Park Benches

April 13, 2011 § Leave a comment

A couple of thirty somethings sit on a park bench on an early Sunday afternoon.  They look, dress, and act smart.  The man, who is wearing corduroys, a white dress shirt and a cardigan sweater, chimes in first…

“yeah, those Libyan rebels seem really disorganized.”

Nodding, his friend, who is decked out in expensive jeans, a cool denim jacket, and a pair of stylish turtle shell rimmed glasses responds.  She’s distracted by a squirrel as she returns verbal serve.

“Totally, there’s not that many of them either.  They sound like a real rag-tag bunch.  Like they’ve never shot a gun before”

“yeah, I wonder how the war will end.  Qaddafi  has to die, but how? Besides, Libya isn’t the story, it’s Egypt, I mean really, there’s only 4 million Libyans anyway…”

“Crazy, I didn’t realize that. The Times didn’t mention that I don’t think.”

“The coverage seems all the same now,”

“That’s true, but there was a really good story on NPR from there the other day.  Something about a crazy German guy who got captured.”

Across the path sits an enormous African American man with a plastic bag and a pulp fiction novel featuring a shirtless, muscular Indian chief holding a voluptuous scantily clad young squaw in his arms.  He has the book up to his nose, and appears to be reading.  Next to him an equally large white guy decked out in full Yankees gear, from the puffy warm up jacket, to the brand new straight billed cap, to the replica A-Rod jersey, sits down.

Flipping pages in his grocery store novel, the African American man starts up a conversation with his new neighbor. The banter is amazingly fluid considering these guys are complete strangers and they still haven’t made eye contact.

“Bill Gates is F*$&#ng rich man, I mean he’s really f$*%&ng rich.”

The Yankees fan looks off into the distance, his response seems to rumble up through his gut and then out his go-teed face.

“Yeah, I wish I had me some of that money.  Things would be a lot different.”

“Tell me about it, I used to be a rapper, had my own crew and everything.  We was gonna make it, gonna be big, gonna make mad money.  Damn…”

“Do you know how much A-Rod makes? He makes like Bill Gates money man, he can buy anything.  But he’s good too, he shares it man, with kids and stuff.  That’s what I’d do too.”

The Yankees fan pulls out his transistor radio, and flips it on.  The game is about to start.

The African American man starts reading the pulp fiction novel out loud, “They were surrounded by the calvary.  He swore he would defend her against all odds.”

Across the path a guy and a girl stare off into space, one following a squirrel, the other one talking to nobody in particular about job opportunities, how expensive New York is, and that he should probably start doing yoga again.

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