I went to Central Park last Sunday. I had been out late Saturday night and to church early that morning, and quite honestly I just wanted some peace and quiet. Armed with a Diet Coke, New York magazine and my iPod, I set out to find a calm bench where I could tune out to the world and tune in to my crossword puzzle.
I settled on a bench facing the pond with the toy boats. It was a beautiful day, and I was nestled in the shade in a spot that offered the perfect balance of cheerful activity and peaceful solitude. Children were playing with boats on the pond, New Yorkers were walking, biking and rollerblading by, and an Austrian man with a violin and bells around his ankle was playing old folk tunes. About six clues into my puzzle, my mom called. I answered, we chatted about Saturday's night's activities for five minutes or so, and I quickly returned to my magazine.
Sitting next to me on the bench was a tired looking man. He had kind eyes, a gray beard, and an adorable little fluffy white dog on a pink leash. Apparently he had overheard my phone conversation and felt inclined to ask me about my evening, too. At first (being in the "let me be while I work on my crossword puzzle" mood that I was), I was slightly irritated by the man's attempts to instigate conversation. Clearly I was at the park alone and on a mission to complete puzzle. After 5 or 10 minutes of conversing, though, I decided that if you can't beat 'em, you might as well join 'em, so I put down my magazine and wholeheartedly engaged in conversation with him. He introduced himself as Steve.
Steve, I learned, was a psychologist on the Upper West Side. He had grown up in Manhattan on the Lower East Side ("before it was hip, though!"), gone to college in the city, moved to Riverdale when he had kids and now resided in Westchester. He had two daughters, one of whom lived just a few blocks away from me on the Upper East Side, the other who was "finding herself" in a post-college haze. Perhaps it was his professional training as a therapist, or maybe it was the way he looked so lonely - most likely, it was a combination of the two - but I found myself drawn into conversation with my bench-mate. Steve was easy to talk to and seemed genuinely interested in my life, a rare occurrence on the self-centered, fast-paced island of Manhattan. Even though I had only "known" him a half hour or so, I found myself telling him all about my life - about my family, my job, my move to New York, and so much else.
The conversation quickly turned to Steve's own life. I learned that he was a recent widower...that less than a year ago, he and his wife and their two daughters had gone on vacation to Costa Rica and spent a week hiking through jungles...that they had come back and his wife had gone for a routine check-up...that the doctor had found cancer plaguing every inch of her previously healthy body. Within two months, she died, leaving my Steve alone in the world with his children and their dog Emily. "She was really close to my wife," he said, speaking of the fluffy dog sitting on his lap. "For a month after she died, she just wandered around looking for her and wanted nothing to do with me. After a while, though, I think she realized I was all she had." He lovingly petted the dog's head and recounted a story of their recent trip to Carl Schurz Park's dog run, where, despite the dozens of other small dogs playing, Emily wanted nothing but to sit in his lap. "Do you want to see a picture of my wife?" he abruptly asked. "Of course," I said, as he pulled out a tattered wallet and a stack of photos. After flipping through pictures of little girls with pigtails and later with braces, he singled out a picture that was clearly from the 70's of a woman who looked to be around 25. "Isn't she beautiful?" he asked. Is, not was. "She was a model when I married her." "Yes," I said with a tear in my eye. "She's beautiful."
The Austrian violinist continued to play as we both stared out at the pond, not speaking but still somehow intertwined in our discussion. A few minutes passed and Steve began to strike up a conversation with the man to his right, who happened to be painting a picture of the park. He was an eccentric looking man, probably in his late 60's but still very spry. The artist, who we learned was a Mr. Jerry Josephburg, hopped to his feet and stood in front of us to talk. He had paint covering his clothes, and his fingernails were quite dirty, but I suppose I wouldn't expect anything less from a bona fide artist. Jerry was primarily a sculptor, although he dabbled in all types of arts. He too grew up in the city and later studied art in Florence. He rambled on and on with artistic insight to the David sculpture, making anyone listening yearn for a trip to Tuscany. Jerry owned a studio in Brooklyn and was a retired middle school art teacher. Proving just how small this world truly is, Steve and Jerry determined that Jerry ("Mr. J" as his students apparently called him) and Steve's daughter were at the same school at the same time in the late 80's. Steve whipped out the wallet photos again to see if Mr. J remembered his daughter, but he unfortunately did not. Jerry gave Steve his business card, though (a simple card with nothing but his name, phone number and a clip art photo of a paint palette) and told him to ask his daughter if she remembered the notorious Mr. J. Eventually, Jerry sat back down on his bench, and the three of us continued to casually chat and stare out at the toy boats. Fifteen minutes or so later, Jerry headed out, and after a kind goodbye, Steve soon followed.
Longfellow once said, "Every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad." How true that is, especially here in New York. Perhaps I'm biased, but I just wonder if too many people in this city are mislabeled. They are called cold or rude or unfriendly or distant, particularly by Southerners like myself, when really they are just dying on the inside...dying for someone to look at them, to see them, to listen to them. I can't help but wonder how many Steves or Mr. J's I've passed during my lifetime because I myself was too busy to stop and hear their story.
I sat on that bench for at least ten minutes more, although I didn't open my magazine again. As I walked home, I put a dollar in the violinist's case.
"A sea of smile and a river of tears
A flood of memories
Imagination will take me back
On an old park bench
Old park bench
Old park bench
Old park bench"
Inside Out
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