Man on Fire

The man settled back into the bench, leaning a little to the left to avoid the eager, splintering wood he knew too well. Sunrise lit the morning after last night's rain, quietly awakening the park to the smells of wet grass, wet dog, and stale second-hand smoke. The man breathed it in. His hands were clasped in his lap. His sandaled feet were tucked underneath him. The little red bird whose company he kept — the only company that seemed able to last a complete conversation with him — sailed around the park from tree to tree.

When a flyer freed itself from its staple and bark and drifted onto the ground in front of him, the man thought it could be fate.

“HIRING: Sales Manager and Director, Linden Art and Auction Gallery.”

He was not wildly captivated by art itself, but sales fascinated him. On his morning walk to the park, he often slowed at gallery windows, or detoured into shops, just to subject himself to a sales pitch, to see if someone could convince him of something.

Something about the job posting felt too easy, though.

The flyer jittered in the breeze, and the man abandoned the opportunity. As he returned his gaze to the little red bird darting through spots of sun, a gray-haired woman sat on the bench next to him with a pained sigh.

“Wonderful spot,” She said.

“Yes. I come here every day.” He replied.

“What for?”

“Waiting.”

“For something?”

“Maybe.”

“For someone?”

“Maybe.”

The woman pursed her lips in a straight line, which had the effect of an eye roll. She stared at him until he said:

“Maybe something, maybe someone. Maybe a job. Maybe a love. Maybe a life.”

Her eyebrows inched nearer to her hairline. These young people and their bullshit.

“Well, I can’t help you with a love. And you’ve already got a life. But I am looking to hire. I can hardly get around on this leg anymore, and my daughters have all moved out. I live in an apartment on 56th and 8th. I have an extra room, with a park view. I just need help. I just need somebody to cook.”

The man could cook. And 56th and 8th was a corner proximate not only to the Broadway theaters which he adored, but also to his beloved park. And this woman made a respectable pitch, straightforward and appealing. A few hours of his day could make a world of difference to her. The little red bird tucked in its wings as it touched down on the arm of the bench, as if to say, that sounds good to me.

“Interesting proposition,” he said. “But I am looking for a job with purpose. What I mean is—I’m looking for a purpose.”

The woman’s mouth parted a little.

“I mean,” She started. “I’m offering one. You can take it or leave it.”

“I only mean… I like your proposal, but it entices me only to take a step off this bench. I am waiting,” he said, gesturing to his folded legs, “for something to make my legs shoot right out from under me.”

The woman shrugged her bony shoulders, and rose like a knobby-kneed camel to resume her stroll.

“I know,” The man said once she had left. “But I also know not to settle until purpose makes me jump like a man on fire.”

The little red bird seemed to have its eyes trained on the man, though the distance from the man's bench to its tree perch made it hard to tell.

The conversation of the bird and the man, and their musings on life and meaning, were brought to an abrupt halt. A jogger woman with an untied shoelace nearly sailed into the man, catching his arm just in time to soften her landing before her knees hit the ground. The little red bird flitted away from the commotion.

“Oh I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”

She stopped, and her mouth fell open.

He stopped too, the grip on her arm loosening with shock.

“Juliette?” He said, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“I can’t believe…” She tried.

“I never thought…” He started.

“It’s you.” She managed.

The man had never imagined that he would find her again, the woman he had fallen for all those years ago. She had always hoped he would. He reached for words, but fell short. She lent them to him, as she used to.

“Would you like to go get a coffee with me?” She asked softly.

The memory of the first time she had asked him that, outside of the little French patisserie on 10th street, washed over him. He remembered the childish awkwardness that had consumed him as he pulled out her chair. He remembered the steam curling off of her cup, fiercely at first and then in wisps, and then not at all, their introductions spilling into stories which tumbled into laughter too quickly for either to remember to take a sip.

The man could not believe she was here. And yet, his love for her didn’t feel the same as it had when they had first met.

“I don’t think I should.” He said.

“Why not?”

“I’m waiting.”

“What are you waiting for? Another woman?”

“No, my love. I am waiting for something that makes me leap, leap off this seat, leap out of my skin.”

He could never figure out how to make people understand. He wanted to ignite. He wanted to be kicked into gear, compelled from the placidity of a wooden-bench life.

Juliette picked herself up. The man felt a pang in his heart as he watched her swipe at a tear, but he knew this was right. He would feel it, when purpose hit. It would light him, it would launch him. It wasn’t going to be just any job, just any woman.

He felt something wet tap his back. It didn’t seem to be raining, though. And then again, in a different spot, lower down on his spine. Then something fell on the side of his neck. It wasn’t till he looked up at the sky, and it hit his nose, that he finally leapt from the bench like a man on fire.

The little red bird shit with precision. The man sprinted around the park, jumping and zigzagging in an awkward gallop, and the little red bird circled with glee.