On the Bench Again

If loneliness is the disease, the story is the cure.   
- Richard Ford

    There are lots of folks who sit on the bench in my neighborhood but the quietest one, and one I highly favor,  is the observer.  He generally straddles the end of the bench, chin in hand, eyes covered in RayBans.  His curly dark hair is always bunched under a hat, often a fedora but occasionally he sports the black and orange of the home team.  This dude just watches.  He's not above a chuckle and a high five when a passerby or someone else on the bench makes a remark but his primary goal in life appears to be contemplating the world.  He notices the details:  the cop waving to the little kid, the punk on the bike chomping his gum, the sexy lady singing to herself while walking downtown .  He hears that rat dog whining, the engine on that 1990 silver Toyota knocking, the blender in the kitchen across the street making margaritas.  It's all there.  Recorded for future reference.

     Yes, what isn't obvious from the bench is that the observer is also a recorder.  What he reckons is that everyone has a story.  Everyone.  Sometimes people know their story and sometimes they don't.  Not yet, anyway.  And maybe never.  He is curious about  their stories but he knows enough to realize that you can't force the telling of the story.  So he watches.  He lets people tell their own details, even if they can't hear their story.  He waits for the unfolding.  And records what he knows.  In the stillness of 4:00 in the morning,  the stories fall out of the observer and onto the keyboard.  And he feels connected.