Flower Patch of Dreams

Interactive, Part 1

I wrote some stuff today, and I’m not sure where it’s going. So how would you like to help me? In the comments, tell me what the bench is behind (something A) and what the raking man calls the bench (something B). What do you think might happen next? I don’t promise to use anything you suggest specifically, but this could be fun.

Photo by Lynda Grasso on Unsplash

If I hadn’t looked over there, I would never have seen him. He stood dragging his rake through the dried brown and less dry yellow leaves – not a rake with a hard, straight metal edge, but with the bendy wooden tines, more like a spread out broom head than a rake. It almost worked like a broom, too. It swept the leaves into a pile without digging into the grass and ploughing up the dirt underneath.

One more step and he was out of sight, so I got up from the wood bench (brown paint, basically in good shape, but some of it was damp and peeling in places) and took a few steps to keep him in sight. A pack of boys, of wildly varying heights, as twelve-year old boys tend to be, danced and kicked and threw a ball past me, but I still kept the young man in sight.

“Elmer!” I heard, and he finished the latest section of his line of leaf piles, and looked up.

“Here!” he answered. He turned in the direction of the voice, so I could see his face. Tan face, creased squint lines around the brown eyes, brown hair messy but not matted. He probably combed his coarse hair every morning whether he needed to or not.

A young girl in a pinafore brought him a plastic grocery bag. “Thanks, Gin girl,” he said, and sat on the ground while she continued past him, clearly calmly heading to her next destination.

He sat cross-legged and reached into the bag. “Want some?” he asked me. I startled.

Somehow, I had moved until I was close enough for him to see me. He chuckled, a low sound that seemed out of place with his thin frame.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was staring, wasn’t I?”

He tilted his head. “Like what you see?” He raised his eyebrows. His look and his tone didn’t seem to match the suggestive nature of his words.

“You’re doing a good job,” I answered. “Your line of piles is straight and even.” He reached into his sack and pulled out a sandwich.

His face showed a slight frown. I still couldn’t estimate his age. Twenties? Thirties?

“You aint a supervisor type, are you?” His tone had gone from easy-going friendly to suspicious.

“No,” I answered. “I just like to watch people at the park here. I’m supposed to get out and get some fresh air. Mostly, I sit at that bench over there.” I motioned in the direction I’d come from.

He nodded, and his friendly manner returned. “Behind the [something A] he said, looking up at me. “The [something B] bench.” He took a bite of his sandwich. Was that really just peanut butter and jam?

“You hungry?” he asked, after he swallowed, and I just kept standing there, watching. “I just got the one sandwich, but there’s chips.”

I shook my head. “Sorry,” I said. “My mind wanders. No, thanks. I should leave you be.”

“No need,” he said. “Don’t mind company.”

There must have been a strange look on my face, because his changed. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m not company,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “you can still sit down here. Or stand. It’s a free country.”