A letter to Bench Guy

Emily Bruzzo
Editor-in-Chief

Due to recent events, I’m now convinced if you divert from your routine in a dramatic enough fashion, the Universe will warp you into a parallel world where time moves slower, particles behave differently and George W. Bush’s presidency isn’t considered an abysmal failure.

Perhaps that last part is too dramatic, but I do think there’s something to the idea that taking a sharp turn from your habitual daily program is an action that can’t help but yield an episode markedly different and singular — dare I say even significant — in your life.

I wasn’t going to write about this. I had promised myself that this would be my little secret moment — an experience that I could tuck away in the crevices of my mind, only to revisit when I need reminding that the world is a place where there are just as many rainbows as thunderstorms and “Happy” isn’t only a Pharrell Williams song or a dog on “Seventh Heaven,” but an attainable feeling.

Recently, however, I’ve been concerned that the creativity mechanism in my brain has short-circuited, and I decided writing about a bizarre happening might provide the jolt to my thinking box that my psyche needs to reboot the breaker panel powering all of my creative output. Therefore, I’m abandoning my former conviction, and writing about, what I deemed a mere day ago to be, a weird event that demands reticence.

I’ll call him Bench Guy.

Bench Guy was handsome; admittedly, though, many other women would disagree. I found him attractive in that I-read-books-and-think-about-what-life-means-because-I’m-a-mess sort of way.

He was older; wide enough was the age gap that I felt it necessitated my parents signing a permission slip so I could speak with him.

He wore a sweater that was probably sewn during the Carter Administration, and maybe hadn’t visited a washing machine since that time, too.

Baggy khakis swallowed his lower body. I don’t remember if his shoes swallowed his feet; I was too busy staring into his doleful, dark-brown eyes whilst trying to figure him out.

He smokes. Presumably, he has for a while because he used one of those cigarette holder filters that give you the air of being a professional smoker.

He’s disheveled, tired, saturnine and he walks like he’s carrying something heavy — I assume the weight of the world. He’s directionless and very self-aware. How someone can be as self-aware as he is and still be directionless is a phenomenon I find befuddling, but, then again, the fact that I engaged in a two-hour-and-a-half conversation with the man doesn’t make much sense either. Who am I to judge?

It was a crisp Sunday morning, the burnt, golden light something I would appreciate more if I were a photographer. I had pulled an all-nighter, which is no surprise due to the unintended transformation my circadian cycle seems to be undergoing lately.

This isn’t my typical Sunday routine, but my objective had been to walk to a coffee shop, drink a pretentious latte, eat an artsy pastry and write a minimum of 500 words, a desperate attempt at maintaining the regimented writing schedule I’ve forced upon myself and never follow. I didn’t make it to the coffee shop, though.

I was sleep deprived, in a weird mental state and, owing to the fact that I’m a ritualistic being, somewhat disoriented because I hate mornings and doing morning things. The moment seemed to demand that I sit on a bench; benches, after all, are odd slabs of wood that are arbitrarily placed near trees and that inspire profundity for reasons I can’t explain.

Thus, I collapsed on a bench. I let it absorb me as I stared at the archaic brick buildings that had enticed me to choose this university as the place for my undergraduate studies.

I suddenly felt sad and empty and some other confusing feeling I don’t really have a name for; though, it’s a sensation I imagine would occur if my brain’s emotional center had a thermostat and the obnoxious roommate who lives with my psyche so it can afford rent had turned the A.C. on even though it’s 30 degrees outside.

Bench guy seemed to manifest from the early morning air particles. His was a question that was benign enough; he merely wanted to know when the library opened.

Expected pleasantries about the weather were exchanged, but soon, and suddenly, I found myself deep in conversation about postmodernist literature and Hemingway, a writer Bench Guy feels — I argue erroneously feels — is given undeserved praise. This isn’t the first time for me that talk about books has led to a greater communion with another person about life, death and everything in between. I suppose this is a trend in my life that proves the significance and relevancy of literature.

It was a raw conversation. It was arguably one of the most honest and intimate conversations I’ve ever had with another human being. There was nothing to lose. Sharing my feelings with him had no consequence; he is, after all, someone I will likely never see again.

He was, and still is, a stranger. Yet, I feel I know him better than my closest friends. We shared our names with each other as an afterthought, the syllables dancing off our tongues as we shook hands for the first and last time, preparing to say goodbye even though we really had never said hello.

We didn’t want to know one another; we just wanted to understand each other. I wanted to understand his fears and his frustrations and his demons. And whether he was genuine or not — I’ll never know — he seemed to want the same from me.

I’m not sure I gained any peace of soul from this experience. I, in fact, emerged from the moment more concerned about my life than ever. I saw in Bench Guy a future version of myself that is inevitable if I don’t change certain things about my life. That scared me. It still scares me.

He was like a prophet; a messenger sent to me, courtesy of the Universe, to warn me that I’m currently facing a fork in the road of my life, and if I’m not careful, I might choose the wrong path.

I don’t believe in angels. But I do believe that people, who would otherwise bear little importance in your life, often stumble into your world when you most need them. I suppose that makes these kinds of people angels in a way. It’s always a sort of miracle when a person helps another in need for no reason. I’m thankful to Bench Guy. We were two people who, in that moment, needed each other.

I doubt you’re reading this, Bench Guy; but if you are, thank you. My life didn’t suddenly change after I talked with you. It’s still a bit of a mess, actually. But you were painfully honest with me, and that honesty was crushing in the way that I needed. I hope you get your life together. I hope you get past yourself.

But if you don’t, it’s not the end of the world; you’re content without a legacy. I wish I were more like you, but you’re right: I need success just as much as you need mediocrity.

Good luck with it all, Bench Guy.