The Bench Read online

  Chapter 5

  Crawling from bed seemed an easier task than she had anticipated, solely because of the chance of meeting the poet. She freshened up and did her make-up. She never really wore much, just mascara and a bit of eye shadow. She had never felt it necessary to wear foundation like so many of the other girls. Perhaps her ‘baby bum’ skin, as her mother used to call it, was a blessing of her Irish blood or perhaps just years of early mornings in the winters of Wyoming. In any event, make-up took her no more than ten minutes. She applied a dash of lipstick, not something she normally did, but it was Friday. Maybe her Seattle poet hadn’t gone home, or perhaps the waterlogged raccoon that ran from the doorway no longer interested him. Jenny wondered why he had met up with Charles, Cindy and co. She could understand Cindy she was a long dark negligee of desire that would fire any man, but Charles and the others? Perhaps he was one of those guys who could naturally work a wine bar with charm and bland comments to stroke the egos of the masses. Whatever he was, he was here on business and though he had good taste in bagels that seemed it – handsome or not.

  She stared vacantly at her simple wardrobe for what seemed an eternity hoping something stunning would leap out at her, but there was nothing interesting or creative amongst her clothes. She thought about Charles and Stephen, if they saw her closet they would suffer frock shock.

  She grabbed a beige flared skirt and large blue blouse with a thick belt. A bit ‘Annie Oakley western’ but then no one had really commented on her new pink cardigan, except Cindy. She walked through to the kitchen to see if the cardigan was dry. It wasn’t hanging up, but didn’t take long to find. The hanger had slipped from the cupboard lip and her new fashion item had fallen into the curry bowl from dinner. It had soaked up most of the brown liquid. Lovely. She would have to soak it and deal with it when she got home. If it soaked long enough maybe it wouldn’t forever smell like the south side of Delhi.

  It was Friday, not Monday, how could things begin on such a crappy note already?

  Cindy, Sally and Bernadette were buzzing all morning about the Seattle man. He had created quite a stir and it seemed her wet rat impersonation had been forgotten. They seemed to be hot and ready for him, they fluttered and twittered like schoolgirls at the chance they might see him again. Perhaps he was looking for action while here? Perhaps he was cheating on his wife? Perhaps… the banality of the world of ‘perhaps’ left a rancid sour milk taste in Jenny’s mind. She drifted through the morning, her mind swirled with the hopes of the young poet who wrote to her and that she could write back to him and find her voice. She had become trapped reading other people’s work, assessing and crushing other’s dreams. Her own dreams remained cloistered, like some pariah that she was too afraid to release – her own private Pandora’s box. In the past week she felt as if she was being pursued by the Minotaur through the maze, a beast of a poet was stalking her thoughts. Yet she welcomed it and wanted to be found, almost wanted to be ravished and released into the world of his creativity. Her park bench poet was searching for his dreams or maybe searching for her. She could be his dream. Then they could fill their dreams together; tea at sunrise, writing until noon, lunch together at the beach. Jenny shook her head and returned to the synopsis she was supposed to reject. Beside her were fifteen others all stacked dreams ready to be dashed. She refocused and tore into the work.

  Lunch arrived and she slipped quietly out. She made her way slowly to her special meeting place. She was teasing herself. She could feel her heart thundering under her breast as the elevator descended. Her mind toyed with thoughts of Turgenev’s ‘Spring Torrents’. It was corny but fun. Turgenev’s verse made her drift slowly, she would float like a mist crossing the courtyard to the street and canal beyond. The cloud she wafted on was a cool icy blue, yet her cheeks flushed a crimson hue. She felt like the virgin mistress willingly whipped, the crimson pain of waiting for the poem was succulent. The jar of the elevator and rumble of the doors dissolved the image instantly and she crossed the cold granite floor toward the glass entrance. The security guard had asked if she was alright when she had dropped off his jacket on the way through the foyer that morning. She’d thanked him profusely. When she passed by at lunch she glanced at him. His eyes melted like the toffee in a Caramilk bar and he obviously wanted to say something else, but his work took him away and she glided to the door. She was sure he was watching her while he spoke on the phone. Perhaps she was deluding herself, but in any case it was fun to surf the delusion – at least a little.

  The poem was again located in the center of the bench with the familiar ‘For Joy’ inscription. The sun was hot and tingled her palms as she held the letter. She opened her simple peanut butter sandwich and held it on her lap. The sandwich was not as impressive as yesterday’s bagel but it was no matter, she had all she needed. She held the single folded sheet up to her face and breathed it in. There was no scent, no fragrance of Seattle. The lack of fragrance didn’t matter, whoever it was, he was watching. She opened her new treasure and flew with the passion contained in the lines of embroidered love.

  LOVE ON A PARK BENCH 5

  You circle round me,

  sheltering and protecting my light

  You move through me,

  piercing my day, consuming my night.

  And yet I cannot hold you

  nor bring you to my breast

  You evolve and change so swiftly,

  never ceasing to rest.

  You bring mystery, power,

  color and swirls of lusty shade

  Yet you can brood forcefully

  and with a wisp again may fade.

  You can be flowing and insubstantial

  alluring in your shape

  Seeing your body my mind goes powerless,

  my thoughts agape.

  So how shall I pursue you,

  catch you to be my own

  My love cries out to you

  in so many a thunderous moan.

  I must stare upward

  as my heart searches out loud

  And there I see your beauty

  in every passing cloud.

  Yet to rashly grasp love

  would wilt the blossom of my fate

  So I must stand impatient,

  yearning at love’s gate.

  Then to have the luck of love’s fortune

  and earn your grace

  Is my hope to last forever,

  that I may smile upon your face.

  Her face was tingled by the warmth of the sun. Its rays beat down, gently warming her closed eyelids. The warmth enveloped her, like sun-drenched gold water she drowned in it, showered in it. Her lips felt his. Soft cushions pressing their love into her, his fragrance wafted over her like a spirit of mist. She rode his mist of passion behind her eyelids, golden and warm. His lips gently moist encased hers.

  She felt his tongue wet and hot on her kneecap. Her kneecap? She opened her eyes. A massive black head was licking her peanut butter sandwich! She jumped back and the enormous dog sat back on his haunches and stared at her. He seemed puzzled by her movement. Was he exceptionally daft or just arrogant? Could dogs even be arrogant, she wondered. He cocked his head to one side and pushed back with his front feet causing his bum to slide backwards across the path. His eyes remained riveted on hers. The black monster stared at her stupidly, somehow unimpressed with her. She responded and stared at his disdainful face. His glance shifted momentarily to the now half devoured sandwich in her hand, then straight back to her, once again to the sandwich then to her. A huge pink tongue darted out and swirled all the way around the floppy black muzzle. His eyes held no malice just a doleful hunger. His front paws shifted again, a shuffle, but he remained focused on the prize. He seemed perplexed and impatient as he eyed her peanut butter sandwich.

  She held it out to him. In an instant he leaned forward and swallowed it whole, thankfully leaving her hand completely untouched.
He had a bit of trouble gagging the peanut butter down, but with a few lashes of the enormous pink tongue it was devoured. He stood up and stepped closer to her. He peered at her. In his gentle eyes there seemed a knowing, like the bottom of a murky lake, his eyes held a mysterious sorrow. So grand was his stature, even for an old dog, that they stared at each other on the same level, eye to eye. He leaned forward, a cold nose nuzzled her leg – a ‘thank you’. Then the sandwich thief turned and loped off along the canal. She could see the tramp with the beret much further down the canal path. They must have passed when she was lost in the poem.

  Again no lunch but it was in fact one of the best lunches she’d had down at the canal. Even though he wasn’t as good looking as Seattle, the Great Dane and his cold nose were an inspiration. The poem had left her ‘yearning at love’s gate’. She yearned to meet him.

  She was happy to go back hungry. She tucked her poem into her messenger bag and casually walked back to the office.

  Her mind swam with images of poems and writing. She felt thrilled by thoughts of Prospero burying his shaft fathoms deep, his tremendous magic, her grandmother’s admonition that until she found love she could not start to write. Had she found it now? She just had to meet him, but she had found him.

  The elevator opened and the office atmosphere hit Jenny like a hot stifling summer wind. “Oh please Charles, give it a break.” Bernadette had squared off across the partition to him. Jenny could actually see that at least fifteen of her coworkers were standing at their partitions and there was a lot of posturing going on. It seemed that Charles had set them all off again. With only the top halves of everyone’s body visible over the partitions it was like a chess game of dwarves and Charles was the lone surrounded king. The office was predominantly female with just four guys and the entire office of readers were all baying for Charles’ blood.

  “If it’s satisfaction, I’ll satisfy you.” Charles said.

  “You think?” Cindy said with no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her voice. The argument had been going on for sometime.

  Charles didn’t take Cindy’s bait instead he focused on Bernadette. “I can’t believe how you change at the sight of a man.”

  “Yeah, but he was gorgeous,” Bernadette said.

  “Hunk,” Cindy and Sally confirmed.

  ”What, and I’m chopped liver?”

  “You’re not even in the equation Charles.”

  “So, Sex in the City is right. Your intelligence is more controlled by your sexual desires than your minds-”

  “Hold on-”

  “No, all you want is sex, get shagged - laid, not romance-”

  “We want the romance. It’s you guys who want to get laid, screw everything in sight.” said Bernadette.

  “Bernadette, you could hardly keep your shirt on at the pub.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “It was a bigger sale than Macy’s in there.” Charles barked.

  “You’re so full of shit Charles!” Cindy was getting angry too.

  Charles turned on the tall black Cindy. “You’re engaged and you were lathering at the mouth when you saw our new Californian beach poet.”

  Jenny stopped outside her desk area, stunned by the realization that Seattle was in fact the poet, whose work she had so intensely disliked.

  “He was gorgeous, that’s all. I’m not going to jump him for Christ sake. I’m content where I am.”

  “Content?” Charles sounded exasperated. “What the hell is content?”

  “Satisfied. Satisfied by a man.” Bernadette interjected. “Can you give that?”

  “God I hope not.”

  “What?” Cindy said.

  “If all I can give is contentment a la sex and a house, a car and 2.1 kids on a summer holiday, then I’m a failure.”

  “Women only want to be happy and satisfied.”

  “Bullshit. That is as much of a ‘Sex in the City’ sell out as Women’s Lib was in the sixties.”

  “Charles your mind is shot, you’re totally screwed up over women.” Cindy said.

  “You’re exactly the kind of guy women detest.” Barked Bernadette, who was almost panting with anger.

  “As portrayed on Sex in the City.” Charles snapped.

  “Of course.”

  “So you think that a mediocrity of satisfaction is what love is about?” Charles countered, he fumed like a terrier with a rag.

  “What?”

  “Jenny, you’re a romantic woman.” Charles turned on the small figure of Jenny who leaned casually against her partition.

  “Thanks Charles, good to know. I was under the impression you thought of me more like say… fresh caught cod.”

  “Women don’t really want a relationship. I mean you don’t.”

  “I don’t? Geez so all the pent up sexual fantasies and body urges are just to keep up with the ironing? Cheers for that.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Do I?”

  “Don’t take the piss. You’re a dreamer. Of anyone here, you are the biggest dreamer.”

  Jenny didn’t want to support him, yet he was right, so she just stared waiting for him to hopefully hang himself on his words.

  “You have dreams.” Charles was almost pleading. “That’s what women want, not satisfaction.”

  “We want to reproduce, have babies-” Cindy said.

  Charles whirled away from Jenny back at the tall slender black woman. “God I hope that’s not all.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Bernadette leaned over and spat the words at him. “You have a problem with that?”

  “Bernadette, tell me, what is your perfect day?” Charles was turning left and right, as his exasperation seemed to be climaxing. “Tell me, you can have or do anything you want. Anything. Have whatever, whoever you want.”

  “What? Charles you’ve lost it.” Bernadette turned away but Charles wouldn’t let the issue go. He grabbed her arm over the partition and spun her back to him.

  “Come on. Everything is yours - just tell me.” He challenged her.

  “If you’ll shut up okay.” The office fell quiet as they waited for Bernadette to search for her perfect day. “I have a big house with a pool and a nice deck, big BBQ. Three, no four kids. Three boys and a girl, she is the youngest. My husband is gorgeous and has a good job we have vacations in Belize-”

  “That is satisfaction.” Charles pleaded. “Just needs.”

  “Too right.” Bernadette said.

  “But where are your dreams?” blurted Jenny. “Bernie, where are your desires, the pulsings that make you who you are. Our lives are about aspiration, inspiration. Good-looking guys, jewels, houses - all that crap, they are just accommodations to make us content. Where are you, your dreams?” Jenny had become flushed, consumed by the topic.

  Charles shuffled closer too Jenny and stood beside her. “Cindy you’re a fantastic looking woman, any man would be thrilled with you on his arm, but your man should be a challenge not a type. Just because he is good looking and beefy is that going to stimulate you.” pleaded Charles.

  “It will stimulate me more than you will ever know Charles.”

  Jenny burst into the conversation again. “That’s Sex and the City. Sal, Cindy and Bernadette where are your dreams? It’s like Salieri and Mozart. Mozart stole Salieri’s dreams.” The women in the office stared at her stunned at the outburst. “Salieri seethed with hatred because he knew he would never be great because greatness stood before him and laughed at him. Mozart’s presence stole Salieri’s dreams. He had to kill Mozart and then waste away himself. He was a mediocrity. What’d he say-”

  Charles straightened and waved Jenny quiet. “Mediocrities everywhere I absolve you all.”

  “So Bernadette, what Charles is saying, in his twisted British way, is do you want to have what you can or can’t reach? Contentment breeds resentment.”

  Bernadette shook her head at Jenny. “Jenn
y you are starting to agree with Charles, you need to get laid more.”

  “Get laid?” Jenny was outraged why was everyone telling her to get laid. Was it all over her face that she hadn’t slept with a man for five years? How could they suggest she get in bed and jump all over some guy for what – practice? Was Charles right? Her eyelids were hot with anger. “If Hugo said there is no greater force than an idea that has come to fruition then surely there is no more evil a force than to steal the power of another’s dreams. That’s what Hitler and every despot in history did. Take the power to dream and you can cripple a person, man or woman.”

  Bernadette and Cindy stood directly in front of Jenny. “Shit we’re not on about the holocaust we’re talking about love, sex, happiness.” Bernadette said.

  Jenny trembled, but wouldn’t back off. “What I’m saying is I don’t need to get laid, I need love through freedom not through an imprisoning cage.” Jenny had said it directly at Cindy.

  “My marriage will not be a cage.” Cindy yelled slammed the nearest partition and crossed away. Her tall figure rippled with anger.

  “Of course not Cindy.” Jenny crossed to her old friend. “What I mean is you will have a wonderful man, but Charles and I also want you to have wonderful, grander dreams. So does your fiancé.” The passion in Jenny’s blood thundered inside her. She felt alive, so very alive.

  Bernadette quipped, “Well if it’s dreams that need satisfying, you’re out of it Charles, cause you could only satisfy my nightmares.”

  Charles raised his hands mockingly to the heavens and bellowed. “Thank God, I have a second calling.”

  “Shit Charles, what was your first?” Cindy sneered.

  “Winding up Bernadette.” Charles smirked. Bernadette and Cindy both threw magazines at him as he cowered for cover behind the partition. Everyone laughed and drifted back to their work, the tension had faded. Jenny was flush with excitement and struggled to her seat. Jenny thought, ‘For a prat Charles wasn’t that bad – but he was still a prat.’ She sat before her computer and her hands quivered above the keyboard. She was vibrant. Her mind swirled with a passion for her poet that tingled across her neck down between her breasts.

  Terry spoke up with his slightly effeminate little voice. The unnecessary but ever prominent hint of a lisp drifted over the office. “If everyone has finally ruined the relaxing lunch atmosphere, I think it would be a good idea to satisfy our bosses and get some work done before the board drinks event in two hours. It’s at four, everyone remember. That’s why we are all dressed up today, not just to see the crucifixion of Charles. Although it was very good.”

  “Crucify? He should be strung up by his balls.” Bernadette muttered.

  “Heard that Bernadette.” said Terry. “Save your satisfaction for after office hours. I’ll give you the numbers of a few fellas willing to help.”

  Jenny watched as her colleagues relaxed and the mood dissolved back to an affable inebrium. After a few moments Charles slinked over and kissed Bernadette’s cheek. He squeezed Cindy’s shoulder. He could still be a gentleman. Jenny sat stunned by the shattering of her lunchtime euphoria. The depth of her own passions and the fact she had forgotten about the semi formal drinks event tonight, clattered in her mind, a cacophony of confused intentions. Dressed as she was, she would be like a cowgirl in a saloon. She slumped her head into her hands. Wyoming did not need to appear for Seattle to ridicule.

  Jenny drew a breath and focused on the dim vacuous glow of her computer screen. She had flown off at the handle and ended up supporting the person who mocked her constantly. Even the women in the office knew she couldn’t get a man. She took out her leather note pad and the new poem. She pasted it onto the next blank page. She stared at it. She heard a slight tick. A teardrop struck the page below her.

  The dull throb of her top teeth on her bottom lip stopped any more tears. She covered her eyes in her palms. She wouldn’t cry. Her heart was full, it had love, torrents of it, swishing around. Her heart just needed to let go. How, when?

  After a slight sniff and dab of her eyes, she refocused. She had work to do.

  The bustle had abated and everyone had drifted out without anyone noticing she was still working at her desk. She didn’t want to be noticed. She hadn’t dressed appropriately. She’d had to listen to the cackle and buzz as the girls primped in the washroom. Thank God the ladies room was at the other end of the office. Jenny wondered if the previous tirade had left any indelible mark on the thoughts of her colleagues. They were anticipating a party and more strutting no doubt, as they prowled for what – contentment? She thought about Charles and how she had supported him. Then he went and kissed the cheek of Bernadette. He hadn’t even glanced her way. Bastard.

  She heard the ding of the elevator, that was the last of them leaving she thought; alone at last or again anyway. She settled to her work.

  She gasped slightly as she looked up at the shadow leaning over the partition. “Oh, hello.” It was him again, Robert Coley, her boss.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “No, it’s okay. I thought everyone had left.”

  “They have.” He looked at her and waited for her to speak. She said nothing, she felt like a schoolgirl caught looking at a naughty book. “So why are you still here?”

  “Well you know my opinion about the writing.” Jenny said softly.

  “That doesn’t mean you should hide away.”

  “Well, I won’t be missed.” Jenny said softly and turned to her work.

  “You’re right you won’t be - but that’s your choice. No one misses a butterfly if the caterpillar refuses to come out of the chrysalis.” He paused and tried to assess the down-turned face. He was a little unsure if he had or hadn’t said something inappropriate. “My grandmother used to say that.”

  “Grandmothers are very wise.”

  “Yeah, what did yours say?”

  Jenny unconsciously touched the leather notebook cover. “Nothing really.”

  Robert looked at her not believing it for a second. “Really? A writer like her? Nothing to say, for a writer of children’s books - I find that very strange.” He waited for her to take the bait. He watched the pretty woman disguised as a frumpy librarian, with her hair tied up and a hopeless cowgirl dress on. She really tried to make herself as boring as possible he thought.

  Jenny shifted under his stare and decided she would have to find some means of escape in case he forced her to go to the drinks party. She attempted to change the topic. “My grandmother gave me this notebook and told me I could only fill it when, I knew love.”

  “Wow. Grandmothers eh!” Jenny nodded and touched the leather cover. Robert saw the affection her hands had for the old cover. “And?”

  Jenny looked up at him. For someone who tormented her he seemed quite pleasant looking - a devil in disguise. She could feel her emotions scurrying for disguise. “Well, I won’t be using any of the Californian beach poet’s images for inspiration.” she said. She tapped the cover thoughtfully. “It’s empty.” She lied.

  “Life’s all about caterpillars and butterflies.” He stared at the young woman, she was about four years younger than him and when they hired her she had such impressive grades and did excellent work, but all that hope had some how dissolved into the wallpaper. “D’you think a caterpillar knows it will become a butterfly?”

  She knew where he was going. “Does a signet know it will be a swan?”

  “Guess they both want to learn how to fly.” He paused to phrase his question as unobtrusively as possible. “Will you come to the drinks party?”

  “I forgot and didn’t really dress for it. Sorry.”

  He casually turned and walked to the door. “See you later caterpillar.”

  He left with such ease. It crushed her to think she could be excused so simply. Jenny’s face sunk into the palms of her hands. She leaned on
her desk. All she could see was that silly expectant Great Dane. He knew she would give him the sandwich, especially after he had nibbled on it. She smiled to herself; she was lucky he hadn’t taken her hand off with the sandwich. What a dim dog.

  A haunting air drifted across the desolate office. A quick walk around the office reassured her that there was no one left. Why stay? She packed up her notes into the messenger bag and walked from the office.

  Since Robert had left she hadn’t spoken to anyone. It wasn’t that unusual. This time she had no one to even say goodbye to or wish a good weekend to. It was quiet. She had gone whole weekends before without actually speaking to anyone.

  The chain guard on her bicycle clicked slightly as she left the building. She decided to circle down past the canal just for the fun of it. At least that way she wouldn’t meet any drunken office colleagues. It was calm cycling along the canal. There were lots of people but no one spoke to her. Years ago the first weekend of total silence had startled her when it first happened. To not have spoken to anyone for almost three days seemed to question her existence. Since that initial shock of total silence, of non-communication, she had always made a point to go out shopping or to see friends. Most of them now had families though and it was a little awkward. For the past year and a half she had been going to see her grandmother who lived only forty-five minutes away by train, so it was a good Sunday trip. Perhaps she would meet some one else this weekend. She slowed her bike near the bench and lingered but no one came along, not even from the other companies in the building, everyone had started their weekend.

  The pretzels were probably not the appropriate gourmet accompaniment for the burgundy she had opened, but it was less fattening than ice cream - just. She didn’t usually open a second bottle of wine during the week. She had always limited herself to one glass a night. Tonight felt different. She didn’t bother with dinner, opting instead for the pretzels and red. A slow Latin-chill jazz CD was playing in the background. It was probably too loud but as she was on the balcony she needed to drown out the Viallini’s next door. Sacha had come back and something had happened. There was a huge fight raging. The Viallini’s were very content she’d thought. ‘Content’ there was that word again. She sipped her wine and gazed at the busy Friday night street below.

  The street action was vibrant and in full flow as the excitement of the Friday ebbed into the pulse of the forthcoming weekend. Women in tight white jeans and halter tops lured the suspecting males. The guys in too tight t-shirts tried to bristle their muscles and their sense of cool. It was all a game of manipulation and presentation as Robert had said. The butterflies were certainly out strutting their stuff and all were willing to play the game in the hot evening air. A homeless man stood beside a tree about fifty yards down the street. He had his shopping cart piled high with memorabilia and possessions. He seemed to be reading something and trying to keep time with a slow hopping dance. Perhaps he was one of the caterpillars that never emerged and his chrysalis was the shopping trolley. She touched the leather notebook resting in her lap. It had been there, resting like a sleeping cat, for almost half a bottle of wine. The screaming Italian chatter clamored from next door while the butterflies strutted and the red wine swirled in her mind. She’d drunk too much and managed to avoid taking up her pen.

  Jenny stumbled to bed carrying her poetry with her. In five adoringly brutal days her mind had flipped form conservative paisley to wanting to strut in a lemon dress of passion. She needed to ground herself but the wine hadn’t helped and it was too tempting to just let her imagination ferment. Tomorrow, she would address things tomorrow.