He was never there while I sat in my apartment. But even if I ran into the park barefoot in my pajamas, by the time I made it to the tree, there he would be. 

            One day, I challenged myself to sit in the park until he left. I packed some snacks into a bag and prepared for a long wait. At my arrival, there he was, his chin slightly upturned to get the best view of the oak. It was summer by then so the radiant green of sunlight through leaves danced on the ground. I parked myself on a bench and waited. I sat there with him for hours until it was so dark that the tree was invisible. But he didn’t budge. He sat there, still looking up at it. I gave up an hour later and by the time I was back in my apartment, he was gone. 

            This was when the violent thoughts started. I had already felt intense anger towards this pest of a man, but it hadn’t transformed into imagery until then. It started with dreams. In my sleep, I’d see myself taking a sledgehammer to the bench, so he had nowhere to sit. Then the dream would shift to him sitting in the rubble as if nothing had changed. That dream repeated for three nights in a row until I began taking the hammer to the man himself. 

            I thought about telling my therapist about that dream but chose not to. I had eaten fast food the night before, so an upset stomach could have been the culprit. A few days later I passed a car that had flipped over the railing of the highway and landed upside down. My mind immediately placed the man on the bench in that scenario. I could see him clear as day, hanging upside down, held up only by his seat belt which was starting to give way under his massive weight. I could see a trickle of blood running down his forehead from an open wound. I’m ashamed to say I lived in that memory for some time.

            These thoughts started to pop up every time I was reminded of violence. I’d imagine the man on the bench as the victim in every episode of Law and Order I watched. He became a dying soldier in a Vietnam War documentary. He became the victim of an amusement park mishap from the news. I started seeking out gruesome imagery just to place the man into it. I watched every Final Destination and Saw movie. Films I would never normally seek out, but I did so I could live out my fantasy. 

            I knew I had a problem when I didn’t need those hosts for my thoughts anymore. When I just needed to look at the man to come up with a brutal scenario for his demise. That was my wake-up call. I didn’t want to be a person who thought that way about other people. I asked my therapist about those thoughts, downplaying many of the elements of the situation, and she assured me they were normal. Although I trusted her, I knew she was wrong. My intrusive thoughts were different. 

            I sat in my apartment knowing that if I didn’t find a way to deal with this, I would set myself down a dark path. I stared out my window at the seat that had tainted my mind so much. My eyes refocused on the branches that formed a perfect frame around the bench. An idea came to me, and I ran with it. 

            It turned out that it wasn’t very hard to get the oak cut down. A few dozen complaints from some anonymous parkgoers, a formal petition signed by people in my building who didn’t know what they were agreeing to, and a little bit of dedicated emailing got the job done. There were some protests, which I understood. The tree was beautiful, but it had begun to represent something I couldn’t stand. I paid attention to see if the man on the bench had joined any of the demonstrations. He hadn’t.

            Within a month, the tree was gone. Only a stump remained in its place. The first day after its removal, I checked out my window for the man. No sign of him. I dressed and raced into the park. Nothing. He was gone. I won.

            “I’m free,” I whispered.

            “What’d they do with the tree?” Grumbled a voice behind me.

            It was the man on the bench. This was the first time I’d ever seen him stand. I never realized how tall he was. He towered over my petite frame. The green parka was still draped over his shoulders, but his blank expression had been replaced with clear sadness. I struggled to come up with words to say. 

            “They cut it down,” I said. “Some complaints, I guess.”

            The man put his hands on his hips and shook his head. He still looked up as if the branches of the tree were there. He sighed heavily and kicked a chunk of gravel laying at his feet.

            “That really sucks,” he said. “I enjoyed sitting out here with you. It was nice while it lasted.”

            The man tucked his hands into the pockets of his parka and walked deeper into the park. I watched him until he disappeared into the trees and crowd. Part of me couldn’t comprehend what he said. I fell into the bench behind me and stared up for a long time. At what used to be and could’ve been still.