There's No Place Like Home

        Bench Encounter

                  or

There’s No Place Like Home

        (extended version) written in a more 19th century classic style

        By: J.F. Morgan



26 April 1867          



         It’s good to have a home.  Please, understand, I do not suggest this in a careless or passive way.  I say it with all the sincerity, profundity and affection I could ever hope to muster. After all, there is something good, even wholesome, about its familiarity; about its commonality; about its constancy that holds at bay the lunacy of the world’s society. It completes a man. It gives him a sense of balance in an otherwise harsh and unkind world.

         I’ve not always felt this way. It took the event of a strange conversation, with an equally strange individual, to finally garnish in me this current emotion and to bring me round, in full repentant circle, to this most homey and renascent conclusion.  But round I came, and in the wink and blink of an eye. And now, if you’ll permit me the indulgence, I’d like to further explain my position and how I came to possess it.

         The day to which I speak was proceeding in its usual course. At the lunch hour, as was my practice, I took a long relaxing walk through the park. After obtaining a news paper, I made my way to my bench. I say my bench, what I mean to say is the bench I regularly occupy.  In any event, the bench stood vacant.  After sitting, I took my paper, unfolded it and began to read. At that very moment an older gentleman, perhaps nearing sixty, sat down beside me.  His stature was large and, because of it, brought upon the bench a great imbalance.  His clothes were old and mended, and his hat tattered and worn, and he wore upon both hands fingerless gloves.  His shoes were of the poorest quality and burdened with such a great quantity of scuffs that I knew, at once, they had never known the rapping of a polisher’s rag. His waistcoat was in want of buttons and his neck scarf in want of thread, but he sat cheerfully in his place despite his poor appearance.

         “Have you ever traveled by way of rail?” He asked presently. 

         “Pardon?“ I responded, dropping my paper to my lap.

         “A train man, have you ever traveled on a train?”

         “I should hope I did. It’s 1867, after all, and it’s a powerful big country we live in.”

         “That it is. All you say is true enough. A politician is what you should be, sir. A politician of the highest order -- perhaps a king or maybe even a duchess.“

         “We live in America, we have no king, and further, I’m happy in my current employ.”

         “Were you successful?”

         “Successful? How do you mean?”

         “On the train, were you successful?”

         “I’m sorry,”  I said, my face holding like concrete to its quizzical expression. “I do not follow what you’re asking.”

         “Did you survive, man?” His eyes grew large and lit with emotion. “Did you survive to live another day? That is what I mean. Are you still among the living?”

         “Of course; I’m here aren’t I?”

         “Indeed you are, sir. You have been blessed beyond your knowledge for you were a good bit more fortunate than I.”

         “I do not follow your logic,” I puzzled, “Please, explain yourself.”

         “May I trouble you with a antidote? I believe it will clarify my position.”

         “If you must,” I said glancing noticeably at my watch. “But I’m in want for time, so, please, be quick about it.”

         “I shall and quicker then the driving wind, you may wager.” And so, after lighting a pipe and wetting his lips, he settled himself comfortably on the bench and began his story.

         “When I was a younger man, perhaps your age, maybe younger, I was privy to the most terrible train wreck in recent memory. It, the train that is, was traveling east along a steep mountain and was going at a tremendous rate of speed. The coach in which I sat was elegantly appointed and as comfortable as anything I had known in my life. This, coupled with the sound of the wheels along the rails keeping such a nice rhythm of time, I found myself being lulled to sleep. Well, all of a sudden, I heard a horrible crash and, the very next instance, I found myself riding upon the ceiling.  “Well,” I said to myself. “This is it for you George me lad, you’ll be meeting the Maker and in short order.”  As I said these words, the train went up in a single explosion of fire and with enough boom to shake the foundation of the entire earth; and maybe Jupiter and Mars along with it. Soon, all was quiet and the train rested at the bottom of a ridge as fire and smoke poured from her members.  By the time rescuers came it was too late; all was lost.”

         “I’m sorry to hear of it,” I said in heart felt consolation, “but I see you’ve recovered from the tragedy.”

         “Recovered? Nay, I never recovered my friend. Not a soul survived, it was a complete disaster.”

           “Say again?”

          “A disaster Man! A complete loss of life and all!”

         “Save you and perhaps one or two others, of course.”

         “Nay, for I, too, lost my life.”

         “But you sit before me, today.”

         “Yes, but I am only a fraction of the man I was before. That’s how it is when you’ve been dead as long as I.”

         “You have gone mad, sir.”

         “Aye, to be sure, another tragic side effect.” 

          “Please excuse yourself from my bench!” I said with contempt. “I do not appreciate your foolish infringement upon my time.”

          “You do not believe me then?”

          “No, and I will not speak of it any longer for you are every bit as alive as I am -- though perhaps lacking any mind or good sense.

         “I’m in earnest, man! Tell me, what is it you need to be convinced of my dependability.”

         “Dependability?”

         “Authenticity, then. What do you need for convincing?” 

         “What I need, sir, is peace and quiet; nothing more. What you need is a sanatorium.”

         “That is very kind of you to suggest but I haven’t time to gaze at planets…”

         With that, I went back to my paper and tried to forget the conversation previously mentioned. Still, my mind would not be released from the words of my neighbor. In addition to this, though I had dismissed him from my presence, he would not rid me of himself and sat continuously by my side tormenting me.

        Finally, in an attempt at self preservation, I lifted my paper to cover my face. “If he will not have the good sense to leave,” I reasoned, “I will block him out of existence.”

         This strategy, however effective it may have been at first, prevailed for only a moment, for shortly there after my unwanted companion summoned me again:

         “Sir,” he said pulling down on my paper veil and exposing my face,  “the train wasn’t nearly as troublesome as being eaten by sharks. That was, without further thought, the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”

         With that, I folded my paper, stood from the bench and turned to leave. “Good day to you, sir,” I said politely, “I pray our paths never cross again.” I then walked briskly away.

         “Of course,” he continued as I made my retreat, “losing ones head to a cannon ball certainly would qualify, “but no, no, the shark incident was, by far, my worst experience. By the way,” he said leaping to his feet, “have you ever fallen into a volcano? It is most unpleasant; very hot; makes one itch all over…”

         “Please,” I shouted over my shoulder, “do not bother yourself further, stay where you are”

          “But I have so much more to tell you.”

         “…Save it for another occasion!”

         “Aren’t you the least bit curious about the time I was mortally wounded working the stock market in New York City?”

         “No, no,” I pleaded, “I relinquish my bench to you, sir, keep it in good health…”

         “But I was fighting bears in a bull market and got trampled in a stampede.”

         “Very nice story,” I said dismissively, “clever ending…I never saw it coming.”

         “It was a rather horrid way to go…most disagreeable...flies were everywhere”

         “Now I’m certain you’re mad, sir… have my lunch," I said dropping it to the ground, "…eat it ‘til your heart’s content.”

        "It's my opinion that one hasn't experienced death until he's been run threw by a bull's horn."

        “…You may even have my paper, professor!" I said doing the same as the lunch, "read it with a critical eye; make a liar of the editor!”   

         “Still, the sharks were the worst!”

         It was then I realized that the brisk walk I was employing was not effective in ridding me of this maniacal madcap --- I needed a more successful strategy if I ever hoped to be free from his lunacy -- I needed to put distance between me and him and I needed to do it in short order. So I did what I should have done at the first; I ran. I ran as fast and as far as I could.  I lumbered carelessly through markets. I slogged brazenly through bazaars. After much trail and effort and finding little success, I nearly lost hope of ever losing my pursuer. finally, after thinking all was lost and with my lungs burning in my chest, my fortune changed in a moment. I came upon an old, abandoned well and dove head first into it.. Thankfully it was dry or else I might have drowned.  I fell  the length of it -- thirty feet -- and discovered its muddy bottom waiting for me. I landed head first with a tremendous thud. Luckily my face cushioned my fall and I was able to recover in short order. After waiting for what seem an eternity, and not hearing my tormentor’s voice any longer, I righted myself and began my climb to freedom.

         Now, I’m a reasonable fellow. I’m not easily scared or offended. But the previously described encounter, after having it’s full exasperating effect, produced in me an appreciation for home I had not heartedly possessed until then.           

         After completing my escape, I finally made my way back to the place of my newly found admiration; home. Never did I enjoy climbing the front steps so much; or hearing the long, dry screech when opening the front door. It was music -- pure music.

         It was then I understood the efficacy of the term, ‘Home Sweet Home,’ and have determined never to ridicule it as long as I live. 

         Upon locking tight my chamber door and sealing shut my window shutters, I fell full length into my bed and have remained here these last three days. Oh, do not fear for me. I have not lost my mind. I know exactly were it is. Men, like the one just portrayed, do not frighten me in the least. I am far to intelligent for that sort. Someday, and soon, I will venture out of doors again; just as soon as the world’s strangeness is completely gone. Until then, if you happen upon a man of the kind previously described, tell him he can keep my bench, my lunch and my paper; I have no further need of them.