THE BENCH

     It was dusk.  The sun had started to set and the denizens of The Park had barely abated in their revelings.

     The Festival was typical - an homage to the events of a generation ago, wherein crowds of mostly White youths - many runaways and nearly all middle and upper class - would cast away their American conformity and exchange it for a taste of West Coast, Haight Asbury, tie-dyed, Hippy  freedom.  But this wasn't Haight Asbury, nor the West Coast; in fact it was a park next to a state university, at the edge of a small city.   Strangely enough, the politicians had left the park largely intact, as it bordered a nature preserve that encompassed the rugged hills in the distance.

     Across from the park and intertwined with the University were the businesses that catered to the students and professors. I was neither; but while I was on my way to rustle up some coffee,  I couldn't resist alternating my glances between the stores on my left and the festive crowds across the street in the park.

     Two strange men approached me.  One of them asked:

     "Can you direct me to The Paradise?"

     "Right over there" I answered.

     "It better be" he snapped.  "Because we need to find The Bench!" 

     Trouble.  I didn't get to be my age by running toward incidents.  Yet something compelled me to follow the duo, because when I tried to look at them, I couldn't.  It literally couldn't.  It was as if they were there, yet weren't.  And the way they walked was human yet vaguely not.  I followed and was nearby when they greeted Gail, the current owner of The Paradise.  Gail was a tall, graying blond, a sweet woman who had lost her professor husband to cancer.  A former music adjunct herself, she had tired of University politics, and had saved The Paradise from the wrecking ball.  Gradually she had turned it into a quasi "coffee shop-bar-bistro" - the kind of place that doesn't look like it makes enough money to stay open yet does.

     "May I help you?"  she asked, stepping out onto the wooden porch.  I noticed that Gail had put a wheelchair-accessible ramp to the right.

     "Is the bench still here?" the speaking man asked.

     "Oh yes!  You were the guy who called.  It's right over there!"  She pointed to the left end of the porch to a small two or three seater, the type of uni-bodied, polyurethane bench that one might see at bus stops from years ago.  "It's a good thing you called" she said "because we were about to trash it."

     "It a good thing you didn't!" the man said.

      I remembered that the benches were part of some now defunct municipal project which encouraged people to ride the bus.  Some of the benches were adorned with fake, flat, plastic humans.  The intent was to attract bus riders; however, the only thing they seemed to attract were pigeons.

     "What's this all about?" Gail asked.

     I put my finger to my lips, beckoned her to be quiet and pointed at the "men".    From the front they looked normal, as they did from the side.  But if you squinted in the twilight, you would indeed see that they were both only one inch thick.  The "man" who had spoken first stood still while the other "man" jerk-walked his way to the bench and snapped into place onto "The Bench", like one of the plastic silhouettes I had remembered seeing years ago.

     "OH MY-" Gail gasped.  "Who are they?  Do I need to call the police?"

     "Gail" I said calmly "Do you think people like that would be afraid of the police?"

     "But who are they? And where are they from?" she asked.

     Up above, the fireworks started.  In the park the people were standing, sitting on blankets and generally relaxing.  I looked over at our flat friends, who now spoke in a chattering gibberish that definitely wasn't remotely human.  They now appeared normal, their projection screens working properly in the full darkness.  One of them - the speaker -  glanced over at me and smiled.  He held some sort of device - perhaps an extraterrestrial iPad - and resumed his discussions with his friend.  After a moment he placed the pad on the bench; a soft glow appeared around the device then extinguished:  The bench was receiving data from the device.

     "They're not from here, obviously" I said.  "But I don't think they mean any harm.  Do you know where this bench was located originally?"

     "I don't know" Gail said.  "It might have been at the bus plaza, at the other end of the university."

     "Then that explains it!"  I said.  "They're Sociologists.  This was just an observation post.   The plastic figures was our idea.  They just took advantage of our idea and blended in."
  
     "But what should we do?" Gail asked.

     Up above a huge series of bursts exploded into bright, blooming flowers, into celestial daisies, sunflowers, roses and dandelions.  With each explosion the crowd oohed and aahed and clapped.  I noticed that there were many families there and they were all happy.  So was I.

     "I don't know" I shrugged.  "Just enjoy the fireworks!"...

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c. 2014, by Thomas Wilson

(This is a direct transcription of a recent dream, for my fellow writers who keep pestering me to get back on the beam.  I've been in a slump.  One of them suggested that I start blogging again. Satisfied?????!!!!!)