Old Man on a Bench

Henry paused in his slow shuffle along the hot, sun-splashed path leading to the park bench. With each step short jabs of pain emanated from his little toe, as if someone were sticking it with an ice pick. He squinted and shaded his eyes against the glare. Two people were sitting on his bench, a man and a woman. Young and skinny, they fell all over each other with shrieks and laughter.

A sound came from the young woman. It was familiar and unmistakable. A deep and throaty laugh, full of innuendo and dirty promises. Mabel�s laugh.

Henry scowled at the couple, then at his feet. Useless appendages they were. In his youth he had been proud of his feet. They were small for a man, and he could wear any style then. When he worked in the better shoe stores, he had worn the top of the line. He bent down and extended the slit in his canvas shoes to ease the painful toe. There was nothing to do except share the bench. It was in a public park, but they didn�t seem to realize that. With their sprawling there wasn�t much room for anyone else.

He smoothed back his thin, dark hair, brushing it away from his collar and sniffed the air. Pine resin and auto exhaust and the stale heat of mid-August. He dismissed the familiar laughter coming from up ahead as an aberration, a distortion caused by the heat.

Upon reaching the bench, Henry plucked a crumpled piece of paper from the vacant end and looked toward the tree where a trash can had been chained until a couple of months ago. Finding it still missing, he folded the paper and put it in his pocket. �Should stop. Public place,� Henry mumbled and tried to assess if the couple were to blame for the other litter on the ground. Tomorrow he would bring a large sack.

He sat at the shaded end and studied his companions, beginning at their feet. They weren�t wearing proper shoes at all, but heavy, bulky athletic shoes with no style. He blew his nose, honked into his wrinkled handkerchief, cleared his throat and spat.

�That�s disgusting!� the girl said, removing her dark glasses and looking squarely at Henry. �What a dirty old man.�

�And I�m a dirty young man,� the boy said with a smirk as he slid his hand under the front of her blouse.

There was that laugh again! Louder, deeper, right next to him now, channeling through his ear, deep into his memory.

�I don�t think he approves,� the girl said.

�Who cares? Screw him.�

�If I did, I�d probably kill him.�

Resting his hands on his knees, Henry twisted his body toward the couple, the bread for the pigeons and squirrels forgotten in his jacket pocket. He continued his scrutiny, trying to see in the girl a likeness to Mabel. Her image, after fifty years, had faded from his memory and was as dim as her photograph. It was her laughter, like the bubbles in an underground hot spring, which kept rising to the surface. She was always laughing and had not taken anything seriously, although it had been a very serious time. It had been the middle of the Depression, and Henry had taken everything seriously.

Don�t you understand? We can�t afford to get married. We can�t live on love alone.

We�ll manage, Henry. We�ll manage.

Mabel ran her fingers through his hair and down his back, moving her body closer, always laughing, ignoring Henry�s nervous side-step and head shake.

�Come on, Lover Boy. Why don�t we go back to my place?�

�What? What did you say?� Henry muttered, looking up.

�I wasn�t talking to you, Old Man,� the girl said. �Mind your own business.�

Henry shivered in spite of the heat and retreated into his jacket, buttoning all the buttons. After years of wear, the black jacket, all that remained of his once best suit, had acquired the iridescent sheen of a crow�s feathers. He examined the couple�s attire, skimpy shorts and even skimpier tops, and shivered again. All that bare flesh. The bare arms. The bare legs. Nothing hidden. Nothing secret.

Don�t you like my dress, Henry? All the movie stars wear their dresses cut low. I�m your girl, aren�t I? Don�t you want to show me off?

Henry remembered the bread in his pockets and tossed out a few pieces to the pigeons and squirrels.

�So, do you want to come back to my apartment?� the girl asked again. Come back to my place, Henry. We can be alone. Mabel, winking and filling the hallway with her throaty laugh. My roommates are away. Mabel, purring like a lazy half-tamed wildcat, her cropped blond hair shining even in the dull light. Nobody�s home yet, Henry. Stay awhile. Mabel, whispering because of the neighbors, her lips near his ear, her warm breath, tickling and smelling faintly of sen-sen. Henry had fought off the urgent sensations traveling through his body, always feeling as if hidden eyes were in the darkened hallway watching them.

�There�s a hot dog vendor over there,� the boy said, pointing behind the bench to an overgrown dirt path.

Henry turned away from the pigeons and squirrels, his eyes following the boy�s pointing hand.

�Nothing for me,� the girl said.

Nothing for me, Henry. See, how easy it�ll be. We can afford to marry.

Not if we have a baby. A baby won�t be easy.

                                                                                                © Adelaide B. Shaw

Loch Raven Review Fall 2005 — Vol. I, No. 1
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