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Park Benches: A True Story
Once upon a time, there was a tiny suburb that grew up into a city, whose people had to foot it everywhere without a break. There was nowhere to sit and slurp ice cream or stop and scratch the balls of your feet. The curbs sloped into the streets or they were dotted with trash, or cars had swerved onto the sidewalks and parked haphazardly, eliminating any little pockets of sitting space that could have evolved. Mangy tabby cats lined the stoops, and once in a while someone would let the dog out, and he’d go and sit there and drive off all the cats like a good little beast, but he’d be either big or mean, and no one could ever sit on the stoop next to him because either there was no room, or the dog would bite or shit on you if you sat near him.
You couldn’t even lean against a car to rest one foot at a time. The alarm would go off, and a million little police officers would spring out of the sewers, swarm around you, and cart you—you dastardly car thief!—like a prisoner of war back underground where your family would never find you again.
So, everyone had to walk on blistered feet, and callused feet, because who would drive when the roads were so congested, as if the flu plagued the city every day?
People soon became pretty sick of all this walking and getting bitten in the ass by stupid dogs and having to run from those tiny cops in their little clown cars with pen-light sirens, so they asked the mayor to do something and fix this problem—not the little cops, they were so gosh darn cute despite their stainless steel nightsticks—the problem was the complete lack of sitting space…
The mayor, who of course, had been sworn into office with one hand on the holy book and the other hand—after he had mistakenly hailed the führer—at his side, palm upraised as if his Buddha-light could shine from it, called up several companies to see if he could get a nice price for a hundred park benches to scatter around his little domesticated city like manna from the sky. But this apparent genius was rather—economic, let’s say. He was concerned about endangering his—I mean the city’s—salary—errr, treasury—whatever—so he figured he would get the cheapest benches in all of Dummiland and the people would be happy he had saved them money by going on E-bay.
Of course, they had no idea that those benches were from Arkansas, and everyone knows that not only does Arkansas not sell pint-sized elephants, but also that all its benches are fluent in vernacular! Which means…they can talk!
So the mayor installed these benches with the help of his shadowy henchmen with their mirrored sunglasses and suspicious accents, and he returned to his penthouse, where he sat in the sun as a voluptuous intern gave him the pat on the back he deserved.
Before this, the people of the city had always walked everywhere and had been too tired to talk about their lives or establish good relationships, so the mayor had plenty to be proud of. Now his dear citizens could sit and chat with strangers about the weather: “Gee, nice weather, eh?” “Sure is” or “Shitty weather, huh?” “Actually, it could be worse—” and the benches would talk, too, and say, “Oh, yes, sir” or “The forecast is sun tomorrow” and people would be glad to know they could ask these benches for useful information—at least, until the benches started wondering about things.
It started simple, as all things do, like the seed that springs into a tree, small questions at first—“Why does it rain?” the benches asked, or “How much did you pay for that purse?” But it grew—“Nice sneakers, you got gum stuck on ‘em”—and it grew—“Ever think about dressing in the light?” and grew—“I heard the other benches say your girlfriend was a slut”—and grew—“Why are you so goddamn fat?” Because, after all that sitting and gossiping with the benches and other people, the citizens had grown fat and meaty, and as soon as the benches started catching this snobby attitude, the people recalled the mayor and burned the benches like run-of-the-mill timber in one great bonfire while the policemen poked their heads out of the sewers and watched the anarchy with wide, beady eyes.
The people had decided, and it was so. Getting bit in the butt by Chihuahuas was better than sharing a conversation with snooty park benches about dieting, better than having to talk with other fat people, too.
As for the mayor, he’s still wondering exactly how much money he saved by switching to Geico. Oh, yeah, and sometimes he wonders about those benches, too, and then his eyes get teary and he gets down on his knees next to his king-size silk bed and prays that they got to their non-denominational heaven safe and sound.
