"Old People in the Park"

Short Fiction, by C.J. Heck

Old People in the Park
by C.J. Heck

One fall afternoon, I grabbed a sweater and a book and, after stopping at Dunkin' Donuts for my favorite coffee to-go, I headed to the city park.

A people-watcher by nature, I love walking the paths and studying the interesting people who also love being there. Not too far into the park, I found a bench in the shade where I could read for awhile. What I couldn’t have known at the time was, I wouldn’t be reading a word ...

On a bench across from me, sat an elderly man talking with his grandson and they were holding hands. The boy was six, maybe seven, with the most incredible blond curls framing what would someday be a handsome face. Huge blue eyes searched his grandfather’s face, as though answers to his many questions would suddenly appear there.

Ironically, when looking at any beautiful child, I can’t help thinking of something my mother used to say, "With all of the beautiful children in the world, where do all the homely adults come from?"

I smiled, partly because she had been right, but also because I missed her and the memory brought her close to me.

I heard the boy ask, "Grampa, why are there so many old people in the park every day?"

The old man was quiet, thoughtful, for a minute. Then I heard him clear his throat. He let go of the boy's hand, stretched an arm around the youngster's shoulders, and pulled him closer.

Then in unhurried words, he said, "Well, son, they're too alone at home to want to stay there. See, sometimes, old people need to be with other old people. Here in the park, they can share their favorite jokes, play a game of bocce ball, or maybe play checkers to pass some time together."

Then, noticing pigeons gathering on the ground around the bench, the old man pulled a small brown paper bag from the pocket of his tan jacket. He handed it to his grandson.

The boy thanked him, reached into the rumpled brown bag, and with a big smile, began tossing popcorn, one by one, to the pigeons, favoring a gray one with a pronounced limp.

"Grampa, why do they call out names and wave to everybody that comes to the park?"

The grandfather cocked his head, and as though measuring each word, he said, "It's just a way of keeping their minds alive and well-oiled. You know, by remembering someone and their name. After all, your mind is just like a muscle and all muscles need to be exercised. Remembering names and faces is sort of a private game they play. Maybe it even helps them ignore their pain and problems —at least for a little while."

The boy nodded and continued to feed the pigeons, taking his temporary job quite seriously. Then, spotting a gray squirrel that darted out from under the bench to steal a kernel of popcorn, he jumped down from the bench and stomped his small sneaker on the sidewalk with a loud "Shoo!"

Of course, this also frightened the pigeons who took to the air and it was so cute, it made me giggle. Then the boy plopped himself back beside the old man, obviously disappointed by the sudden turn in events.

The boy sat quietly for a while, studying the old people in the park. A devout people watcher, I followed where his eyes traveled. They stopped first on a couple of elderly men playing checkers on a stone table. Then his eyes settled on a group of three older men in what seemed to be a heated verbal exchange.

As he looked from one little group to the other, he asked his grandfather whether he thought the men playing checkers ever got tired of it. "Do they just sit there doing that for hours and hours every day?" Without waiting for an answer, he pointed at the men who seemed to be arguing, and asked, "What do you think they're so mad about, Grampa?"

The old man smiled. He cleared his throat and explained, “Well, to some of the old folks, the daily checkers games let them make sense out of a changing world they don‘t feel a part of. It also helps them keep in touch with a world they did know a long time ago --and it gets them out of their recliners and away from their TVs for a little while.”

The old man stared blankly for a moment. Then he explained, “The three men who seem to be arguing aren’t really angry. Oh, they antagonize and criticize each other a little bit, but it’s only in fun to keep their juices flowing, but never to be mean or hurtful.

Sometimes they even act a little bit wise by bragging, or griping, about the ‘good old days’. You know, talking about their old girlfriends or teasing the others about theirs.” The boy giggled at Grampa's explanation and then in typical little boy fashion, he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

By now, the pigeons had begun to congregate at the boy‘s feet again, slowly at first, then with more passion. It always amazed me how the feed-ees so easily recognized which feet belonged to the feed-er, because they always went straight to them.

The boy stuck his hand into the rumpled brown bag and brought out his next offering for the hungry rascals below. Both sat in silence, watching and grinning as the greedy winged goblins jockeyed into position for the next bite thrown from the small hand.

The boy turned to look into his grandfather’s eyes and asked, “How long does everyone stay in the park and how do they know when it’s time to go home?”

The old man sighed. His eyes were still focused on the pigeons. At first, I thought he hadn’t heard the boy. Then I watched him lovingly pat the blond curls on top of the boy’s head.

Grandfather told him they stayed till it started to get dark, or sometimes, it just got too cold to be there. Then, one by one, they waved goodbye and called each other by name like they did every day when they got there. Then they went home and, for many of them, back into the past again.

The boy nodded, smiled up at the old man, and both renewed their feeding ritual of the pigeons. After a little while, the boy asked his grandfather how he knew so much. The old man said, “When you get to be my age … well, there are things … you just come to know.”

With that, the youngster looked up at his grandfather with a concerned look and said, “Grampa, I love you. You’re NOT old. You’re … you’re like a shiny red apple. You’re ripe and … j u s t right.”

The old man laughed out loud and, God help me, I did, too. Maybe it was the dwindling light, or it might have been a trick of my eyes, but I could swear I saw the lines in his face smooth out. He looked a full ten years younger and I was surprised to find a tear on my cheek as I watched the old man swipe at his eyes when his laughter subsided.

Slowly, the old man looked up into the graying sky. He told his grandson they should be getting along home. Then he replaced the empty brown paper bag in his jacket pocket and stood to leave.

One by one, the old people in the park raised an arm and called him by name, almost in unison, “Bye, Gabe!”

He, in turn, did the same. “Bye, Herb, Sam, Max, Shorty, Charlie, Gib.”

“Hey, Gabe!” Called one man sitting next to the men playing checkers on the stone table. “We still on for checkers tomorrow at nine?”

“Sure, Sam! Lookin' forward to it,” Gabe answered. I was sure God would forgive his little white lie.

The last I saw of the little boy at the beginning of his life, and the wise and loving old man nearing the end of his, they were slowly walking back down the path through the park, hand in hand.

Poet/Writer/Author of 5 books.
Quora Top Writer 2018.
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