EPTThere are twenty-six benches registered with the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation around Sheep Meadow in Central Park. On Thursdays, one of them belonged to Timothy H. Kleinfeld II.
Tim was the kind of benchwarmer the Parks and Recreation appreciated. He would usually arrive around noon, impeccably dressed in this year's latest tailored suit and haircut, with a bento box he got from Todaii, a restaurant under the Credit Suisse building. But only on Thursdays. Monday through Wednesday were for power-lunching with clients. Fridays, he would give some hapless analyst two pounds of work and leave early to pick up Tim III on his way to his weekend home in the Hamptons.
Which was good, because otherwise he'd run into Julia. Julia was a student at NYU who ate lunch at the same bench on Fridays before 1 PM. Her class schedule precluded other days. She loved to go there with a stylishly worn journal, which had the beginnings of the stirrings of a novel in one of the pages in the middle. Normally, though, she would daydream and sketch the pigeons that, strangely, always congregated around that particular bench. She always felt ashamed for doing that when the hour was up. Sometimes a passer-by would pass by; then she would quickly flip to the *right* page and if they asked her, she would talk about her novel, they would praise her, and she would feel good.
The pigeon flock stayed through the week for a free meal each Thursday, because Timothy Kleinfeld II enjoyed feeding them with rice from his bento box. He did this because back in his prep school days, he had heard that rice made the intestines of birds explode. In spite of six months' evidence to the contrary, his suspicions were always confirmed by the frowns he seemed to receive. His expression while throwing rice was the same smile he had when he'd served his ex-wife her papers.
And so for three more months, Tim went on trying to kill the pigeons while Julia tried to ignore them.
One weekend, Tim lost his visitation rights because he tried teaching his son baccarat in the Taj at Atlantic City following Tim III's fifteenth birthday. Luckily, he was friends with the judge so it was not mentioned how father and son had been found together in a hotel room enjoying Mia, Sabrina, Katrina, and five thousand dollars' worth of blow.
The next Friday, Tim, for no apparent reason, found himself strolling along Sheep Meadow with a bento box in one hand and a smartphone in the other. He looked up and saw a pretty college girl busily sketching the pigeons around her on the park bench. She looked up at him nervously and he dejectedly sat two benches away. She returned to her sketching and for five minutes nothing happened.
Then Tim got up and decided to go feed the pigeons rice. They were so used to his presence that they did not even flutter their wings as he stepped over them one by one. A shadow extended itself across Julia's sketch, which startled her and caused her to drop the book and pencil into the flock. This time they all fluttered to the next bench. Tim looked at the birds and looked back at the girl, and decided that he liked her figure, but she needed better clothes.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry"--Tim said as he sat down next to Julia on the bench. Julia scooted to the other end and sheepishly smiled.
"It's ok. The journal is fine, so it's ok." Tim picked it up.
"You mean this?" He began to leaf through it, coming across page after page of pigeons before finding her half page of writing.
His window caught the lights of Times Square and twisted it, and it occured to him that these would be the stars under which he would voyage, his destiny spelled out in a constellation of cheap neon.
He handed her the journal back and complimented her on her writing.
"Thanks. I come here to find inspiration, you know. The birds, the trees, the grass, and all, it's really nice." She immediately smiled and Tim took it as an invitation. Tim produced a very expensive pen and gave it to her with his right hand. Julia made a move to take it.
"You know, your drawings were excellent. I think you'd make a better artist." Julia's smile disappeared and she withdrew her hand to pick up her pencil from the ground. The expensive pen went back into a silk pocket, and Julia opened to her favorite page. Both blushed and did nothing for awhile.
Tim opened the bento box and began to eat. The pigeons, smelling food, came back to the bench and soon Tim found himself absentmindedly throwing rice grains at them again. He guiltily stopped himself at the third grain. Julia was now busily sketching a black wingtip. Tim breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn't noticed the rice, until he saw the little specks on the page. Julia looked up and realized he was watching her draw.
Both blushed and did nothing for awhile.
It was Julia who broke the silence. Searching for a retort, she said: "You know that old wives' tale about rice making birds blow up?"
Tim nodded.
"It's not true."
Tim stared down at the ground, then resumed eating his sushi. He stood up a minute later. "It was nice meeting you. Good luck with the novel."
"Thanks." She left three minutes after him.
The pigeons stayed for another month, then gave up. For the rest of the year, the bench was extremely lonely.
