The Man On The Bench.
A short story about headaches.
“When I hear somebody sigh, ‘Life is tough,’ I’m tempted to ask, ‘Compared to what?’” Sydney J. Harris
He’d been there most of the day, staring at nothing, or maybe something. One woman mentioned it to her husband, and he walked by later that night. “He’ll move on eventually,” he told his wife, but the next day, she saw the man sitting on the same bench, wearing the same old gym shorts, faded t-shirt and flip-flops.
“I think he slept there,” she told her husband that night. She said the same thing to the other mothers the next day when the man was still there. The women talked about what should be done. What was the point of taxes if they couldn’t keep vagrants out of a parkette where they brought their kids?
“Probably his dope” another mother said.
“Maybe we should take a picture,” one mother said. They all had their phones. It wouldn’t be hard snapping something. They waited until he got up and crossed the street to a small pub on the corner. He had a plastic bag with him.
“Probably his dope” another mother said.
They sent the pictures off to the police, and a squad car came by the same day. Two officers approached the man, talked to him, took notes. On their way back to the cruiser, the mothers approached them. “What are you going to do about him?” they asked, and the officers said they had some contact information. “We’ll let you know when we have something,” the officers replied.
“Can’t you arrest him for vagrancy?” one mother asked.
“We have no proof he slept here last night,” they replied.
“Did you check that plastic bag he’s carrying?”
“It’s just his toiletries, ma’am.”
“Did he say who he was?”
“He’s a local, that’s all I can tell you.”
They talked, then the woman told the police she’d be responsible for him. They crossed the street to the pub.
The next day, the police were back in the park, this time with a woman. She sat on the bench next to the man. She wore a faded linen dress and a bunch of bangles. Her gray hair was pulled up in a scarf. They talked, then the woman told the police she’d be responsible for him. They crossed the street to the pub.
In the pub, the bartender half-listened to the man and woman talking.
“What are you going to do?” she was asking.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“You can’t stay on that bench.”
“I was figuring out what to do next.”
“For three days?”
“They padlocked my apartment, Marie.”
“Why didn’t you call someone?”
“It happened so fast,” he said. “I went to the drugstore for toothpaste and aspirin, when I came back, the Sheriff’s Department was there.”
“How much back rent did you owe?”
“Four months.”
“Four months, Dixon?” she said. “I had no idea it was that bad.”
“Neither did I.”
“What about your store?”
“I closed it in March. The landlord hasn’t taken the sign down yet.”
“Didn’t you have a girl working there?”
“Sophia,” he said. “She left.”
“And I’ve got this on top of everything else,” he said, pointing to his head. “Every day.”
He rubbed his head and seemed to be trying to focus. He squinted up at the neon Pabst sign, then rubbed his head again. “And I’ve got this on top of everything else,” he said, pointing to his head. “Every day.”
“What’s every day?” she asked.
“Headaches.”
“It’s probably stress,” she said. “After what you’ve been through.”
“They started before that,” he said. “Not all the time, but often enough. Now I can’t remember not having them. They don’t quit.”
“They could be migraines,” Marie said. “You should see someone.”
“I don’t even have an address anymore. How do I see somebody?”
“What about your family doctor?”
“I haven’t had one since my divorce.”
“Look, Dixon,” she said, taking some money out of her purse, putting it on the bar, “you can’t keep sleeping on a park bench. Come back to my place. We’ll see about getting your clothes out of the apartment.”
Marie called the bartender over. She paid for the drinks, got Dixon off his stool, and the two of them went out the door. The bartender put the money in the till, then went over to where three of his regulars were sitting.
“Guess what happened to our Dixon,” he said to them. “He’s been on the park bench across the street for three days.”
“Three days? Doing what?”
“He was four months behind on his rent. They padlocked the place”
“I thought he was doing well with his video store?”
“Couldn’t compete with Blockbuster, I guess.”
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“About what?”
“We’re all a step away from ending up over there,” the regular said, pointing out the window to the parkette across the street. “Why’d he call Marie?”
“He didn’t,” the bartender said. “He had the cops do it.”
“I didn’t even know Marie and Dixon were close.”
“I’m not sure she did, either.”
When he put it in front of her, he leaned over. “What’s the story on Dixon?” he asked.
A few months later, Marie came in the bar. She sat her big straw purse on the seat beside her, ordered a beer, then waved to the regulars. She took a postcard out of her purse, set it down, waited for the bartender to bring her the beer. When he put it in front of her, he leaned over. “What’s the story on Dixon?” he asked.
“He’s back in England,” Marie said. “His folks are still alive.”
“Really? Dixon’s gotta be — what? — late fifties?”
“Something like that,” Marie said, sipping her beer, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket and patting her forehead. “Bloody heat flashes,” she said. “I swear I could heat a dozen homes. I just picked this up at the post office,” she said, indicating the postcard. “He’s living in this big mansion his parents own.”
“I didn’t know he came from money. How old are they?”
“Ancient,” she said. “They sit in front of the fireplace in these big wing chairs, according to Dixon. The whole estate is a coal pit. That’s where all their money comes from. They’ve been working it for years. Centuries, possibly.”
“So, Dixon’s gonna inherit?”
“Not at this rate,” she said. “You know those headaches he kept complaining about? I tried getting him in to see my doctor. Dixon didn’t even have a health card. So I called his folks and they told me to put him on the next plane. That’s what I did. Next thing I hear, he’s got a brain tumor.”
The bartender looked down at the postcard on the bar.
“Is that what this says?”
“He wanted to tell me he sent a postcard showing the mansion. It’s on one of those heritage tours. I think they’ve even used it on Antiques Roadshow.”
“No, he called the other night,” Marie said, sipping her beer. “He wanted to tell me he sent a postcard showing the mansion. It’s on one of those heritage tours. I think they’ve even used it on Antiques Roadshow.”
He motioned to the regulars down the bar.
“Come and see this, lads,” he said.
They came over with their drinks.
“How’s our Dixon?” they asked Marie.
“Not well, I’m afraid.”
Marie handed them the postcard. They all stared at the picture.
“What’re we looking at?” they asked.
“That’s his parents’ place,” the bartender said. “Over in England.”
“It’s bloody enormous,” one of them said. “The lad’s rich.”
“A lot of good it’ll do him,” Marie said.
“Dixon’s got a brain tumor,” the bartender said.
“My God, that’s shocking,” another regular said. “Can’t they operate?”
“Too far along,” Marie said.
She took the postcard back, turned it over, put her bifocals and started to read. “My room overlooks what’s left of the forest,” she read. “The coal pit’s just beyond that. I saw deer today. They came right out on the lawn. Hope all is well at your end. Sincerely, Dixon.”
“Such a shame” one regular said.
“You certainly were a good friend to him, Marie,” another added.
“That’s just it,” she said. “I wasn’t any closer to him than you bunch were.”
“But you notified the parents. Got him on a plane That must’ve cost you.”
“He sent me the money. His folks did, anyway.”
Marie finished her beer and pointed to the postcard. “You can tack that up on the wall if you want,” she said. “I’ve got no place for it.”
All the regulars were in the shot, including Dixon, holding up a beer and Marie doing the same.
The bartender took the post card, got a thumb tack out of a drawer, and put it up next to some pictures of the last St. Patrick’s Day. All the regulars were in the shot, including Dixon, holding up a beer and Marie doing the same.
“He could’ve been a country gentleman, our Dixon,” someone said.
“I don’t think he would’ve known what to do if he was,” Marie replied.
“Find a pub, no doubt, one of those little locals.”
“Another beer, Marie?” the bartender asked.
“Sure, why not?” she said, taking the handkerchief out of her sleeve again. “I’m burning up,” she said. “Make sure it’s cold.”
“Absolutely,” the bartender said.
She reached into her purse to get her wallet.
“Put that away,” the bartender said. “I wouldn’t take a cent after what you did for Dixon. Not tonight, anyway.”
He poured her beer and put it down in front of her.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers, Marie,” the regulars said.
“We won’t have any Mom and Pop operations soon,” they said. “Hardly recognize this street now.”
They tried to talk about other things, like the stores in the area getting torn down for new condominiums. “We won’t have any Mom and Pop operations soon,” they said. “Hardly recognize this street now.”
“Not to press this Dixon business,” another regular said, “but it wouldn’t have been the beer, would it?”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Sid,” the bartender said.
“Sorry, Tom,” Sid said. “It makes you think, though, doesn’t it? I still can’t get over him having the police call you, Marie. That must’ve been shocking.”
“It was,” Marie said.
“What did he say when the police brought you to him?”
“Nothing, really. It wasn’t until I brought him in here. Then he mentioned the headaches.”
“Poor lad,” Sid said, shaking his head. “Lost everything.”
“Pays to have some money in the bank,” one of the regulars said.
“Hardly mattered in the end.” Sid replied. “Another beer when you’ve got a moment, Tom. Bring the lads one, too.”
He was probably sitting at his bedroom window, watching the deer. That’s what she hoped, anyway.
They sat quietly after that, drinking their beers, Marie wiping her forehead with her handkerchief. When she got up to leave later, everyone told her to keep them posted. She said she would, but she didn’t think she’d hear from Dixon again. He was probably sitting at his bedroom window, watching the deer. That’s what she hoped, anyway. At least he was in a familiar environment. She tried to imagine what it was like, his parents there in front of the fireplace, the coal pit growing bigger and bigger each day.
He was home, anyway. Some place safe.
