Providing a Ride

Providing a Ride

On a busy street in a suburbanite filled area of a major city, there sits a bench. Although, it is ordinary in appearance, if not somewhat dingy and old, it is a Mecca for its neighborhood. The city mass transit authority refers to it as stop two and twelve for bus routes four and eight respectively. It is the only time anyone ever refers to it as anything.

This bench has long been forgotten. Every other stop in the city has shiny, cold aluminum benches. This one, in particular, is hardly more than weathered planks, rusted bolts, and a chip of paint here and there. The people, as numerous as they are various, who gather at this bus stop have sanded the seat smooth over time. The timber that constructs the back rest has thrown off its paint and stands almost bare and dry.

Stop two and twelve is where the local spry centenarian rests her feet for a moment on her way to visit her great grandchildren. It's where the mechanics, too poor to own a car, catch their ride to work to repair cars for those who can afford one. A few aspiring budget savvy businessmen in designer suits share this location and exchange advice on market strategy with one another and whoever will listen during their wait. Through the fall and spring, elementary school aged children congregate and giggle before school. Single parents who scrape change out of their couch and always seem on the edge of dysfunction begin and end their days here. This cyclic juxtaposed collection never fails to ignore the bench that has so responsibly and reliantly marked this stop for so long.

It has marked this position for longer than any one of these people can remember. That is, of course, if they even cared to remember. A long time ago, this bench was cut from pine and assembled by detail oriented and skilled craftsmen. Someone painted it a glossy green and someone else even cared enough to paint gold leaves on the seat and back. Time wins every time. Time brought the winter of 1977 that caused the residual sap in the pine to contract so hard that the paint cracked. The spring of 1982 shot the bench from above with hail and torrential rain that flicked off a majority of the glossy green. Once the wood became more bare than not, the sun had its way. These scars are apparent in the wood. This constant soaking, freezing, contracting, expanding, heating, bleaching world is winning. The bench remains and proudly marks this point.

No one wonders what they would do if they didn't have this bench. If they didn't have this bench to make the driver stop here, what would they do? This flock of life will never give it a second thought. Most will not give it a thought. And all will definitely not thank the bench. It will stand and it will stay. It will mark stops two and twelve for routes four and eight until someone finally notices it. The bench does not want to be noticed.